#HOTch

[mariasont]

Art of Losing Control - A.H

summary: sweetheart!reader is uesd to following orders, but she's never questioned why, until now. when hotch turns an academic discussion into something personal. too personal

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader

warnings: dbf!hotch, pyschological tension perhaps??, discussion of power dyanmics, dom/sub undertones, age gap, suggestive themes 4 sure, hotch lowkey putting r through an accidental bdsm awakening

wc: 2.7k

The glass was arguably frigid beneath the pads of your fingers, but it was a biting type that worked its way into your skin before your brain could catch up. You recoiled instinctively, rubbing your hand against your sleeve in a futile attempt to chase away the lingering feeling. That was pointless. The cold had already burrowed itself in. 

You were sure that was the point. Uncomfortable people bred sloppy mistakes. But from the way the woman sat inside the room, the way she barely seemed to notice, you weren't sure exactly how effective said method was.

If the cold affected her, she didn't so much as blink. She leaned forward, elbows sinking into the scuffed metal of the table, her fingers hovering just above, twitching, like they wanted to move but hadn't yet been given permission. Impulse warring with... restraint? Maybe.

At first, you chalked it up to nerves, a subconscious tick, the body's way of trying too hard to stay still. But the longer you watched, the more convinced you became that it was something else.

She looked far too at ease for someone who'd just been arrested. No tension in her shoulders, no fight in her posture, like this was casual small talk over a morning coffee instead of answering for a crime. Her head dipped slightly, her eyes lingering on Morgan as if his words were little more than passing curiosities.

You inched closer to the glass, shifting focus to Morgan. He kept his voice perfectly tuned, soft enough to seem non-threatening, firm enough to demand attention. He was letting the conversation unfold at its own pace, drawing her in without forcing it. It reminded you of a hunter scattering bait, waiting for the trap to spring shut.

You were trying to study it, the pick apart the mechanics of it all—the inflection in his voice, the way he leaned back at just the right moments, how he allowed the silence to work for him rather than rush to fill it.

You used to think it was instinct, just something they (the best, brightest and more experienced of the BAU) had, something that can't be learned. But the longer you were here, the more you saw it for what it really was—craft, skill, an art so finely tuned it just looked like instinct.

When you looked back to the woman, you noticed it, the way she lingered on her words, shaping them slowly, like she was tasting each one before decided if it was worth sharing. 

"She's enjoying this." The words slipped out quietly, almost like an afterthought, your eyes still fixed on the suspect.

The sound behind you—low, contemplative—made you turn before you could think about turning.

Too fast. Too reactive. And suddenly, you weren't just turning you were colliding, your shoulder pressing something solid. Firm. Hotch. His chest absorbed the impact.

It sent a strange disconnect between knowing this is your boss and whatever ridiculous reaction your body had decided to have about it.

If he noticed your flustered reaction, he gave no indication, just took control of it—turning you back to the glass, his palm settled between your shoulder blades.

"Tell me why you think that."

Your heart stuttered. Slamming against bone, thrumming under skin, knocking around like it didn't belong to you anymore. Heat licked up your neck, pressing at the back of your ears.

And Hotch, well, Hotch was just watching, waiting, looking at you like he expected something useful to come out of your mouth. 

Your tongue flicked across lips that felt too dry, but that didn't fix the problem.

"She's keeping the pauses in conversation long—," You exhaled, tried to make it sound normal. "Like she wants him to say more. Like she's giving him the space to take the lead."

Hotch barely tils his head. His version of a nudge. "And?"

You swallowed. He did this sometimes, gave you just enough room to think, to fumble, to find an answer on your own instead of handing it to you. It wasn't impatience, not exactly. It was how he worked, specifically how he worked you. Letting you step forward, letting you find the edge of your own thought before deciding whether or not to pull you back.

You leaned closer to the glass, tracking every detail, letting yourself see her the way he would.

"She keeps touching her lips. Not absentmindedly, but... like she wants to draw attention to them." Hotch said nothing, so you keep going. "She tilts her head, too, just a little—lets her neck show when she laughs."

"Good."

It was just one word. Barely even a murmur. Almost nothing. But it still gets in, slipping into that deep, secret part of you where validation and want blur together, where approval doesn't need to be loud to matter.

And it's not even praise exactly, but it's close enough. And that's all it takes, just that tiny, electric satisfaction sparking along your spine, pulling you upright, nudging your chin a fraction higher. Like something inside of your had been set right without you even realizing.

Then, his voice again. "What else?"

You hesitate, not because you don't know what you're looking for, but because you're trying to separate what you see from what it means.

Your eyes flick lower, and you see the way she presses her thighs together, holds, then releases. It was hardly there, like she was just getting comfortable in the chair. But she does it again, right after Morgan leans forward, his voice dropping, guiding the conversation exactly where he wants it.

You roll the scene over in your mind, trying to pin down exactly what you're seeing, trying to slot it into something else. Engagement. Focus. Attentiveness. It could be any of those things. It could be nothing.

But her lips part—not to speak, not to react, but to breathe. It’s so slight, just enough to let in more air, just enough to give away what she’s feeling. You might have missed it if you hadn't been looking for something, but now it's all you can see.

You swallow, and now not only are your lips dry, but your mouth is too, because you know what you're looking at now.

And you should say it, because that is what profiling is, isn't it? Identifying behavior, understanding it, giving it a name.

But you hesitate, because where you grew up, girls didn't talk about this.

They didn't acknowledge it, didn't name it, didn't let it exist in spaces where they were allowed to be seen. You were raised to be polished, poised, proper. To sit with your legs crossed, to smile without showing too much, and certainly to ignore the things that weren't mean to be spoked aloud.

"She's reacting to him," you say finally, fingers catching on the necklace at your collarbone, rolling it between your thumb and forefinger. You took the cowardly way out. "To the way he talks. She likes that he’s leading.”

You don't wait for Hotch to confirm your words, because the question is already pressing forward, unfiltered.

"But if she's not in control," you say, almost to yourself. "Wouldn't that make her less interested?"

"Not necessarily." Hotch shakes his head. "Interest is subjective. Sometimes it increases when control is taken out of their hands."

"She's aroused." Hotch continues, completely detached, "because she enjoys the feeling of someone else guiding the interaction. It changes the way she experiences the conversation. Instead of leading, she's reacting. Instead of deciding, she's anticipating. That shift can heighten emotional and physical response."

Your body freezes. It shouldn't, but it does. Because he says it so plainly, so unbothered. Aroused. Just another word, just another observation. He could be talking about stress responses, about interview techniques, about anything other than this. But it feels different. Sounds different, slipping from his mouth in that low, even tone of his. 

And maybe that's why your jacket feels too heavy now, why your face feels too warm, why his hand at the top of your spine feels less stable and more like something you can't bring yourself to move from.

She likes giving up control.

That's what he said. That's what makes this work for her. And you hear it, you process it, but you don't get. Not in the way you should. She enjoys it, but how? You've spent your whole life gripping control with both hands, holding it tight enough to leave imprints on your skin.

Growing up, your parents had been distant in different ways—your mother preoccupied with appearances, your father preoccupied with, well, everything else. So, you handled things yourself. Your grades. Your future. Your emotions. You made the decisions, because no one else would make them for you.

But Hotch. Hotch was different.

Your trust in him didn't require thought, didn't need justification. It just was. You listen when he speaks. You follow his orders before you've even processed them. You let him decide things for you, choices you hadn't even realized you wanted made. When he told you to slow down, you did. When he told you to push harder, you gave more. You want his approval, but it’s deeper than that.

You didn't just follow him, you let him lead you. And that should feel strange. It should make you second-guess yourself, make you want to push back. But you don't. You never have.

And that feels like something you should've noticed sooner, a part that you don't quite know what to do with.

You open your mouth. Then shut it.

It's a stupid question, it must be. Because he just explained it, because it's obvious, because she enjoys it, because that's just how some people are.

And still, Hotch, who hasn’t even looked at you, hasn’t moved an inch, somehow notices. Somehow knows. "You don't have to filter your thoughts."

You pause for just a second, lips pressing together, trying to gauge whether this is a question worth asking. It feels too big. Or maybe too personal. Like voicing it might crack something open that you haven’t even looked at yet. But you can’t stop it now.

"Why do people like that?"

"Because for some people, control is synonymous with stress," Hotch says. "It's a constant demand, predicting outcomes, making the right decisions, managing not just their own expectations, but those of everyone around them. Being able to defer that to someone else, to trust that another person will handle it, removes the weight of responsibility."

You shouldn’t be applying this to yourself. Shouldn’t be peeling apart his words and trying to fit them around something  familiar. But you are.

"So, if someone's always been in control, they start to..." You hesitate, grasping for something else, some other explanation. "What? Get tired of it?"

"It's not uncommon. If control has always been a requirement, not a choice, then relinquishing it—at least in certain aspects—can feel like a sort of freedom for them."

You press your teeth into the inside of your cheek, but it does nothing to slow your thoughts.

"And this kind of thing, it doesn't just appear out of nowhere, right? It has to come from somewhere?"

Hotch nods. "Most behavioral patterns do. Sometimes it's environmental, sometimes it's developed naturally. Sometimes it's learned through relationships. And sometimes, it’s an adaptation. A response to an environment where they had no choice but to take care of themselves. Where emotional needs were ignored or never considered at all."

Your breathing quickens. Not in a bad way. Not exactly.

It's just strange, hearing something you've never put into words, something you've never even considered, be said so matter-of-factly. There was something unnerving about hearing your life, your past experiences boiled down into a single sentence.

It makes you feel exposed. Which is ridiculous, he wasn't talking to you. It's just behavior. It's just patterns. It's just psychology. It's not personal. It's not.

"But why would someone be... aroused by that?"

You barely recognize your own voice. The words came out too fast, too eager, and the second they hit the air, you regret them. You weren't supposed to ask that, weren't supposed to say that and certainly weren’t supposed to let it sound like something you needed an answer to.

But the word was out now and the world didn’t seem to collapse around you.

Hotch doesn't even blink. "The connection between submission and arousal is well-documented. Less control means less overthinking. Less overthinking means more sensation. More sensation leads to a heightened response.”

You shift slightly. His hand feels like it was burning through the layers of your jacket.

"And it's not something you should hesitate to discuss." He glances to you, his voice doesn't change, doesn't dip into anything resembling awkwardness, and somehow that only intensifies the heat pressing against your skin. "You can't be afraid of conversations like this. Understanding human behavior means understanding all of it. Power, desire, submission, these things drive people as much as fear or anger. If you hesitate to recognize them, you won't see them when it matters."

You hate that you reacted in the first place. Hate that he noticed. Hate that now, whether you like it or not, there’s something you feel the need to prove—to fix.

"I wasn't—," You exhale sharply, shaking your head as if that would rewind the last ten minutes. "I just—I didn't mean to sound like that. I know it's important. I—" Another sharp inhale. "Sorry. I don't know—,"

You turn, just barely, and it’s a mistake. Immediate. Total. Because now you’re looking at him—fully, completely—and something inside you tilts like gravity just shifted.

Your body brushes his, and somehow, somehow, he still feels bigger than he should be. Like he takes up too much space, like if you moved an inch closer, you'd disappear into him completely.

He hasn't moved. That's the worst part. He hasn't adjusted, hasn't shifted, hasn't done a thing except exist, and yet, he's there, encompassing and suffocating in a way you don't hate. Your breath catches and you know he hears it.

For a second, just a second (maybe even a millisecond), so brief it could be imagined, his lashes dipped before lifting again. You think his fingers twitch at his side. Maybe. But then, it's gone, erased before you could be sure.

"I'm not criticizing you," Hotch says, and you believe him. "You don't need to apologize or justify yourself to me. You're still learning, and I want you to be able to recognize things like this without hesitating. That's all."

You nod, but it's not fully a nod, more like the start of one before you think better of it. 

"I'm sorry," you say instantly, the words automatic, before you can think about them. "I don't want you to think I'm not taking this seriously."

Hotch doesn't sigh, doesn't scold, doesn't soften. He just looks at you, giving you a beat, like he's waiting to see if you'll realize what you just did—if you���ll take back the apology yourself.

When you don’t, he says simply, "That's not what I said. I know you take this seriously. I wouldn't be having this conversation with you if I thought otherwise."

You should move. You need to move.

Your brain fires off the warning like an emergency flare, but your body stays put. You know you should step back, break the tension, say something that makes this feel normal again.

But Hotch hasn't moved either. Hasn't stepped away, hasn't broken his gaze, hasn't done anything but watch you.

Your lips part, a breath catching on the back of your throat. You don't know what you're about to say, maybe something stupid, maybe something honest, maybe something you wouldn't even understand until it was too late.

Before you can, the door opens.

"Hotch?"

The moment snaps. Shatters. Like glass under pressure, breaking apart before you even get the chance to understand what you were standing in. Whatever was there—if there was anything—vanishes in an instant.

Emily stands at the door, her expression unreadable.

"Rossi's asking for you."

Hotch steps away, and the moment his hand leaves you, the cold rushes in like a shock to your system. You don't realize how warm you'd been until it's gone. Until you're left with this.

You don't move. Not right away. Because for a second, you feel off-balance, like stepping away will make something shift, something collapse, but that's ridiculous. Irrational, even. You shake it off, press your lips together, fingers moving before you shove them back to your sleeves. Back to the cold you should have never stopped noticing.

It was always freezing in here. That was the point. Uncomfortable people bred sloppy mistakes.

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[kiwriteswords]

Aaron Hotchner + Casual Clothes 2/?

[hotchnersangel]

BUT SHE’S LOOKING AT YOU.

Aaron Hotchner.

cw: It girl!reader x aaron, you’re just so hot everyone wants u tbh, alcohol, men.

-------------

You are aware that you were attractive, you never had any struggle getting attention from the public, not growing up, not in college and certainly not now. It was rare, apparently, to have both intelligence and beauty but you didn't believe it defined you and your capabilities. Though, it shocked people when you told them your job. They assumed you modelled or were a social media influencer or something of sorts, some guy even told you that your beauty was being wasted on working for the FBI. Yeah, saving people's lives is realllyyy unattractive.

The team was out in a celebratory drink for finishing a rough case, even Aaron had joined the team this time. He didn't often come out but he liked it when he did, he liked spending time with the team, with you, outside of working hours. Though, he disliked having to watch men goggle their eyes at you.

Rossi ordered drinks and a bar tender brought an extra one over.

"Sorry, I didn't order that." Rossi exclaimed and gestured to the drink in the bartenders hand.

"Oh, it was sent by the man at the bar for you." She eclaimed looking at you, you widened your eye and looked to the bar, seeing a man wink at you.

"Lovely..." you said sheepishly and pushed it away, back to her. "Am I okay to send it back?"

The bartender smiles and nods at you, as you watch her walk away and you look back to the team embarasssed.

"Hey pretty lady's on the radar." Morgan exclaimed and you shoot him a look, shifting in your seat and looking at Aaron who was already watching you.

"You act like it's not always like this," Emily shrugs and sips her drink as you protest, "honey, I don't blame them, I'd buy you a drink if you so much as breathed in my direction."

You laugh at her dramatic comment and shook your head. "I appreciate the praise but really I'm not interested."

"By him or by anyone because in the time we've known you, you've been hit on by all of us combined and tripled." JJ laughs and sips her drink, genuinely curious.

"You're dramatic," you say softly, "but, it doesn't mean that I don't want a relationship just... I don't like the men that hit on me I guess." You shrug, looking at Aaron.

"Some of the men are absolutely delicious sweetie, you can't deny that." Garcia argues excitedly.

Morgan seems to catch on. "Oh, oh."

"What?" you ask him curiously.

"Pretty lady over here has a crush." He smirks and the others gasp with excitement at the gossip.

"I'm getting another drink." You stand up and go to the bar, Aaron getting out to follow you. You both head to the bar and order your drinks, Aaron paying.

"You didn't have to pay," you smile at him, ignoring the glances being thrown in your direction from well... everywhere.

"No but I wanted to." He shrugs and looks at you as your drinks are getting prepared. "You look beautiful by the way."

You blush and look down them back up at him, grinning widely. "Thank you. So do you."

You thank the bartender but make no move to leave the bar to return to the table just yet, looking back at Aaron. "You're different with me, why?"

"What do you mean?" You smile as you look at him, you knew what he meant.

"You know what I mean. You don’t seem to be sending the drink I bought you back.” He smirks slightly and you laugh, looking into his eyes.

“I feel safe with you.” You shrug and sip your drink. “Plus, you’re double the man these are.”

He raises a brow at you. “How so?”

You sigh and look at him. “A girl wants to be considered more than ‘hot’, to be called more than ‘sexy’ in her lifetime.” You shrug and look up at him.

“While I appreciate the sentiment, you make me feel beautiful.” You say softly looking at him, tilting your head as you admire his face.

He smiles at you, a genuine smile as he places his hand on your lower back, guiding you back to the table. Sitting opposite you once more. You join in a conversation with Emily, Garcia, Spencer and JJ.

Aaron on the other hand id being smirked at by Morgan and Rossi. “Don’t.”

“Oh- we don’t have to say anything.” Rossi smirks, with a knowing look as he raises his glass to Aaron.

“You’re in the big L Hotch,” Morgan chuckles, shaking his head.

“Everybody watches her… she is probably the most wanted woman here tonight. I have no chance.” Hotch shakes his head.

“Everybody may be watching her, but she’s looking at you.”

——————

[uranometrias]

isn't that sweet, i guess so, aaron hotchner

summary: in which you reunite with your big sister's best friend, aaron hotchner for the first time since you graduated high school, and headed off to university. the last time you'd seen him you'd been a seventeen year old with a massive crush, now you were a special agent with doctorates and degrees. when the BAU is paired up with your unit during a case, you find that unit chief aaron is completely different from the aaron you'd looked up to growing up, but for good reason. one thing that never seemed to change though, is how he seems to know you better than anyone else, which is unlucky for you considering he's married with a baby on the way. pairing: aaron hotchner! x cia! female reader category: fluff x crack content warnings: none really? made up case details. mentions of bombings, murder, death, terrorism. there's an age gap of about 7 years between r! + hotch and this takes place in s1... idk it's just a bit of word vomit surrounding hotch finding a woman that's not haley attractive. no cheating though, cause it's literally fleeting, but reader is a bit smitten. author's note. i've got hotchner brain rot, and find myself with thousands of ideas that i never can bring myself to write. the girls that love him can be a bit... scary lol. they do not play about him, but whatever... he's on my mind so here we are.

it''s been so many months omg. i went to basic training and officially became an army girl! now i'm in italy now learning how to be a paralegal (which makes me even more equipped to write badass women with legal knowledge yum!) anyways... i'm sort of back, my schedule is packed, but i'm gonna get back into writing because i've missed it so terribly. xx

He hears you before he sees you. Your voice, despite the years that resided in between the last time he'd heard it hadn't changed much. It had gotten a bit deeper, a sign that you were no longer the bubbly teen he'd last seen you as, you were older, an adult now. Still, there's an undeniable giddiness that rested beneath your words that took him back to days when you were being chased off by your big sister for hanging around too much and "being way too obvious"

Obvious about what? Aaron had never quite figured it out, but he knows it's you nonetheless. You're standing in the middle of the Langley Headquarters, the Central Intelligence Agency office. The last Aaron had heard about you, you'd been on assignment in Qatar, but that was nearly eight months ago. Jobs that required FBI Agents and CIA Case Officers to overlap were usually gruesome, and despite how polite your tone was, he could still place a level of sternness.

"If we're dealing with some sort of cluster, the last thing we want to do is proceed haphazardly." you're speaking to a group of about ten counter-terrorism operatives, voice low so as not to disturb the other pods of agents working. "That said, over the last month there's been a bombing a week in the areas surrounding the capital." you're muttering just as the team is finally breaching the threshold of your particular pod. The building was bustling, flooded with bodies working on what Aaron was certain were different cases.

One of the agents, a man about your age seems to notice the new group, and clears his throat. You turn, eyebrow raising as you take him in. "I'm sorry?" you question as if the noise was some offensive remark made. The agent, whoever he is, seems to freeze up, eyes wide as he points forward in the general direction of the team. Aaron hears Elle's quiet little snort, and wonders how the two of you will manage to work alongside one another. Elle was - or better put, she could be quite volatile. And it seemed the way you'd spoken to your subordinate had already managed to put a sour taste in her mouth.

"I hope we're not interrupting." and you're finally turning, eyes fluttering directly to Gideon. You don't acknowledge anyone else on the team, only Gideon, head tipping to the side just slightly. Your lips push together, eyes then moving to the clock that rested on the desk nearest you.

"Not interrupting, but you're late, and we can't afford to wait around for the F.B.I. to finally give a damn." and your tone isn't snippy at all, but it's clear that you're passionate about your job, and this case. It makes sense that you're in the position that you're in. You turn back to your team, hands clasping together, "Everyone, these are the Bureau agents we were promised." you motion to them loosely. "You'll all be expected to work with them, not against them." you're back to pretending the profilers aren't there, he's not offended.

He can tell though that the others aren't sure how to take you. "This isn't the time for a balls match, and I don't care how long you've worked where." your eyes shoot across the entire group, resting sternly on the same man who's cleared his throat earlier. "They're here because they've mastered the art of getting into the mind of sons of bitches like these. In layman's terms we need them, and I expect you to give them the respect they deserve," it's then that you finally look back at them, eyes sweeping over the group.

Aaron sees it when surprise crosses your features, it happens when you finally lock eyes with him, but you hide it in an instant. "W-We can expect the exact same of them." everyone notices the sudden waver in your tone, but your face is so set they've got no time to unpack it. "I don't want to hear about any of you getting beside yourselves because you're too egotistical to accept a different opinion. Our goal is the same, so for now these are your comrades, and you'll treat them like you'd treat any cadet coming out of Peary."

You sound so official, and Aaron thinks that's partly due to the fact that you were one of the youngest in the room, which came with a certain level of scrutiny, which in turn meant you had no room to show any ounce of uncertainty. You couldn't give them any reason to believe they could undermine the authority you'd been granted. "We clear?" you ask, and you've regained some of that regality to your voice, and Aaron finds that leadership suits your character.

It's not until your team has offered their affirmatives and you've issued a handful of tasks that you finally turn back to the team. Your eyes sweep over the entirety of the line, deliberately passing over Aaron, and he wonders if that's deliberate. "Welcome to Langley." you start your introduction, "My supervisor said you guys would be here an hour ago." you admit, and you don't sound inherently snippy, but it's clear their perceived lack of punctuality was a bother.

"Our apologies, we came as soon as we were cleared." Jason is saying, and Aaron is certain all minds are running directly to Erin Strauss. She'd always had an affinity of making things way more difficult than they'd ever needed to be.

"That's alright, I'm just glad we've finally got your brains in the building." and you extend a hand, a polite (but still closed-off) smile residing on your face. "Jason Gideon, right?" you question, and he's accepting the gesture gingerly. "I'm Case Officer L/N, I'll be your point person while my supervisor is away." and you're looking at the clock again. "They should be landing within the hour, I'm sure he'll be looking forward to meeting you all." you proceed.

"This is Doctor Reid." and Gideon is addressing Spencer, who offers a small wave that you reciprocate. "This is our technical Analyst Garcia.." and he motions to her, the blonde beaming vibrantly at you. She's a walking ray of sunshine, a brightness that's needed in the profession. You offer your own sort of bright greeting, "And these are SSA's Greenaway, Morgan, Jareau..." and before Jason can move to introduce Aaron, you're offering the first real smile of the day.

"Hotchner." you complete Jason's greeting, smile deepening just slightly. "I'm actually quite familiar, we go way back." and Aaron feels every set of eyes to his left and right snapping right to him. He sees Derek's smug little smirk and JJ's perturbed eyebrow raise. He's not in the mood for questions though. "Follow me, we tore apart an office to make space for you guys." and you're walking, and the team is at a loss. Most of them seem to have no clue how to respond, but Derek does, he always does.

"We go way back?" he mimics cheekily and Aaron's eyes can't help but to roll. Elle and Jennifer are releasing similar snorts, clearly amused at the entire situation. Aaron doesn't know why they're so hellbent on trying to see something that wasn't there. It wasn't like you were some mysterious woman from his past. You were the kid sister of his childhood friend, basically a neighbor. Still, he couldn't deny that the feeling that stirred up alongside the familiarity was not lost on him.

"Let's just focus on the case." Gideon is muttering, and Aaron doesn't think he's ever appreciated the old man more.

It's barely a few moments before Aaron's being pulled from his head. The space that had been allotted to the team was nice enough, it would do for the time being. You watch them appraise the space, hands clasped in front of you like you were waiting for their reactions. "Thank you, it's perfect!" he breaches the first conversation between the both of you, and your eyes seem to light up, shoulders jumping at the not-quite praise. He notes then that you must not get a lot of 'good jobs' from your superiors.

"It's the least we could do, honestly." and you shrug slightly. "My boss won't like that I'm saying this, but we're really backed against a wall here." you lower your tone a bit. "If your team wasn't available, we'd be in a bind." you admit, and Aaron is familiar with the sentiment. His team did a lot of good work. "But, if I'm honest, I am kind of surprised to see you in the midst of the fray." you pivot, showing off all your pretty teeth as Aaron's lips quirk involuntarily.

You'd always been a vibrant person, the kind that could pull the sun out from behind storm clouds. That was something no amount of time could help him forget, and as you let your smile reach your eyes, the crinkle reminds him of a time before all the death, violence, and trauma he'd become accustomed to with the life he'd chosen for himself. "I'm hoping it's a bit of a happy surprise?" he says, because despite the circumstances, this was still you of all people.

"More than a bit." you reply instantly. "Honestly, the circumstances are God-awful, but it is nice to know that the 'little Aar Hotchner' that used to sit in our kitchen for breakfast, is the unit chief of an entire FBI unit." you say, and Aaron knows whether they want to be obvious or not, the team are eavesdropping, minds split between starting at their work, and hoping for a bit of insight into who their boss had once been. He'd deal with the fallout of that later.

"Little?" he says unconvinced, as you breathed out a small laugh.

"Okay, maybe not so little at all." you correct yourself teasingly. "I just- I can't believe that I'm actually seeing you again." and your head tips to the side like you're actually just coming to the realization.

"Yeah, you were a ghost for a bit there after your graduation." and it hits you like a ton of bricks. The last time you'd seen Aaron Hotchner it had been when he'd shown up to your high school graduation. Eighteen year old you, who'd been more than eager to leave Virginia behind and start your real life. That was almost ten full years ago.

"Yeah." you agree with a small nod. "Wow." and you exhale through your nose. "Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, I wish I could say I was surprised, but honestly you've always been the bossy type!" you tease before you can really stop yourself, and it catches you both off guard when Aaron actually laughs.

"I guess I could say the same thing about you. You know, I almost didn't recognize you coming in. Being in charge though... it suits you." and this causes you to brim with nervousness, a nervousness you hadn't felt since you were a kid. You knew you were good at your job, you'd fought hard to get it, and you would do anything to maintain it, but it didn't come with a lot of friends, or congratulations, or even just a small bit of encouragement. It was a thankless role.

Somehow Aaron saying something so minute was enough to set all your doubts and second guesses about yourself at ease. Something that he seemed to have never grown out of practice with.

"Thanks, Aar." you say quietly, and you look like you want to say more, but then your phone is buzzing in your pocket, and you're pulled back into a different headspace. The kind that had no time for laughter, for catching up, or anything outside of business. You check your phone, head pivoting to look at that big clock on the wall, and you sigh.

"Everything okay?"

"My boss is running late, won't be back until tomorrow. Which means this is now officially my case." you express, and Aaron understands your plight. The sudden pressure, the way you must have been nervous.

"That's what we're here for." he reminds you politely, treading lightly. "So you won't have to do this one by yourself." Aaron continues, as you blink away your awe. "And like I said, leadership suits you, you'll probably have the whole office in shape in no time." he offers you more encouragement, and you wonder how it could be possible to leave someone behind, and come back to them holding the same amount of space in your heart.

"Thank you." you let out a tired exhale. "I should go. I was expecting him to handle a few things, but now that it's on me... I have a lot more work to do." and you open and close your hand, flexing your fingers as you shuffle awkwardly. "I'm sorry-" you begin, and Aaron is waving you off, face pinching up in a way that was not quite like him.

"Don't. It'll give us time to think." and he's speaking for the team, who he knows don't need much to find a breakthrough.

"Right. It was-" and you look like you're not sure if you want to continue. "It was really good to see you again, Hotchner." and you stumble a bit as you take a small step towards him. "Just-" and you blink a few times. "Let me know if you need anything." you express, "Anything at all." and the emphasis isn't too lost on him as you beam up at him like you were remembering every last thing you ever recalled about him.

It takes you a second to note that the rest of the team is zoned in on the both of you, and you're immediately making your smile drop, taking a step back. "Uh-" you extend a hand, motioning to the entire group. "All of you." you offer, "If any of you need anything, my office is just up there!" and you point across hq to a large office surrounded with glass doors looking out into the bullpen. "Thank you again for your help." and you're looking at Hotch again, an almost sorrowful look on your face as you offer a smile before you take your leave.

Aaron finds it impossible to pull his eyes away from you, because you were so completely different from who he remembered. But some parts were still the same. He blinks away these thoughts, mostly because the loudest thought in his mind is of Haley and the baby they were expecting. But what were the odds that you of all people would be here. He catches the intense stare of Gideon, and both his eyebrows jump. Jason had a way of reading people like no one else.

He doesn't want to know what he found as he examined Hotch. So instead, Aaron beelines towards Morgan and Reid, hoping to hover long enough to get his head back in the game. If they notice the way his eyes would scan the office every so often, if only to catch a glimpse of you, they say nothing.

So he doesn't say anything either.

[leavemurph]

he’s hilarious

[hoe4hotchner]

Chapter 14 - Time to rest

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x figure skater (fem)!Reader

Summary: The story follows you a figure skater training for nationals and Aaron Hotchner as your lives intertwine during an investigation into the abductions of young athletic women, including the your close friend, Leah. As the BAU delves deeper into the case, you find yourself captivated by Hotch’s quiet strength and protective presence. When Leah’s body is tragically discovered at the rink, the tension escalates, surrounding you in an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty.

Word count: 9.0k

Warnings: Mild swearing, medical treatment and injury, hospital, emotional distress, non sexual intimacy

A/N: Soooo this marks the official end…. But I've got an epilogue coming soon. Ahem ahem….. Maybe it will have some spice ;)

Masterlist

The soft hum of music drifted through your apartment, it was a comforting backdrop despite the chaos unfolding within the four walls of your bedroom. Your closet doors were flung open, dresses scattered across your bed as you stood in front of the mirror, clutching a crimson red dress in your hands, the fabric shimmering slightly in the light.

You still didn’t know where Hotch was taking you—only that he’d sent a text earlier instructing you to wear something classy. The vague direction had set your heart racing, but with time slipping away, it made you more and more frantic in your search for the perfect outfit. How classy had he gone for? Where was he taking you?

You exhaled, smoothing the fabric of the dress between your fingers before stepping into it carefully. The material was rich and silky against your skin as you pulled it up, adjusting the off-the-shoulder sleeves into place. It hugged your figure, making you look effortlessly elegant, the deep red striking against your skin.

You turned in the mirror, tilting your head as you inspected yourself. The color was bold, but there was something about it that made you feel powerful—like you were stepping into this date fully in control, no matter how fast your heart was pounding.

Padding over to your vanity, you sat down and reached for your curling iron, wrapping sections of your hair around the barrel with careful not to burn yourself in the process. The scent of hairspray lingered in the air as you worked, soft waves cascading over your shoulders, framing your face. It was only as you reached for your finishing spray that your eyes flickered to the clock on your nightstand—6:52 PM.

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh, shit—”

The curling iron was abandoned in an instant as you scrambled for your makeup bag, tossing aside its contents until you found your foundation. You worked quickly, blending the product into your skin, moving through your routine with the speed of someone who had gotten ready in a rush far too many times to count. Concealer, powder, a soft blush—each step blurred together in a desperate attempt to beat the ticking clock. Hotch was precise and you knew he would be there at exactly 7:00 PM.

Your eyeliner was the real test, and you forced yourself to slow down just enough to keep your hands steady, dragging the pencil along your lash line in smooth and even strokes. A few coats of mascara followed making your lashes more defined, before you finally reached for the finishing touch—lipstick.

The deep red shade matched your dress perfectly. You had just finished pressing them together when a firm knock echoed through your apartment, the sound sharp.

You froze.

He was here.

Lipstick still clutched in your hand, you remained still at your vanity, staring at your reflection. Your heart pounded against your ribs, excitement and nerves swirling together in a dizzying rush.

You jolted into motion, shoving your lipstick down on the vanity before darting toward your closet.

Heels—heels—where were they?

Your fingers curled around the first pair you could find, slipping them on hurriedly as you steadied yourself, smoothing your dress with one final exhale before making your way to the door.

The moment you swung it open, Hotch’s smile widened—really widened. Not the polite, reserved curve of his lips you might have expected, but something softer, something completely unguarded.

He looked stunning, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his tie a deep navy blue—wait was that a Gucci logo you spotted? You quickly snapped your attention away from his tie again, letting it fall to what he was holding in his hands—a bouquet of soft pink peonies, delicate and full, nestled between his large hands.

“These are for you,” he said, his voice warm as he held them out.

Your heart swelled, excitement bubbling in your chest as you took the bouquet, bringing the flowers up to your nose to breathe in their fresh, floral scent. The petals were plush as they brushed against the tip of your nose, their pale pink hue romantic in a way that made your stomach flutter with the flaps of a million butterfly wings.

“Aaron, they’re beautiful.” You grinned, looking up at him. “Thank you.”

His lips quirked slightly, a trace of something almost shy flickering in his expression before he cleared his throat.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured.

“Come inside,” you said, stepping aside.

Hotch followed you in, shutting the door behind him as you made your way to the kitchen. You placed the flowers on the counter, quickly pulling open a cabinet in search of a vase big enough to fit the whole bouquet. After a moment, you found one—clear glass, simple and round—before glancing over your shoulder at him.

“How much time do we have before… whatever it is you have planned for us?” you asked with a smile, quirking a brow.

His expression softened as he leaned against the island, watching you. “We have time.”

“Good.”

You grabbed a small knife from the block, carefully trimming each stem at an angle, the soft snipping sound filling the air as you worked. You filled the vase with fresh water, arranging the peonies delicately, adjusting the blossoms until they sat just right, and filled the vase out evenly.

Hotch didn’t say anything.

He just watched.

There was something about the way you moved—so effortlessly feminine, so natural in the way you tended to the flowers. It was such a simple thing, cutting stems, and arranging petals, but it held a kind of beauty to it that he hadn’t expected.

If he’d been the one to receive the flowers, he probably would have just plopped them into a vase of water and called it a day. But you—

You made it look like an artform.

His gaze softened, his chest tightening in a way that was entirely new and yet completely familiar. Something he hadn't felt since—no he didn't want to think about that, not when he was trying to create a new beginning.

As you made the final adjustment to the flowers, letting your fingertips brush over the soft petals one last time, you looked up at Hotch and found his eyes locked on you. His gaze was intense in a way that made warmth creep up your neck, although you could tell he had zoned out a little. The weight of his stare sent a thrill down your spine. A slow smile spread across your lips as you tilted your head slightly.

“You’re staring, Aaron.”

Hotch blinked as if he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He straightened almost imperceptibly, his broad shoulders shifting as his hands twitched at his sides. “I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head slightly before fumbling over his words. “I didn’t mean to— I was just— You looked—” He cleared his throat, visibly flustered, before offering a rushed, “I’m sorry.”

Your smile widened in amusement, and you leaned forward just slightly, resting your fingertips on the counter. “I’m kidding, Aaron.”

The tension in his shoulders immediately eased, and he let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head at himself.

“You’re a dangerous woman,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand over the back of his neck as if trying to compose himself.

You bit your lip, amusement dancing in your eyes. “So, where are you taking me?”

Hotch’s lips quirked slightly, and something shifted in his expression. The slight awkwardness from before disappeared, replaced by a sudden air of confidence that sent another shiver of anticipation through you. His dark eyes gleamed with something playful, something smug. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he teased, voice dipping into something smooth, before he punctuated the words with a slow wink.

You let out an huffed laugh, crossing your arms as you leaned against the counter. “Really? You’re gonna be like that?”

His smirk deepened slightly, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward, offering his arm like a man straight out of an old-fashioned romance film. “Come on, let’s go then.”

You eyed him for a moment, still amused but undeniably intrigued, before slipping your hand into the crook of his arm.

Stepping outside, the air brushed against your skin, sending a pleasant contrast through you against the warmth buzzing under your skin from Hotch’s presence. His hand hovered near the small of your back, never quite touching but close enough that you could feel the gesture as you turned around to lock your door.

When you reached the passenger side of his car, he moved smoothly ahead of you, reaching for the handle before you could. With a firm but practiced motion, he pulled the door open, stepping aside slightly to let you in.

You arched a brow, lips curving into a teasing smile. “Such a gentleman.”

Hotch met your gaze, something flickering in his eyes. Then, ever so slightly, his smirk returned. “Only for you.”

A warmth spread through your chest at that, and you let yourself hold his gaze for just a moment longer before finally sinking into the passenger seat. As you settled in, Hotch waited, making sure you were comfortable before—without missing a beat—he carefully shut the door.

Through the window, you watched as he moved to the driver’s side, his posture as composed as ever, but there was something in the way his fingers flexed at his sides before he opened his own door—something almost as unsteady as the way your own heart was hammering in your chest.

Hotch carefully backed out of the driveway. The quiet between you was comfortable, the silence didn't need to be filled with words to feel significant and that was something you valued.

The city lights flashed by, casting soft glows through the windows each time you passed a lamppost.

As Hotch navigated the streets, you let your fingers tap lightly against your thigh, the anticipation building within you. You tried not to let it show, but you were curious—where was he taking you? The playful tease from earlier lingered in the air like a promise, and you found yourself wanting to know more.

"So," you said, breaking the silence with a casual tone, though you couldn't hide the glint of curiosity in your eyes. "What kind of date does Aaron Hotchner have in mind for me?"

Hotch's eyes flickered to you for just a moment, a flash of amusement dancing in them at your use of his full name before he returned his attention to the road. "You'll see," his reply was cryptic, his voice smooth, that same confident, effortless demeanor still in place as the day you had first met.

You raised an eyebrow. "You're really not going to tell me, are you?"

"Nope," he said with a grin that was barely noticeable but still there. "Not yet."

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head in mock disbelief. "You're impossible."

The ride was calm, but you could feel the tension between you, feeling the energy that had started to simmer ever since that first gaze across the room while you were arranging flowers. Most of all, you wanted to lean over the center console and kiss him. Wanted to feel the touch of his lips against yours once again, just like yesterday.

A few minutes later, Hotch slowed as the car turned down a narrow street lined with trees. You hadn’t been paying attention to where you were, but you knew that this wasn’t anywhere you’d been before. The area seemed quiet, almost secluded.

"Almost there," he said, his voice unexpectedly soft.

Before you could respond, Hotch guided the car into a small parking lot next to a charming little building. It looked like a cozy, tucked-away bistro, it felt timeless, almost out of place in the modern world. A low, warm light spilled from the windows, and the gentle hum of conversation floated and slow music out into the evening as well.

As he parked the car, you couldn’t help but glance around, your eyes wide with surprise. You had no idea he’d chosen such a quiet, intimate spot.

"This is..." You trailed off, searching for the right word. "Unexpected."

Hotch didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he put the car in park, turned to you with that same unreadable look in his eyes, and slowly unbuckled his seatbelt. “I thought it would be nice to get away from the noise for a bit.”

You nodded, your heart skipping a beat as you caught the sincerity in his tone. There was something refreshing about the simplicity of it all, about how he had chosen this place—just the two of you, away from the chaos, somewhere you could be yourselves.

As he opened his door and stepped out, you followed his lead, feeling that familiar flutter in your chest. Hotch was waiting by your side of the car as you stepped out, his hand hovering just a little too close to your back as you walked toward the entrance.

The hostess inside greeted you instantly with a smile, ushering you to a small, private table tucked in the corner of the restaurant. The dim candlelight flickered on the table, casting soft shadows on the walls, and you couldn’t help but feel like this moment was exactly where you were meant to be like it was always meant to be you and him against the world.

The waiter poured some water for you and handed the both of you a menu, giving you a moment to look over your options. But you didn’t even open yours right away; instead, you watched Hotch, his posture relaxed, it felt like the first time you had seen him this relaxed. There was something magnetic about the way he leaned back in his seat, the dark suit and tie somehow making him seem even more striking.

“You look good,” you murmured, caressing his hand on the table, before you could stop yourself, the words slipping out.

Hotch’s gaze flickered up to meet yours, and for a moment, there was an intensity in his eyes, something more than just the usual steely composure. It was a warmth, an openness that he didn’t let show to just anyone.

“Thanks,” he said softly. His eyes held yours for a moment longer before he glanced down at his menu, breaking the tension between you. "You look incredible, by the way."

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face at his words. It was a simple compliment, but somehow, coming from him, it meant more.

After a few moments of studying the menu, the waiter returned to take your order, and as she walked away, you found yourself once again drawn to the man across the table. The playful teasing from earlier seemed to have settled into something deeper, something more intimate. You felt a sense of calm you hadn’t expected, and it was all because of Hotch.

"So," you started, tilting your head slightly, "tell me something—how do you pick a place like this?"

He chuckled. “I’ve learned that sometimes, the best places aren’t the ones everyone knows about. The quieter ones, the ones that aren’t in the spotlight—those are the ones that feel more personal."

You met his gaze, the weight of his words settling in. Personal. There was something in that, something that made your heart beat a little faster.

"Sounds like you know exactly what you’re doing," you said, your voice softer now, almost like a confession.

Hotch leaned back in his seat slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “I try."

There it was again—the same intensity that always lingered when you were around him, the feeling that this date was more than just a night out. It was something more, something that neither of you were quite ready to define yet, but it was there, hanging in the air between you both.

As you both settled into the rhythm of the evening, the faint buzz of the bistro slowly faded into the background, leaving only the soft clink of silverware and the low murmur of your voices. The waiter returned with your drinks, placing them gently on the table before retreating to the shadows, and you both took your time, savoring each sip as the conversation flowed between you effortlessly.

The first course arrived. You both dug in, exchanging comments on the flavors, but it wasn’t just the meal that had your attention. It was the way the flickering candlelight cast a soft glow on Hotch’s face, accentuating the sharpness of his jaw and the warmth in his eyes.

As the evening progressed, the conversation naturally deepened, taking on a more intimate tone. You spoke about everything from childhood memories to moments of vulnerability you'd rarely shared with anyone else. Each word that passed between you felt like a tiny piece of yourself you were handing over, trusting him with it.

The second course followed, and the food became secondary to the space between you two, your gazes lingering longer than they had at first. Hotch’s movements were slow, deliberate, his attention never wavering from you. It was as if, for the first time, you felt how truly present he was, not just physically, but emotionally. He was there, with you, in this moment.

You felt the same pull—drawn in by the way his voice softened when he spoke, the way his lips would curl slightly when he smiled, and how his hands, when they brushed against the edge of his glass or his silverware, always seemed to be just a little too close to yours.

As the evening wore on, the other tables around you slowly emptied. The atmosphere in the bistro shifted from lively to peaceful, the quiet growing around you. The last few customers trickled out, and soon, it was just you and Hotch, alone in the soft glow of candlelight. The waiter had stopped coming by, sensing that the two of you were content to linger.

You leaned back in your chair, feeling the warmth of the wine and the slow burn of the conversation, your eyes studying Hotch more closely now. The way the flicker of the candlelight reflected off the surface of his eyes, making them shimmer with a certain intensity that made your heart stutter. He was magnetic in this light, it made everything feel charged.

Hotch must have noticed your gaze because he shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly in question. But when he saw the look on your face—soft, open, and not at all like the guarded, professional he usually saw—he smiled.

"Something on my face?" he asked, his voice low and teasing, yet laced with an undertone that suggested he wasn’t entirely sure whether he wanted to know or not.

You shook your head, unable to keep the smile from playing at the corners of your lips. "No," you said softly, leaning forward slightly, drawn to the way the light caught in his eyes. "It’s just... the way the light is catching your eyes. They’re..." You paused, feeling the warmth flood your chest. "They’re beautiful."

For a moment, Hotch was silent, stunned by your comment. He blinked, his gaze flickering to the candle on the table, then back to you. It was as if he was looking at you in the same way—like he saw something deeper beneath the surface.

You held his gaze for a moment longer, before a soft smile curved your lips again. "I think the light agrees with you," you said, the words slipping out without thinking.

Hotch’s lips parted, and you caught the way his breath hitched slightly, the way his eyes darkened just a fraction. It was the smallest change, but it was enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“I think you’re right,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze moved over you with an intensity that made you feel as if he was memorizing every detail of you—the curve of your cheek, the way your lashes fluttered as you blinked, the slight rise and fall of your chest as you breathed.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just sat there, letting the candlelight and the quiet of the room fill the space around you. And in that silence, you could feel the pull between you both growing stronger, something so soft and so sensual, the way his eyes never left yours, the way your body seemed to hum with the shared understanding that this night—this moment—wasn’t just about the date anymore. It was about the connection that was blossoming between you both, one glance, one touch at a time.

As the last of the plates were cleared away, you and Hotch lingered over your drinks, the evening winding down, but neither of you was quite ready to call it a night. After a few more moments of easy conversation, Hotch reached for the check. You started to protest, but he held up a hand, his voice gentle but firm.

“I insist,” he said, his smile reassuring yet unyielding. “Let me take care of this.”

You couldn’t help but smile, nodding in acceptance, and watched as he placed his card on the table. The server returned almost immediately, and with a quiet exchange, the transaction was made. Hotch didn’t seem to mind, his demeanor calm and composed, as usual.

Once the bill was settled, he stood and offered his hand to help you from your chair, the gesture as natural as breathing. You took his hand, your fingers fitting perfectly in his as you rose.

The night air greeted you as you stepped out into the cool evening.

It was the perfect night, crisp but not too cold, the sky clear with a scattering of stars. The bistro's warm, glow seemed to fade behind you as you walked side by side, the faint sound of footsteps muffled by the quiet streets.

There was a peacefulness about the night, a tranquility that matched the soft rhythm of your conversation. It felt like time had slowed down, as though the world outside this little moment had ceased to matter.

As you walked, the path took you toward a lake, the water shimmering in the pale moonlight, reflecting the stars in its surface. The air smelled fresh, cool, and earthy, and the only sound was the soft rustling of leaves in the trees around you.

You kept pace with Hotch the best you could in your heels, the comfort of his presence beside you making the peaceful evening feel even more perfect. But soon, you started to notice a chill creeping over you, the air growing cooler as the night deepened. You shivered slightly, the breeze making the thin fabric of your dress feel a little too light for the night.

Hotch, always attentive, noticed your goosebumps immediately. His gaze shifted to you, his expression softening with concern as he saw you rub your bare arms, trying to warm up. Without a word, he slowed his step, reaching up to adjust the lapels of his suit jacket before slipping it off his shoulders. His movements were smooth and deliberate, as he draped the jacket over your shoulders carefully.

“You’re cold,” he said softly, his voice low. The jacket enveloped you, the warmth of his body still lingering in the fabric, and you felt a rush of gratitude.

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his with a small smile. “Thank you, Aaron.”

He nodded, but the warmth in his gaze never faltered. His hand lingered for just a second on the jacket’s collar, adjusting it around you, as though he wanted to make sure you were comfortable wearing it.

The way he was looking at you now, made your heart beat a little faster.

“Better?” he asked, his voice steady, but there was something in his tone that made your chest flutter.

You nodded again, feeling the warmth of the jacket as you started heating up a little. “Much better. But I think you were right—I was starting to freeze.”

Hotch smiled, and the sound of his deep laugh made you feel even more at ease. He didn’t pull away right away, instead walking a little closer to you, his side brushing against yours as you continued the peaceful walk by the lake. His presence felt solid beside you, and the world seemed to slow again, the calmness settling around the two of you.

It was moments like these—small, quiet moments—that made you realize how much you were growing to trust him, to rely on his presence. The night felt like it was stretching out before you, full of possibilities and the gentle tug of something deeper, something meaningful.

It was the kind of night that made you want to stay forever in the warmth of his jacket as you walked next to him.

A few weeks had passed since that date, and you found yourself back at the rink, focusing entirely on your routine as nationals came closer and closer.

The board had found you a new coach—a warm and encouraging woman with an impressive track record— it was a perfect fit for you. The two of you had been working tirelessly to perfect every move, every leap, every intricate spin, finally having someone to guide you.

She was supportive but knew when to push you, and you’d come to appreciate that balance.

Today, though, you were on your own, practicing outside of your scheduled hours to refine a particularly difficult jump that the two of you had been working on. The rink was empty, save for the sound of the overhead lights cracking a little and the sound of your blades slicing through the ice.

As you prepared for another run, the air felt cold against your face, but the effort of your practice had warmed you. You took a deep breath, positioning yourself for the jump, your muscles coiling with anticipation.

You pushed off, the familiar rush of adrenaline fueling your movements, but something went wrong. Your skates didn’t grip the ice quite the way they were supposed to as you landed, and the next thing you knew, you were tumbling forward.

It wasn’t a terrible fall, but you instinctively put your hand back to catch yourself, your palm meeting the cold surface of the ice with a harsh impact. There was a sharp, unmistakable crack as something in your wrist snapped, the pain immediate and blinding. You let out a soft whimper, the kind that escaped before you even had a chance to stifle it.

From the sidelines, you saw Hotch’s tall figure moving quickly toward the boards, a look of concern flashing across his face as he hurried toward the rink. His instinct to protect you kicked in, and you heard his voice calling out before you could even fully process the pain.

“Are you okay?” His tone was sharp, laced with worry, but you held up a hand, signaling for him to stay where he was. Hotch had only just arrived, bringing you lunch and coffee to make it through the day.

“I’m fine,” you managed through clenched teeth, but you could feel the waves of pain in your wrist intensifying. You tried to push yourself up, but the pain flared again, and you couldn’t help but let out another soft whimper.

Hotch’s gaze locked onto you from behind the boards, his protective instincts flaring. He was already moving toward the opening to the iced part of the arena, his concern written all over his face, but you gritted your teeth, your vision a little blurry from the pain, and held your hand up again.

“I’m okay. Just… give me a second.”

Despite your protest, Hotch remained frozen for a moment, concern evident in the way he stood at the edge of the rink. You could feel him watching you, his eyes focused on you, but you pushed through the pain as you struggled to regain your footing. You carefully eased yourself back onto your feet, one hand still clutching your injured wrist close to your chest, and despite your effort, you felt every ounce of discomfort shoot through you with each small movement.

The seconds felt like an eternity, but finally, you managed to glide over to the boards, slowly, carefully. Each stride was measured as you approached him, trying your best to hide the discomfort that flared every time you moved your wrist even a little.

Hotch didn’t say anything at first, but the moment you reached him, he didn’t hesitate. He gently guided you to sit down on the bench, his hand resting on your shoulder as he crouched in front of you, his eyes scanning you for signs of injury.

“Let me see your wrist,” he said softly, his voice steady but with an underlying current of concern that made your chest tighten.

You hesitated, your breath shaky as you reluctantly held your hand out to him. As he carefully took your wrist in his hands, you winced from the sharp stab of pain. He examined your wrist closely, his fingers pressing gently but firmly, and when he applied pressure, you couldn’t help but let out a small whimper, the pain radiating through your hand.

Hotch’s jaw tightened, and his eyes flickered with concern.

“You need an X-ray,” he said, his voice firm yet gentle. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No, Hotch, I—” You started, but the words were cut off by the unbearable pain in your wrist. You tried again, shaking your head slightly. “It’s not that bad, I don’t need a hospital.”

You tried to pull your wrist back slightly, but Hotch’s grip tightened just enough—without hurting you further—to let you know he wasn’t going to let you go anywhere until you were checked out. His expression softened for a moment, but then his gaze sharpened with that famous Hotchner stare as he met your eyes.

“That is non-negotiable,” he added, his tone leaving no room for debate.

You opened your mouth to argue again, but the look in his eyes stopped you. There was no use. You knew he wasn’t going to let you talk your way out of this, and even though you wanted to protest more, something about the way he looked at you made it impossible to push back any further. Besides, he would carry you to the hospital if you didn't follow willingly.

“Fine,” you muttered, but your tone softened as you leaned slightly against him, letting him take charge. “But I’m not happy about it.”

Hotch gave you a small, almost unnoticeable smile as he gently helped you sit back on the bench. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief as you sank further into the seat, the pain still pulsing through your wrist but now more manageable. His movements were fluid and purposeful as he knelt down in front of you, his hands gently cupping the edges of your skates.

“Let’s get those off,” he said softly as he carefully untied your skates. You tensed slightly, still a little self-conscious about needing help, but Hotch didn’t rush—his touch was steady and reassuring, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to lean into the rhythm of his actions.

When the skates were off, you glanced down at your feet, wincing slightly at the coldness pushing past the flimsy fabric of your socks, you curled your toes in retaliation.

Your shoes were still on the floor next to the bench. You shifted, preparing to put them on, but before you could move, Hotch’s hand on your knee stopped you.

“Let me,” he said, his gaze soft as he met your eyes for a moment before he bent down to carefully slip your shoes on, tying the laces. His presence, so close, made the simple act feel surprisingly intimate.

You allowed him to do it, his hands gentle and deliberate as he secured your shoes, and you couldn’t help but notice the way he looked at you—focused, soft, protective. A warmth spread across your cheeks as he finished, his gaze still locked with yours.

Once the shoes were on, he stood up slowly, watching you carefully to make sure you were steady. His gaze never left you, as though waiting for a sign that you were ready. You took a deep breath and with a slight wince, slowly and carefully pushed yourself to a standing position, your body leaning slightly against him for support but not fully depending on it.

Hotch stepped back slightly, not reaching to assist you but standing close enough to catch you if you fell or needed his help.

“Let’s just get you taken care of,” he said, his voice was gentle. You didn’t argue. Instead, you let him guide you out of the rink.

As you and Hotch walked out of the rink, the crisp air made your wrist throb. Each step sent a jolt of pain through you. You tried to ignore it, focusing on Hotch beside you. His hand never strayed far from your back, guiding you towards his car.

Once you reached it, Hotch opened the passenger door for you, his movements smooth. You slid into the seat with a soft wince, carefully adjusting your wrist to avoid putting too much pressure on it.

Hotch was quick to close the door, moving around the car with speed before sliding into the driver's seat. The engine hummed to life, and he glanced at you, his gaze still soft, though there was a clear edge of worry in his eyes.

“Are you alright?”

You nodded, trying to force a reassuring smile, though it didn’t quite convince him. “I’ll be fine. Just… a little sore.”

Hotch didn’t buy it. He let out a sigh and tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he pulled out of the parking lot, the sound of the tires crunching against the pavement filling the air.

“You’re not fine, and you know it,” he said gently, his eyes flicking to you for a split second before returning to the road. “I just want to make sure everything’s okay.”

The thought of protesting again crossed your mind, but you didn’t. The sincerity in his voice left no room for argument, and despite the stubborn part of you that wanted to power through it, the logical side of you understood the importance of getting checked out.

As you drove, the familiar streets of the town blurred by, and you could feel the tension in your body begin to unwind, even as the pain in your wrist remained constant.

You turned your head slightly, catching his profile. “You really didn’t have to do this,” you murmured, almost more to yourself than to him, though the words slipped out before you could stop them.

Hotch’s lips quirked up at the corner, his voice low but firm. “Yes, I did.” He didn’t elaborate, but the way he said it made you realize that, in his mind, there was no other option. You didn’t argue with that. You didn’t need to.

The drive to the hospital was short, but by the time you arrived, you were feeling the full weight of the pain in your wrist as the adrenaline had worn off. Hotch parked the car and immediately got out, moving to your side with urgency. You glanced up at him as he opened the door, his face set in determination.

“Let’s get you inside,” he said softly, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. You let him help you out of the car, leaning on him more than you would’ve liked, but there was no denying how much you appreciated his support.

As you made your way inside, the sterile scent of the hospital filled your nose, and you couldn’t help but feel the familiar anxiety that came with waiting rooms and doctors’ offices. But Hotch remained at your side, his presence felt like an anchor. His hand stayed close to your back, and whenever you winced, he immediately checked on you, his gaze always soft but concerned.

“You’re doing great,” he said. You didn’t respond, but you felt a small sense of relief as he helped you settle into the waiting area before moving the counter to check you in.

And as much as you hated that this was happening, that you were here instead of on the ice, there was something calming about having Hotch by your side. Something that made the waiting, the pain, and everything else a little bit more bearable.

The time in the waiting room felt longer than it actually was. You sat there with your injured wrist resting on your lap. Every now and then, his eyes would flick to you, checking for any signs of discomfort.

After what seemed like an eternity, a nurse finally called your name, and you stood up slowly, careful not to put too much pressure on your wrist. Hotch stood with you, his hand hovering close by as the two of you were led down a hallway to a small examination room.

The doctor was a middle-aged man with a calm, reassuring demeanor. He had you sit on the examination table, and you winced as you moved your arm into a more comfortable position. He immediately started assessing your wrist, pressing gently around the area where the pain was sharpest.

You couldn’t help but flinch, but you didn’t say anything. Hotch was standing off to the side, quietly observing, though his gaze never left you.

The doctor was quiet for a moment, his fingers working expertly around your wrist before he gave a short nod. “I’m going to send you for an X-ray,” he explained in a calm tone. “It seems like it might be broken, but I’ll confirm once we have a better look.”

You nodded, your heart sinking slightly at the thought of a broken bone. But at least you would know for sure.

A few minutes later, you were led to the imaging room, where another nurse helped you position your arm for the X-ray. The process was quick, and before long, you were back in the examination room, sitting in the same spot as before, waiting for the results.

When the doctor returned, he had a small, reassuring smile on his face. He sat down across from you and took a quick glance at your X-ray results.

“Well, I’ve got good news and bad news,” he began, his voice still calm.

“The bad news is that you’ve broken your wrist, and you’re going to need a cast for the next eight weeks.” He paused, letting that settle in, and you couldn’t help but sigh. But then, he continued, “The good news is that it’s a clean break, which means the recovery time will be fast, and you’re not looking at a complicated healing process or surgery. You’re lucky in that sense.”

You let out a soft breath of relief, though it wasn’t the news you had hoped for. At least it wasn’t worse. And at least you knew it would heal properly.

“I’ll have a nurse come in to put the cast on in a little bit,” the doctor said, standing up. “It’ll take a little while to get it set, but once it’s on, you’ll be free to go home. Just make sure to keep your wrist elevated when possible and avoid any strenuous activities.”

You nodded in understanding, your mind already starting to focus on how you would manage with one hand for the next two months. But with Hotch beside you, there was no doubt that you would have the support you needed.

The doctor gave you a reassuring smile before exiting the room, leaving you alone with Hotch.

He glanced over at you, his eyes soft with empathy. “You’re handling this surprisingly well,” he said.

You looked up at him, offering a small smile despite the situation. “I’m not sure I have much of a choice.”

Hotch chuckled softly, a warm sound that made the situation seem a little less heavy. “You’re strong. But if you ever need help—” He hesitated, his gaze shifting to your wrist briefly, before meeting your eyes again. “I’m here.”

You gave a small nod, appreciating the offer, but you didn’t need to say more. His presence alone was enough.

Soon after, the nurse entered, and with a few more steps, the procedure was underway. You sat still, feeling the cast being applied, the warm sensation of the plaster shell being molded to your wrist, and the material wrapping around your wrist.

Despite the pain, despite the inconvenience, you felt a sense of relief that you were getting through this.

As the nurse finished, she gave you a few instructions on how to care for the cast, and then, with a small, kind smile, she wished you well before leaving the room. Hotch helped you up from the bed, and you felt the weight of the cast on your arm as he gently guided you toward the exit.

“Ready to head home?” he asked softly, his voice calm and reassuring.

You looked at him, offering a tired but genuine smile. “Yeah, let’s go home.”

And with that, the two of you left the hospital.

The hospital parking lot felt vast and silent—despite the hundreds of cars parked—as you and Hotch made your way to his car. Your steps were slower now.

Once you reached the car, Hotch opened the door for you, helping you settle into the passenger seat. The moment you sat down, a small groan escaped your lips as the full weight of the situation hit you. Your body sank into the seat, and you let out a quiet sigh, the tension in your shoulders slowly unwinding, but the frustration still gnawing at you.

Hotch slid into the driver’s seat and glanced over at you, concern written all over his face. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice gentle.

You looked out the window for a moment, as everything started catching up. Your wrist ached, and there was a lingering frustration, a bitterness that you couldn’t shake. “Nationals... It’s in four weeks,” you said quietly. “I’ll miss it. And that’s... that’s my shot at being considered for the next Olympics. If I don’t make it this time, I have to start all over again. It’s... it’s a huge setback. It'll be four years before I get this opportunity again.”

Hotch’s expression softened, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. He let the silence stretch out, just long enough for you to feel understood. His gaze was warm but thoughtful as he reached out to rest a hand on your thigh.

“I’m not going to lie,” he said, “I know how important this is to you.” He exhaled slowly. “But you’re going to get through this. I know you will.”

You nodded, but the frustration lingered. “But I’ll miss my chance,” you murmured. “I’ve been working my whole life for this... and now, I’ve got to start over.”

Hotch’s hand tightened briefly on your thigh before he turned to face you fully, his eyes meeting yours. “I get it,” he said. “I understand how much this means. And yeah, you’re going to miss this year’s nationals. That’s a tough pill to swallow. But you won’t be starting over. You’re already ahead. You’ve been training for years. You’re one of the best as far as I know.” He paused, letting his words settle in the space between you.

His eyes softened. “And the Olympics? They’re not going anywhere. This is just a setback, not the end of the road. You’ve got time. And when you’re ready, you’ll be back at it.”

You let his words sink in, the weight of his reassurance giving you a bit of relief, even if it wasn’t enough to chase away the frustration completely. You glanced over at him, offering a small, tired smile. “You really think so?”

Hotch’s lips quirked up just a little, a small but reassuring smile. “I know so. You’re strong, you’ve already proven that.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “And you’ve got me in your corner, every step of the way.”

You leaned back in the seat, letting the comfort of his words settle in your chest. It didn’t fix everything, but somehow, hearing him say it made it feel a little lighter.

With a deep breath, you finally nodded, looking back at him. “Okay. I’ll get through it. I just... need some time to figure it out.”

You exhaled slowly, the tightness in your chest loosening just a little. And as the car slowly pulled out of the parking lot, you felt a bit of hope return, even if it was just a flicker for now. It wasn’t the end, not by a long shot. And maybe, with time, things would start to make sense again.

Four weeks had passed since the injury, and while the road to recovery had been slower than you’d hoped, you were finally starting to feel more like yourself again. The cast was still on your wrist, it was a constant reminder of the Nationals that never came to be. But tonight, you weren’t focused on the past—you were here, on the couch with Hotch, enjoying the comfort of his company.

Hotch was sitting up, his legs stretched across the couch, taking up the majority of the space. You were nestled between his legs, your head resting softly on his pelvis, the warmth of his body beneath you making everything feel safe and grounded. Your right hand rested gently on his thigh, your fingers grazing the fabric of his shorts every so often. The left, still bound in its cast, lay tucked carefully under the blanket, out of the way.

The television was on, showcasing the Nationals competition, and you couldn’t help but comment on everything. It wasn’t just a sport to you; it was your passion, your life. Every move, every jump, every spin was something you had trained for—something you understood better than anyone else. Hotch seemed content to let you talk, chuckling occasionally and offering small, encouraging words here and there.

You’d made peace with the fact that you were watching Nationals from the comfort of his living room instead of participating in it. It wasn’t easy. It stung in ways you couldn’t quite describe. But you were doing your best, and for once, you weren’t pushing yourself to be perfect. Tonight, it was just about being with Hotch and enjoying each other's company.

When the camera cut to another skater, your mood shifted, and a little flicker of annoyance sparked in you.

“Ugh, Natalia,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “She’s only here because my spot opened up. I can’t believe they picked her to take over after me.”

Hotch’s laughter rumbled softly through the room, and you felt his hand pat your waist affectionately. It wasn’t a teasing pat—it was one of reassurance, of care. “Easy there, tiger,” he said with a warm chuckle, his voice light and teasing but laced with tenderness. “I’m sure she’s worked hard for her spot, too. Besides, she got in second place, remember? They probably just moved down the list.”

You huffed, crossing your arms beneath the blanket to the best of your ability, you could feel the tiny smile tugging at your lips despite your best efforts to keep up the façade. “She’s not even that good,” you continued, your voice a little sharper than you intended. “She doesn’t have the same edge. The same... passion.”

Hotch’s hand stayed on your waist. He didn’t say anything for a moment, letting you vent, but his presence was enough. He wasn’t here to tell you to get over it or to brush off your frustration. He understood. He just let you feel it, knowing that in time, you’d come to terms with it.

“You know,” he started after a few moments, his voice soft but steady, “you can’t measure your worth by someone else’s success.”

You nodded but didn’t say anything at first, just letting his words settle in your mind. You knew what he was saying was true. Still, it didn’t stop the tight feeling in your chest whenever you watched someone else take the spot you’d worked so hard for.

“I know,” you murmured after a moment. “It just feels... unfair. I’ve been working for this my whole life, and now it’s like... I’m invisible.”

Hotch squeezed your waist again, this time a little firmer. “You’re not invisible. You’re just waiting for your chance. And when it comes, you’ll be ready. You’re stronger than that.”

You shifted a little, turning your head so you could look up at him. His eyes were soft but steady, the warmth in his gaze making your heart skip a beat. He didn’t need to say anything else. He didn’t need to tell you everything would be perfect or that there were no setbacks in life. He just needed to remind you that you would come back even stronger once your wrist was healed.

A sigh escaped your lips, and you closed your eyes for a moment, letting the feeling of Hotch’s hand on you soothe the restless thoughts in your mind. It wasn’t about winning or losing. It was about doing your best, about finding the strength to keep going even when things weren’t going your way.

After a long moment, Hotch spoke again. “Look, I know it’s hard right now. But missing one competition... it’s not the end of the world. You’ll get your shot again. And when that time comes, it’s going to mean so much more because you’ll have fought for it.”

You let out a soft breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. “Yeah, I know you’re right. I guess I just need to stop comparing myself to everyone else.”

“That’s the spirit,” Hotch said with a smile, his thumb gently brushing against the side of your waist. “You’re on your own path, and it’s not going to look like anyone else’s. And that’s a good thing.”

You didn’t answer right away, but you felt the weight of his words sinking in. You weren’t the same as Natalia or anyone else. You were you. And that was enough.

As the next skater took to the ice, you both fell into a comfortable silence, the soft hum of the TV filling the room. Your head was still resting against Hotch’s pelvis, his hand resting on your waist, the warmth between you both undeniable.

As the competition continued, the soft flicker of the television cast a dim glow through the room, the commentators’ voices blending into the background. Hotch was still watching intently, his focus trained on the screen, but a small part of him was aware of the way your breathing had evened out, the rise and fall of your chest beneath his hand. It wasn’t long before the steady motion of his stomach, gently rising and falling with each breath, became a sort of lullaby for you.

You shifted slightly, your face rubbing lazily against his pelvis as you tried to get comfortable. The movement was so subtle, yet Hotch felt it—felt how your body started to relax. He didn’t look down at you; he knew what was happening. You were drifting off to sleep, just like you always did when you were cuddled up to him, when you felt safe.

Hotch’s gaze never left the screen, even as he noticed how your body melted more and more into the couch, your head becoming heavier in his lap, your right hand slipping further down onto his thigh, the tips of your fingers a little cold against his skin. He stayed still, the steady motion of his breath the only movement as he let you rest, not wanting to disturb you.

By the time the last skater took the ice, Hotch felt you completely surrender to sleep, your breath soft and even. He had sensed it happening—especially the way you’d rubbed your face against him in search of comfort. It wasn't until around the moment, when the competition was reaching its final stages, that he knew you were already out.

He had learned by now to let you sleep. You were always so focused, so driven, but when you were with him—when you finally let yourself unwind—it was like you were all his. He didn’t mind the quiet. In fact, he cherished it. Watching you, feeling you trust him enough to fall asleep in his presence, was worth more than he could express.

The competition was still playing, but Hotch didn’t feel the need to turn it off. He knew you’d want to know the outcome once you woke up. You’d ask, of course, wanting to know who won and how the skaters performed. So, he kept watching, his gaze now absorbing the intricacies of the sport with interest, something he hadn’t really had before despite spending so much time around it.

Truth be told, Hotch didn’t know much about figure skating—hell, he wasn’t sure if he even understood all the rules. But in the past year, he’d learned enough to know when you were frustrated, when you needed comfort, and when you simply needed someone to sit next to you and listen. And now, watching the competition with you, he felt the tiniest bit of pride in himself for taking the time to try to understand the thing you loved so much.

He didn’t need to know every detail, but he could appreciate it.

Eventually, the competition wrapped up, the closing comments fading into the background, and Hotch knew that soon enough, you’d wake up. But for now, he didn’t want to disturb you. He let the peace settle between the two of you as he shut the TV off. You continued to rest, your body curled comfortably in his lap. And as you slept, Hotch watched you, feeling more content than he had in a long time.

Tag list: @love4lando @therealbaberuthless @crazyunsexycool @pear-1206 @bookworm124 @itsmytimetoodream @c-losur3 @lumestar @evvy96 @booknerd2004 @werebearcocoon @hotchnersgirlxx @jazzimac1967 @gamingfeline @soyobi-wankenobi @meg-black @maxinehufflepuffprincess @multifandombliss

[littleslaywrites]

sleepless | aaron hotchner x reader

Summary: you can’t sleep when aaron is away.

word count: 0.9k

cw: pure fluff

You’d tried everything to get to sleep. A hot bath, reading in the moonlight, soothing tea. Nothing worked.

The clock ticked mockingly, reminding you of the time passing. Aaron had told you he’d be back that night, but let you know it’d be late and to go to sleep. You tried, but the knowledge that he was on his way was enough to keep you up. 

Not to mention it was nearly impossible for you to fall asleep without hearing Aaron’s voice. He always made sure to call you when he was away, knowing the sound of his words would soothe you to sleep. You hadn’t had difficulty falling asleep since you moved in with him, comforted by his presence, and when he was gone, his voice could lull you into slumber.

Giving up on the bed, you moved to the couch. You wanted to be able to hear him come in, considering you were fighting a losing battle with sleep. The streets were nearly empty, with only an occasional car passing. Each time one rolled by, you got your hopes up that it’d be Aaron.

After what must’ve been an hour of trying to sleep on the couch, you finally heard the door open. Sitting up, you rushed over to the door. 

“What are you doing awake?” Aaron said, sounding more tired than you were.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you respond in between littering his face with kisses. 

He smiles at your affection, wrapping his large arms around you. His warmth immediately comforts you, and you rest your cheek on his chest. He doesn’t want to move, savoring the feeling of you in his arms after being away. 

Sensing your peace, he picks you up and carries you to the bedroom. You let him, knowing he’ll soon be beside you in bed. When he drops you off and tries to walk away, you grab at his hand. 

“I won’t be long,” he reassures you. When you don’t let go, he leans down to kiss your forehead. Satiated for the moment, you ease your grip.

Aaron slides into his usual routine, checking on Jack before taking a quick shower. Eyes closed, you listen, knowing the sound of the shower turning off means he’ll be climbing into bed before you know it. 

You feel the bed dip beside you, and you’re cuddling into his side before he’s under the covers all the way. Your head finds his chest again, and you wrap both your legs around one of his. His warmth reminds you of how cold it is without him. 

“Missed you,” you say, laying a hand over his heart to feel its rhythm. In response, he leans into your shoulder.

“I missed you, too.”

Aaron feels his own eyes growing heavy. You’re more than aware that his job is far more tiring than anything you do, but he never makes you feel lesser. You don’t know it, but he has the same trouble sleeping without you. He hates making you worry about him, so he would never tell you, but nights in hotels are always sleepless. That’s why he finds it so important to call you. He needs to hear your voice just as much as you need to hear his.

“Was the case good?” you sleepily ask. 

“Mmhmm.”

If it was earlier, or if the two of you weren’t so tired, you’d spend time on the couch, debriefing what the other missed. He didn’t go into detail about most cases, but you provided a much needed light after being surrounded by the darkness of his job. In return, you’d catch him up on the events of the week. He hated not being around, so he’d ask about every little thing. It was to a point where you nearly thought it was ridiculous. He’d ask about what you ate, what you watched, who you saw around. It was endearing, the way he’d listen so intently to the recollection of a trip to the grocery store. 

For now, though, he didn’t have the energy to ask, and you didn’t have the energy to respond. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say. On the surface, you mean that you were glad he was back, returning to your bed after a case. But you mean it even deeper. You’re glad he’s here, in your life. You can’t imagine how you ever slept without knowing he was yours.

His breathing slows, signaling he’s dozed off. In his sleep, he moves closer to you, leaning an arm around you. His weight is a reassuring presence, reminding you he was all yours until he was called away again. 

The morning carries a promise of breakfast, and you can only hope you’ll wake up early enough to be the one to cook it. Knowing him, he’d be the first awake, having adapted to the hours of the early morning. You make it your mission to keep him in bed as long as possible, considering the only way he’ll rest is if you force him. He’ll pretend to hate it, but you both know he appreciates your insistence of getting him to take a break whenever he can.

It’s easy to relax with his warmth combining with yours. Your hands wrap around the arm that’s laid across you. You convince yourself that, if you hold on tight enough, you can keep him from leaving your side. You finally fall asleep, the sound of his breath in your ear and his heartbeat under your palm carrying you into hypnotic rest.

[luveline]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐬

Aaron sets the record straight when an overheard conversation convinces you that you’re not good enough for him. 5k

c: fem, hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive theme (non-graphic implied sex scene). hotch is a good husband. requested here  

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

“Honey, this is Clint McMoore. We went to college together.”

You step into Aaron’s side. Clint McMoore is a handsome older man with silvering hair and a beard that looks out of control. His bowtie is loose around his neck, and his cheeks are blotchy with drink, but Clint smiles at you and offers his hand. “How do you do?” he asks. 

“Quite well, thank you.” You’ve been practising fancy dinner talk with Aaron’s friend Emily for weeks. She has all the political background you’d needed to see yourself into the culture. “It’s nice to meet one of Aaron’s school friends.” 

“While you still can,” Clint says with a chuckle. Something about being in your forties is obscene to these men, as though death waits for fifty candles to snuff them out. 

“Clint and I were in the Student Theatre club together, our first year.”

You grin, smile laced with teasing. Each time you’re reminded of Aaron’s young interest in drama, you have to focus very hard on not laughing; the Aaron who has his hand to your shoulder isn’t one you could envision on stage. “Did you perform together?” you ask. 

“Saturday Night Fever,” Clint says. 

They laugh and reminisce. You find these sorts of events hard to keep up with, but you come when Aaron asks because he so rarely asks you for anything. He hasn’t mentioned knowing that you don’t like coming, But perhaps he hasn’t noticed —it’s not like you to frown, not when you’re with Aaron. The way he treats you, he probably thinks you’re the happiest girl in the world. 

There’s a contentedness to be found when he touches you. He spreads a hand against your lower back and you let yourself sink into his side, curled into his embrace and amazed at the giggly laugh he lets out as Clint brings up the ‘King of the River’ tattoo Aaron has hidden beneath his shirt. You’re tempted to kiss his cheek.

Clint asks, “Isn’t that right?” and forces you back into the conversation. 

You’re wearing a dress you panicked over for days. It’s black, cut playfully just above your knees with small petal sleeves. Your necklace is of a delicate chain and a not so delicate pearl —a black Tahitian South Sea pearl that glows pink and green in the light. For you, Aaron wrote, his pretty scrawl inky across a square of scalloped card from atop the box. I’m in love with you. Forgive me for not having the courage to tell you in person. 

Your Aaron is quiet. Some days he comes home from work and doesn’t manage more than a sentence. Some days he can barely speak at all. But there are nights when he holds you to hold you and talks in murmurs against your ear, and he’s good at making calls when he’s away. Talking or not, smiling or otherwise, Aaron finds a way to let you know he loves you, and that’s all you care about. 

“Excuse us,” Aaron says, giving Clint a rare, warm smile, “I’m being flagged by my boss.” 

Sure enough, Erin Strauss is beckoning Aaron with a strange pained look.

“Nice to meet you,” you say quickly to Clint. He repeats your goodbye, and you and Aaron swerve around him. 

“He was nice,” you murmur. 

“Yeah, he’s okay.”

“How come you fell out of touch?” 

“Oh, you know how things go, honey, you forget all the people you meet and make room for new ones.” He kisses your cheek. “And besides, he used to gossip like my mother. Why don’t you go find JJ?” 

“You’ll be alright?” 

“No, maybe not.” He squeezes your elbow quickly. “Go, find some hors d’oeuvres, at least.”

You find neither JJ nor finger foods. The gala you’re attending is being held in a hotel in the richest part of D.C, and the events hall is huge. The ceiling is a fantasy, glass and miles upward, overhead chandeliers dangling lower, dousing the crowds below in a light that’s clean. The rich and powerful gather at the edges of the room, though the performance toward the back of the room is watched by a few tens of couples with flutes of champagne held in gloved hands. 

You hadn’t worn gloves. Hadn’t thought about it until you got here. Honestly, you felt grateful enough that JJ texted you to tell you to buy a shawl; if you weren’t wearing one you’re sure you’d feel bare. 

What you’re lacking in fancy is made up for by your earnestness, or so you’d like to believe. You aren’t rich nor powerful, but Aaron’s a good man and you his good wife. You work hard, which is more than some of the richest in the room can say. You hold your head high without a second thought. 

The hall is confusing. Tables are set but you aren’t sure Aaron said anything about a dinner service. Wait staff carry silver platters and hold bottles of champagne, but each time you approach one they seem to have already headed in another direction. JJ and Derek are both supposed to be here tonight, but you haven’t seen either of them since you arrived. You cast your gaze for Derek’s figure, searching for an easy gait and a strong set of shoulders. You cock your head waiting for a hint of JJ’s practised, polite laughter, but any familiar signs are gone. You can’t even find Aaron anymore, and your shoes are pinching your toes.

Disaster. You should’ve listened to Aaron when he told you to size up, just you doubted his knowledge of ladies shoes considering how rarely he wears them. Stupid man, you think to yourself, lovingly yet ruefully as you sit down at one of the uninhabited tables to the very side of the room. Knows everything. Tonight, you’ll limp back to the car and he won’t bother saying I told you so, he’s too good for it, which is worse. He’ll give you one of his amused smiles. He might offer you a massage. 

Ridiculous man, you further to yourself, biting back a cheesy smile as you peel your shoe from a sore foot. If you shove your hand deep enough into the toe you can stretch them out a little. 

“Darling.” 

You look up. Clint McMoore’s resurfaced just a table away with his back to you. A sweet-faced woman with brown hair sits adjacent to him, her shoulder under Clint’s hand. 

“You’ll never guess who I just bumped into,” he says. 

Me, you think. 

“Aaron Hotchner and his new wife.” 

“You didn’t,” the woman says. 

“I knew you’d be envious of that,” he laughs. “Charlotte, she’s unbelievable.” 

Your stomach does a strange flip. He’ll say something nice, you insist, but you know his tone is a precursor for gossipy nonsense. 

“I’ve never seen such a mismatched pair,” he says. 

Charlotte rolls her eyes at him. “Well, what were you expecting? They were married after six months of knowing one another. I couldn’t so much as tolerate you until our first anniversary.” 

“Hardy-har.” 

“What’s wrong with her, then?” Charlotte asks. 

“Nothing like that, Charlotte. She seemed perfectly pleasant–”

“But?” 

“But, she’s nothing like Aaron’s usual woman.” 

“Hm, I said as much when we saw their wedding photos.“ They both laugh. “It’s not like she had much of a chance. First Haley, and then that Beth, the designer, she’s in Milan now–”

“He seems rather besotted, in any case,” Clint says. “Very lady and the tramp.” 

“Gentleman and the tramp.” 

“Don’t be cruel, Charlotte.” 

You know in a way that Charlotte is kidding, but you boil up with anger the moment you recognise what it is they’re implying. Then they laugh, and your anger quickly finds itself taking a crueller shape. 

You slip your foot back into your shoe slowly. Your throat feels dry and then warm, like a crux of smouldering coal stuck in your windpipe as you stand, jerkily, hand stiff where it holds your weight on a silken tablecloth. 

You blink and stare at the floor. It’s marble. It’s shot through with dark veins like a drop of ichor in water. 

What the fuck? 

You aren’t sure why you’re leaving the hall until you’re walking down the steps of the hotel and turning along the skirts of a hedge. A low brick wall lies in front of it, just short enough to sit on with your heels. Your coccyx stings with the force of how hard you go down. 

Your head races with hurt feelings. 

You’re not unaware of your husband’s past loves. It comes as no surprise to you that people regard Haley and Beth highly —Haley was extremely beautiful and veritably brave, intelligent, kind-hearted. Beth was funny, Aaron said, and not too much else. Being a designer in Milan hasn’t been mentioned before, but it’s impressive. They’re both impressive, and– and his usual woman. 

You rub the starchy stockings stretched over your knees. 

What had they meant by usual woman?

Mismatched? 

It hadn’t felt mismatched when Aaron asked you to marry him. It wasn’t six months after knowing one another as Clint’s wife suggested, but it wasn’t much more than that. He proposed to you after eight months together, and you were married two months later, which is incredibly fast to some people but it just hadn't felt fast when he asked. It was exciting —it still is. 

“Would you marry me, if I asked you to?” he’d said, some seven months after you’d agreed to be his girlfriend. Your head in his lap, his fingers rubbing at the soft skin of your nape. A sleepy Sunday morning like any other, you suppose that was a proposal in itself, but you hadn’t realised that when you murmured, “Yeah, handsome. I would.” 

You thought it was just love. Making innocuous comments about the future is part of falling in love. It’s terrifying to tell someone that you’d like to live life in their lap, but you tell them, and they tell you to go ahead if you’re lucky. 

He asked you to get married a few weeks later. “I had to talk to Jack,” he explained, “or I would’ve asked you then and there.“

You’re a wife suddenly, a step-mother, a partner. Aaron would’ve sold the house and bought you a new one if you wanted him to, but you like his life. You’ve always felt like you fit right in. 

Angry again, you scrub at your knees with itchy palms and practise how you’re going to tell Aaron about his cruel friend. Gossipy was right, what a lark, and you’re not perfectly pleasant, you’re a delight, you hadn’t said one bad word to Clint and you didn’t deserve to be whipped and twisted into a bad joke between sips of Cristal. 

Your eyes burn with the injustice of the thing. 

Rawness overtakes. A thudding in your chest turns painful, neck wrought with tightness as you hang your head. Hiding from the cold air. November brings with it a promise of chapped lips the longer you stay there, biting into your thighs as your hands turn stiff with disuse. 

She was unbelievable. 

“Y/N!” The shout is sharp. You’ve never heard Aaron’s voice at that level or with that level of formidability, carrying from the bottom of the hotel stairs. You twist in shock on the wall and watch in real time as his face fills with relief. “Honey,” he says, calling but not half as scary as he jogs to you, “are you alright?” 

“What?” 

“You scared me,” he insists, bending down to hold your shoulders. “Nobody’s seen you for the last fifteen minutes, sweetheart, we talked about this. You can’t just disappear, you left your purse on the table, I thought something happened to you.” 

You startle at his scolding. “I–”

“You should feel my heart.” 

“I didn’t mean to come out here.” 

“I wish you would’ve let somebody know,” he says. His frown softens slowly, but the concern around his eyes remains. “What?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

His eyes finally soften. “No, I’m sorry. It’s alright, I just worry when you’re not with me.” 

“That’s romantic.” 

He holds your cheek, pulling you in, and gives you two gentle kisses. Your lips part instinctively to receive them. “We’ll get our things and go home. It looks as though dinner isn’t happening.” He smiles. “Why were you out here?” 

“Scavenging for food.” 

That gets a laugh out of him, and another nice kiss. “You tried your best.” 

—

Aaron takes you home, and when dinner’s been cleared away, when you’ve showered and he’s undressed, he pulls you toward the bed and kisses you warmly. His eyes track from your face to the tucked corner of your towel, a silent Can I?

You let him take it off. He lays you out, and for a while you’re only his. His wife, his half, his to tease and turn and delight. He says “Beautiful,” against your thigh, says, “Honey, is that okay?” says, “Please, I’ve got it, I have you, just let me have you…” 

After, he tells you he loves you, his voice still ever so slightly high in contrast to usual dulcet tones. 

“I love you, too,” you say. 

His breath comes fast. Your lap is a mess he’d wiped as clean as he could manage, the memory of him bearing down on you yet to fade. He lies on his stomach beside you with his arm over yours, his face turned into you, his nose on your cheek. 

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. “You feel tense.”

“Mm.” 

“No, did I hurt you? You’re rigid.” His hands fret a line down the side of your chest. “You didn’t…” 

You hadn’t said anything, because he really hadn’t hurt you. But the thoughts you’re having now are intrusive —am I okay? you think. Do I measure up? He’s never made any indication that you’ve let him down, not in sex or anything else, but you’re unbelievable. 

You swallow a lump. “Sorry,” you say, the lingering ebbs of pleasure twisting into tears faster than you can stop it. 

“Are you crying?” he asks under his breath. 

You suck in a breath as he pushes onto his hands. 

“These aren’t good tears,” he says. 

He’d know. They’re not. 

Aaron reaches over you to turn on the lamp on the nightstand before settling, his hand cupping your waist. It’s too much suddenly, too bare, he’s too much to look at as you squeeze your eyes closed. “Sorry,” you squeeze out. 

“What did I do?” he asks, holding you carefully. “Please, sweetheart, what’s hurting? I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s not you.” 

“But something does hurt?” 

“No, no, I’m okay.” You cover your face with your hands. When you start to sob, it shakes the entire mattress, Aaron’s hand wobbling where it cups your ribs. 

“Please.” His thumb works a soft spot into your skin. “Honey, please, you can’t cry now without telling me what’s wrong.” He tries a laugh, but it falls flat. “Honey. Honey.” 

It wasn’t the sex. He never does anything wrong, he’s so gentle even when he isn’t, and if he did you’d only have to tell him, but the rush of being touched by him so nicely, fuck, the way he’d been looking at you, the way he took your face into his hand as he moved —you’re not trying to be a crier, but he makes you feel like you’re everything and you’re just not. 

He looks sick. 

“It wasn’t you, it was at the gala,” you manage. 

For a long while after, you can’t get a word out. You shiver and sob as Aaron scoops you into his chest, his nose in your shoulder waiting for you to calm down. He rubs your waist, fingers parted and waving slowly as he shushes you. Not to make you stop, though. He’s reassuring. 

“What happened at the gala?” he asks quietly. 

“It’s so stupid.” 

“No, it’s alright. Can you tell me what happened? Did someone hurt you?” 

You wrap your arms around his head. It really is stupid, you feel smaller than an ant under the shadow of a giant heel. Aaron doesn’t waver when you struggle to answer, feeling around behind you for a pillow and helping you against it. He kisses your forehead. “Let me get you something to wear.” 

You catch his wrist. “It wasn’t you, wasn’t–” You lift your chin. 

He kisses you. “Okay,” he says simply. “Let’s get dressed.” 

He dresses quickly, bringing you underwear and one of your sleep shirts, a loose fit. You shuffle into them and watch him patiently as he cleans the small mess of the evening away. You’re sniffling softly when he returns to you, sitting with his back to your thighs. 

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry if I read things wrong. I never would’ve initiated anything if I knew you were feeling like this.” 

You laugh weakly, worriedly, looking at him through your lashes. “It made me feel better,” you admit.

“If this is better, you must’ve been feeling awful.” 

You relax as he puts his hand on your thigh. 

“In the time I left you to talk to Strauss, something upset you. JJ and Morgan didn’t see you. So someone in the gala said something or did something that made you leave. If you tell me who it was, I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.” 

“You’re trying to bargain with me,” you mumble. 

“I’m just telling you what can be done. I can take care of things.” 

“It’s nothing… nothing so severe. You’ll wonder why I–” You give an unexpected sob. “Made all this fuss.” 

“I don’t think I’ll wonder,” he says. 

You laugh through tears. These ones are slow, your eyes already itchy from crying. 

“Please tell me.” He tries teasing instead of sternness, lowering his face to yours. “Or I’ll cry too.” 

“Aaron.” 

“I will. You think I can’t, but seeing you crying like this, it’s more than enough ammunition.” 

You let out a breath, admitting defeat. “Your friend, Clint? I overheard him with his wife. He didn’t have very nice things to say about me.” 

“What could he possibly have to say?” Aaron asks with a frown. 

You pull the sheets up your legs. “He said I’m… unbelievable, and I don’t think he meant it kindly. Said that I’m not your type, and that I… I had no chance of measuring up, because of who you’ve been with before. They were laughing about our wedding photos.” Your throat feels pressed into by a hot poker. “They said we were the gentleman and the tramp.” 

His eyes squint. He looks disgusted, and for an uncomfortable moment you feel like it might be directed at you, but then he scoffs. “What a crock of shit.” 

“Aaron!” you laugh. 

“What could Clint McMoore possibly know about marriage? This is his fourth wife. And to imply that you’re any sort of calibre below the women I’ve dated before isn’t just misogynistic nonsense, it’s not true. You are the most beautiful women I’ve ever met, and what’s that supposed to mean, gentlemen and the tramp?” He gives you such an earnest glare of confusion that you can’t for a second doubt what it is he’s saying. “I’m sorry, honey, I think he’s allowed himself a few too many nightcaps over the years. Perhaps he’s suffered a stroke.” 

“Aaron, don’t say that,” you chide, secretly very pleased. 

“Our wedding photos,” he says, his hand drifting further down your leg to rest just shy of somewhere more intimate, “are beautiful. You look beautiful. Clint would’ve writhed in jealousy in the pews if he’d been invited, because he would’ve seen it for himself.” 

“I just sat there while they laughed at me,” you mumble.

“What were you supposed to do?” His hand travels out, to your hip, and then he holds you by the waist with both of his hands. They have a way of making you feel encapsulated, big and strong and careful on the bump of your hips. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Nothing,” he says, meeting your eyes with his usual tender-hearted compassion. “You weren’t supposed to do or say anything.” Aaron appears younger than he is for a second, his eyebrows raised, eyes big and brown as they track over your lips. “Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise he was like that. I’m sorry you had to hear that.” 

“I guess I’m just worried he’s right.” 

“He’s not right. You are everything to me.” Again, he puts weight on the word, roughly said, like it takes a lot from him to say it. “I’m lucky to have been with women who were beautiful, and intelligent, but if there’s a question of you measuring up, there’s no competition. I’ve never been this in love.” 

You take a shaky breath. “Never?” you ask. 

He holds your gaze. “I knew it when we met. That's why I couldn’t wait to ask you to marry me.” 

“You said you weren’t getting any younger.” 

“Well, I’m not, but not everything’s about my age, you know,” he says, giving your waist a playful squeeze. 

”You said it.” 

“I did. That felt easier to say than, if I don’t marry you soon I might implode,” —he shuffles forward, encroaching on your legs and pressing his lips to your cheek— “would’ve just,” —he kisses your cheek, before turning your head— “wasted all that time waiting for someone else’s idea of the right time,” —and he kisses the other cheek, his nose skirting up your face— “wishing I was your husband when I could just,” —he smiles into your eyebrow as his hand slips under your shirt, holding your bare back— “ask.” 

“I’m glad you asked me.” 

You’d cried then, too, but it was less to do with a rush of adrenaline that knocked you out of balance and more to do with how lovingly he’d taken your hand as he asked. You knew from that moment on that someone was going to take care of you for the rest of your life. He’s doing it right now. 

“I love you,” you say, forcing your arms over his shoulders. 

He pulls you in so much that you lift from the mattress. 

“I love you. Are you sure it wasn’t me that upset you? I have to check.” 

“No. What you did to me wasn’t particularly upsetting.” 

He laughs. “Are you sure? You can look a little teary–”

You shush him quickly.

He tips your head to the side to kiss your ear. “Maybe next time, you can tell me about whatever upset you beforehand.” 

“And you can make me feel even better.”

His laugh is nearly inaudible, but his lips are by the side of your head. You hear it, the warmth of his breath kissing the shell of your ear. 

—

Aaron likes to see you in your sweatpants. You look nice in everything, especially your dresses for the evening events he often drags you to, but he likes it when you wear sweatpants because it opens a window. You’ve purchased the wrong size, too big and too long, but you’ve tied them at the waist and you make do. You’re wearing the big shirt he helped you into the night before, sitting on the couch with your ferried breakfast. 

The night before has been washed away, no sign of tears or upset. You have a clean, bright face, one he’d quite like to kiss, or hold, or have pressed to his neck, but none of this is unusual. Your eyes look sore, if he really looks. He’ll make you a compress after breakfast. 

Dropped off by Jess an hour ago, Jack sits beside you picking at the breakfast tray. You’re sharing a plate. You don’t ever mind. 

“Are you eating that one?” you ask. 

Jack immediately nudges half of a chocolate chip pancake your way. “Was the gala fun?” 

“Uh, sure. Saw your dad’s friends. But they had a weird thing with the caterers and we had to get dinner on the way home.”

“You could’ve made dad cook.” 

“I guess, but we were tired. What did you have for dinner?” 

“Jess made spicy chicken. It was amazing.” Jack squints at you. “Your eyes are puffy, Y/N. Are you sick?” 

“I think I might be a little. Not enough to make you sick too, don’t worry.” 

Aaron piles the last of the pancakes onto a plate and carries them to you in the living room. “Here, you two.” 

“Did you eat?” you ask. 

He loves you, bending over to kiss your forehead right in the middle. “Yes.” 

“How come they didn’t have dinner at the gala, dad? I thought that was the whole point,” Jack says. 

He sits down next to Jack on the couch. You cut a big square of pancake and grin at him, seemingly pleased with your breakfast and Jack’s sense of humour. 

“It was a disaster, that’s all. No food, barely any wine, and terrible, awful company.” 

“I thought Miss Jareau went?” 

“She did. But besides her and a handful of others, it was a party for sad old people.” 

“And you didn’t have fun?” Jack asks. 

You laugh so hard tears gather in the corners of your eyes. Aaron cups Jack’s shoulder, surprised when his son doesn’t duck away from the touch. The older he gets the less affection he requires, so it’s nice for Aaron to hug him sideways and be allowed, better that you finish your choking laugh with a hug of your own. “Jack, thank you for that. I think you cured whatever illness I had,” you say.  

“Hey,” Aaron says. 

You run your hand up his neck. Your wedding ring catches against his jaw. 

“It was worth going, though, to see your step-mom in her nice dress,” Aaron says, peeling away from Jack so he has room to breathe. 

Jack turns to you, and his smile is audible, “Do you have any pictures?” 

“I didn’t take any, sorry.” 

“Just think of her now but in a dress, and that’s how beautiful she looked,” Aaron says. 

“Dad, don’t be gross,” Jack says, cutting into the pancakes with his fork.

“It’s not gross, it’s just a fact.” Jack drops pancake down his front. Warm chocolate chips stain his t-shirt. “Missed your mouth, bud. I’ll get a rag.” 

He’s up as quickly as he sat down, running his fingers along your arm and to the palm of your hand, touching you until he can’t. He heads back into the kitchen. His phone is beeping on the table, screen flashing with each new text. 

Penelope: boss, I think the thing you asked for is illegal 

Penelope: also, I assume you were kidding? 

Penelope: so while making it that every link on McMoore’s computer freezes the desktop would’ve been very very funny, I didn’t do that 

Aaron had been kidding, emphatically, because illegal activities aren’t his style. It was a sarcastic suggestion, and yet he’s disappointed nonetheless. 

Penelope: I just signed him up for a bunch of recovering narcissists forums and an email subscription for self help, and maybe also a free online class about manners and etiquette 

Penelope: And I ordered that big canvas for you. It was the one of you guys cutting the cake, right? 

Aaron texts her back quickly: Thank you, Penelope. I couldn’t work out the dimensions online. 

Penelope: You’re welcome! I live to serve :D 

The canvas will look good in the entryway, Aaron believes. Somewhere you can see it, and remember exactly what it is he thinks of you; his eyes glowing with love where he’d been staring at your face, his hand guided yours atop the knife as he traced your features, and you cut that first, fat slice of cake. 

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

thanks so much for reading! please think about commenting, liking or reblogging if you enjoyed I love knowing what you think!❤️

also small note: this fic is in no way meant to diminish haley im a haley supporter usually (these days at least!) and I just didn’t mention her for brevity’s sake

[youbutstupid]

Nothing just Reid being comfortable enough to sleep next to his boss because that’s his father right there, that man is his safehaven

[ml080504]

somebody: what do you like about men twice your age?

me: where do i start?

[solardrop]

beanstalk.

aaron hotchner x fem!bau!reader

summary: a loser at the local pub thinks spencer is your boyfriend. Aaron drags him. tags: fluff. creepy men being creepy. body shaming (of spencer I'm so sorry). spencer just catching strays in general. word count: ~1.7k a/n: based on an ask. I was gonna just write my thoughts or a short 500 word drabble or something but then ended up writing this until the point I forced myself to just end it lmao. I think it gets a bit convoluted and cringe at the end but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ it was fun! not proofread. divider cred @/cafekitsune

The pub was going to the rue the day they made half-off appetizers their weekly special.

The team squeezed in two pushed-together tables and binged on the greasy delights. you and Spencer had gotten into sharp back and forth about the apocalypse on the way there, which earned the both of you a quick banishing to a corner of the table where the rest of the team wouldn’t be subject to your bickering.

You rest your head against the cool concrete pillar you were sandwiched against. A table pressed against a half-wall facing outdoors was a hard sell to a bunch of field agents. However, Penelope’s animated declaration for the team to ‘live a little’ —specifically, to do so before Rossi got any greyer— landed you a wonderful view of the outdoors. You could watch all the homey, drunken people sway to the music flowing from the patio. The crisp night air flushes the overwhelming smell of burnt grease away from your nose. Maybe you could convince Hotch to grab a window seat for some date nights, you have to admit, the vibes were growing on you. While you enjoy poking the brain of your younger genius friend, you miss the solid warmth of Aaron beside you. Thankfully, he opted to sit in front of you instead. 

You took the opportunity to tease him. You kick him playfully under the table, stealing his attention away from the conversation he is having with Derek. He turns to squint at you for a moment, only to grab your food to sandwich it between the wall and his thigh in retaliation. His fingers drum a steady rhythm against your ankle, the ticklish tap tap tap making you squirm. You motion to ensnare his ankle with your other leg when Spencer turns to point his flimsy white plastic fork at you. 

“If emergency services were still in full effect during the zombie apocalypse, there would be a drastic increase in the number of people infected and a significant loss in—”

“A significant loss in medical supplies. Spoken like a true prepper Reid. What's next, gonna tell me about the importance of learning how to pickle your own food for rationing?”

“Actually, during the Great Depression housewives pickles things that lasted their families almost—”

His impending rant is cut short by the return of your server. Anticipating the bill, Rossi reached for his wallet before the woman shakes her head at him. Instead, sliding a drink and a folded up napkin on the table and nodding her head at you. 

“For the lovely young miss by the window.” She flashes a smile at you, “One of our lovely patons seems to fancy you.”

All eyes snap to you, all the color draining from your face as you stare down at the offending item. The drink was almost glowing at you, bright pink glitter swirling in the liquid with pink gummy hearts floating at the top and crystal sugar bedazzling the rim. There was no way this was actually something for the human body to consume. Even Penelope’s brows raised in shock at its extreme display. 

You glance at Hotch, his leg picking up a steady bounce next to yours after the waitresses revelation. His face is hardened, jaw rocking back and forth as he glares at the folded paper next to the drink. You clear your throat and face the woman again.

“Can you tell me who sent this?”

She juts her sharp chin over your head towards one of the outdoor tables. Hotch’s neck cranes around before your own, and you lock eyes with an older man sitting a few tables down. His face was unpleasantly square, the outdated sandy mullet crowning his head doing him no favors either. He raises his beer bottle towards you with a wink. You shiver, scooting closer to Spencer when the admirer hauls himself out of his stool to stride towards you. Aaron has turned almost fully towards outside now, his brow raised.

“Ohh this is gonna be good,” JJ whispers from the other side of Reid. The comment earns her a sharp glare from Hotch, a blush burning in her cheeks as she goes back to nursing her cheeto-crusted mozzarella sticks.

“I just don’t understand,” Spencer starts, “There are seven other people at this table including men at this table why would he be bold enough to-”

A sharp knock sounder off the ledge of the short wall. 

“Well, hello darlin’. I don’t mean to interrupt the dinner with your friends here, Hello friends, m’  names Miles!” He flashed his eyes around the table with a toothy, mustached smile. 

“But i couldn’t help but see your pretty little face in this window ‘ere and I had to buy ya’ a drink!” 

“Ah… Thank you but um-”

“Don’t even sweat it beautiful!” Small specs of saliva fly from his mouth, causing even Spencer to jump back pulling on the hem of your shirt. As if to use you as a human shield from the germs the man was spewing in his general direction. Hooray. Your hero. 

“I even wrote my number on that there lil’ napkin for ya’. My momma raised a gentleman, so I gotta buy you more than a lil liquor before I take you down.” His beady eyes shoot down to your cleavage before snapping back to your face, licking his lip. 

The fingers on your ankles pause at this. Aaron stares down the side of the mans face, lips pressd into a fine line spread across his face. You decide to jump in before your boyfriend takes it upon himself to tear the mystery man a new one.

“Listen, I appreciate the sentiment but, I’m here to have dinner with my friends and my boyfriend so… I could pay you back for the drink? No harm done-”

“Boyfriend!?” He steps back, eyes scanning the table once more before landing on Spencer and snorting. 

“This lil’ stringbean? You can’t possibly be serious” He smiles at Spencer before he continues “Jack and the beanstalk here could barely muscle steel so ya’ll stuck him with plastic,” He waves a crooked finger aimlessly around the table, “And you expect me to believe he’s wrangling a fine figure like yourself down every night?”

That seems to hit a sore spot for Reid, who finally peeps his head from around you. He takes the moment to ramble about the millions of germs and pathogens that could be found on community utensils even after a full wash cycle. Much to the dismay of the creep and team alike, so much so that Derek had to nudge him with his foot. With the conclusion of Spencer’s monologue the man continues

“Anyways, darlin’ for one night let me take you for a spin. Lil' boy like that won't do ya' any good. I promise you only a bigger, older man knows how to really take care of someone crafted as fine as you.” His eyes lower to your chest again and stay there. 

“I assure you she already knows that,” Aaron spits. 

Your eyes snap to his face. He seemd deceptively calm now, his expression almost bored. 

“Pardon?” Miles asks, half-heartedly turning his body towards him. 

“I’ll put it like this for you Miles. Stringbean over here isn’t her boyfriend,” Spencer begins to squeak out in opposition to his new pet name, but Hotch’s voice bellows out above his own, “I know you’re pathetic, that was apparent from the moment you walked up here puffing your chest after buying the cheapest drink on the menu as a gift. But I’m almost surprised you made your impotence so obvious too, considering you made eye contact with everyone you view as non threatening, the women, the man in his late years, the kid.”

Aaron lazily cocks his head towards Morgan, “But not me and my friend here in the corner. But I’m sure you thought you got away with that. Now, I’d suggest you move. The cologne you sprayed to mask the smell of Motel 8 is starting to wear off.”

Your ears warm at his words. Every sharp word honeyed by his calm, almost sweet tone. He spoke as if he was reading the well thought out profile of an elusive crimminal instead of just some ass in a sit down. God you wanted to kiss him. He’d have to let team politics go just this once right? Just a thank you peck. 

Before you can move to move ask him for one, Miles sputters out, “Talkin’ to me like I’m some dumbass— Who the hell d’ya think you are man!?”

Each syllable causes a spray of spit to launch out his mouth, forcing you to scoot even closer to spencer to evade the line of fire. His face shines with sweat and grease, red rising from his shirt collar as he barks at Hotch’s words. 

“I’m her man. Her bigger, older man. But I’m sure you already knew that, since you still refuse to look at me.” Aaron reaches down into his pockets, flipping out his credentials with deft fingers, “And I’m also an agent. As is everyone at the table including the woman you’ve spent the past several minutes sexually harassing.” He scowls, “Now, go sit down and shut the hell up.”

Miles' eyes finally rip away from you to meet his now. The angered flush erupts across his whole body now. He opens his mouth several times before closing it again, iced out by the cold stare Hotch gives him. He turns on his heel and marches back to his table without a fight. He sniffs his collar before jumping back in clear disgust.

A beat passes and the whole table erupts into laughter at the absurd happenings. Aaron’s face softens, still frowning in the general direction of the slimy man. Jolting when Derek claps him on the back and shakes him in praise. 

“Alright Hotch! Racing to defend your girl, I didn’t know you had it like that!”

“Well, I’m not surprised,” You stretch across the table to grasp his hand, kissing his knuckles before he could protest. He envelopes your hand in both of his and gives you a warm smile,  “my man is my hero in and out of the field.” He breathes out a laugh, knocking his knee against yours for your teasing. 

“Next time, you and String Bean get into it, we’re doing a different seating arrangement.”

[mariasont]

My Boss Won't Be Happy About This - A.H

a/n: back to bimbo brain rot!!!! inspired by the first season that one episode (you know the one) where hotch is all macho man with elle in jamaica

masterlist

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pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

summary: you’re wrongfully arrested and hotch is not happy about it

warnings: creepy officer, inaccuracies of how law enforcement works, hotch being sexy

wc: 1.3k

"Listen I'm not the type of girl to tell someone how to do their job, but I just don't think you're doing it right."

You were speaking to an empty room, or at least, you were speaking to the mirror in front of you. It's the kind of mirror you had seen in countless interrogation scenes, the kind you usually image Hotch standing behind. You let your gaze linger, wondering if eyes are studying you from the other side, listening to your monologue.

"Well, that, and I also just don't think it's very nice." Your brand spanking new heels were tapping against the dirty floor. 

You weren't happy about that. You weren't happy about any of this. Your feet ache, but the fear of the germs lurking on the floor paralyzes any thoughts of relief by removing your shoes.

"And hey, shouldn't I get a phone call? That's a rule, I think," you mumble, lips turning downward in an unusual frown. It seems like the right time for it. "My boss is not going to take this well. I mean, he's got this look, you know? The kind that makes you want to apologize for things you didn't even do."

You conjured up his daunting expression and released a jittery laugh, all while striving to disregard the biting cold blasting from the AC vent, which seemed determine to freeze you into place. 

You were seriously out of your element, not just in surroundings but in dress--so form-fitting it left very little to the imagination. It seemed to be a good idea for a date. That was before you realized said date would be a complete disaster. Now, it felt like a trap. It had been a spectacle for a man unworthy of the effort, and as you sat in this rigid chair, you found yourself tugging at the hem every other moment, a futile attempt to preserve some semblance of modesty.

"So, when he hears about this little error... Well, let's just say I wouldn't want to be in your shoes." Six hours had passed in this dreary space, and you could feel your sanity fraying at the edges. You muttered, half to yourself, "Not that they're as cute as mine, but you get the point."

The door hinge's creak made you sit bolt upright, a silent supplication for Hotch's rescue echoing through your mind. But today, it seemed, the gods were indifferent. The officer who had arrested you stepped in.

"Having fun talking to yourself?"

You flashed your sweetest smile. "Oh, tons! But I'd have much more fun if you'd uncuff me."

He said nothing, folding his arms over his chest as he dragged his gaze up and down your body in a way that made your skin prickle in discomfort. You attempted to dispel the creeping dread, but it stubbornly lingered.

You did what you could to cover up, despite the awkward angle of your arms. "Listen, this is all just a big mistake. I work for the FBI," you insisted, though it was clear the officer's attention was fixated on your tits rather than your words. "Well, I mean, I'm an assistant for the unit chief of the BAU unit. You've heard of Aaron Hotchner, haven't you?"

The officer's mouth closed without a word, as the door was thrust open yet again, and this time, your heart leapt in recognition. Your knight in shining armor with a lethal expression.

His eyes instantly zeroed in on the officer with a look that could curdle blood, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of relief that you weren't the object of his anger. He approached you wordlessly, his every motion precise and determined.

He carefully shed his jacket, a gesture he seldom made, and draped it across your shoulders. The fleeting caress of his hand against your skin was enough to make you lean into his touch. You let out a breath that you had been unconsciously holding back. 

You watched as Hotch turned, his voice a low, steady force, his words carefully chosen and tinged with an unsettling peace. "Officer," he began, the title spoken almost as warning. "I believe there has been a grave misunderstanding. This woman is not only an esteemed member of the FBI, but she is also under my direct supervision."

He stepped closer, encroaching on the officer's personal space. You watched, almost in slow motion, as the officer's expression morphed into one of sheer terror, his earlier confidence dissolving like sugar in hot tea.

"Six hours," he continued, his voice never rising yet somehow it took up all the space in the confined room. "Six hours of unwarranted detention, without due process. I expect her immediate release. And make no mistake, this lapse in judgment will have its ramifications."

The officer was mute, his fingers clumsily unlocking the handcuffs, his movements hurried, his hands trembling. A twinge of pity flickered within you, but it was quickly overshadowed by the memory of considering the table as a makeshift blanket.

The moment the metal clicked open; you wasted no time. You flung your arms around Hotch, the pent relief and biting chill of the past few hours pouring out of you. You were desperate for warmth, specifically his warmth.

He stiffened, caught off guard by your actions. You feel the anger radiating through him, practically pulsing through his skin. As you clung to him, you felt the draft on your legs as your dress slid up, and without missing a beat Hotch's hand discreetly adjusted the fabric, all while keeping his eyes locked on the officer, a silent warning in his gaze.

Once he was certain you were decently covered, he allowed himself to draw him into his arms. One arm secured around your waist, the other weaving through your hair. You were cold. It renewed another tide of rage through his bloodstream.

With the officer's departure, the room's oppressive atmosphere lightened a touch, leaving you still latched onto your boss.

"Oh, sir, you wouldn't believe it," you started, his hands tracing up your spine and sparking a trail of goosebumps that had nothing to do with the chill. "They kept asking me about a heist, as if I'd know anything about that! And then they show me this picture, and I mean, sure, she had my hair, but that's about it."

You rambled on, and he let you, the absurdity of the situation pouring out in a stream of consciousness. Hotch's hold on you tightened. You could sense the coiled tension in him, a tempest of anger held a bay.

"And the room, it was so cold! I mean, I'm sure you can tell. My teeth were chattering, and all I could think of was how I'd rather be filing your paperwork or listening to Reid's factoids about the quantum mechanics of coffee beans."

You felt Hotch's breath on your hair as he let out a sigh. 

"I'm just glad you're here now," you whispered, finally allowing yourself to relax in his embrace.

Hotch gave a curt nod, his jaw set. He was itching to confront the officer, to unleash a tirade not meant for your ears. But he was well aware of how much you needed him right now, and that trumped everything in his book.

Hotch took a moment to compose himself before speaking. "This isn't just incompetence; it's negligence. I will have this place reevaluated for its standards, or lack thereof."

You took a step back, hands still resting on his arms, and he maintained his grip on your waist. "I bet this is the last time you'll let me go on a date without a full background check on the guy, huh, sir?"

Hotch's hold on your waist firmed just a fraction. "Maybe it's the last time I let you go on a date, period."

He was only half-joking.

"Not even with you?" You tilted your head to meet his gaze, drawing his jacket closer around you.

Hotch just simply gives you that look, the one that says a thousand words without a sound. He's telling you to tread lightly.

"Alright, I'll be good," you giggle, the tension easing from your shoulders. "Can you take me home now, please?"

He nods, "Yeah, let's get you home."

And then he leads you out, thinking to himself that the next person to take you out will be him, but that's for him to know and you to find out later.

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna

[kiwriteswords]

Aaron Hotchner + The Vest 1/?

[hotchnersangel]

GIRL, SO CONFUSING!

Aaron Hotchner

a/n: i’ve been watching an awful lot of love island so this is very angry girl staying composed confrontation core.

warnings: jealousy, oc! vs you, bombshell!reader, angry girl core, (not an accurate representation of beth in the show),

————————

Aaron Hotchner was a proud man, not in a bad way, quite literally the opposite. He had built up his reputation, he had loved and lost but that had never been his priority. He somehow felt content in his life with different kinds of love, like the one he felt for the bau team, or... well, you. It was different to the team, it made him comfortable. He knew you, and you knew him. Everyone knew you as a pair, if you were seperate, well that would be awkward. Though, your platonic love hadn't been a relationship, not nearly. Maybe the lines between platonic and romantic were hazy sometimes but that did not mean that you were together, You were both adamant that you were not, always shutting people down when they suggested the idea of it.

Recently, Aaron had started seeing a new woman, her name was Beth. She was sweet at first and she stayed that way to the team, though it didn't feel that way with you. Overtime, she seemed to reject yours and Aaron's relationship, which you didn't like because he could be friends with who he likes. You would understand if you and Aaron had a history, but you didn't. Simple, you were friends, best friends and Beth tried to accept it, but she didn't. Instead, you resulted in pretending to get along with one another, though you all know that it's so far from the truth.

The bau were round Rossi's house, having a 'family' dinner and coincidentally you were sat opposite Beth, forced to stare at her the whole evening. Deep joy.

"So, Beth... you got your hair done?" You try start a friendly conversation with her. In return you get a short smile and a nod.

"Yeah, I did." She replies and you awkwardly smile at her, not knowing what to reply.

"You guys are twinning now..." JJ tries to break the ice but it had the opposite effect, Beth just straightened her posture and tried to pass the comment off. The silence on our side of the table was thick, the raw unspoken awkwardness of a lack of common ground.

"You guys do say we are alike..." you say nonchalantly, trying to diffuse some tension with some humour.

Beth laughs and shakes her head. "I don't see it."

You give JJ a look sharing unspoken pleas for a new convo topic, you hide your smile behind your wine glass as you take a sip.

"So," JJ looks at you with a smile, "How is that boyfriend of yours doing?" This catches Hotch's attention now as he joins in the conversation.

You laugh, "I mean... it is a bit of fun really but I don't think it's anything serious." you shrug, telling them the truth.

"I never did like him really," Aaron shrugs, smiling at you and you laugh shaking you head. "Believe me, I know you didn't."

"I think you should see how it goes," Beth says and shrugs and everyone looks confused at one another, considering all she knew about him was that he was a bit of 'fun'.

You laugh awkwardly, looking at Aaron who furrowed his brows slightly but brushed it off.

After dinner, everyone joins on the backdoor porch, sitting on the luxurious garden furniture. You were sat with Emily and JJ, observing the way Beth was practically all over Hotch.

"I really don't understand your relationship with her." Emily says bewildered.

"I genuinely can't tell if she wants to see me falling over and failing and honestly, I sort of feel the same to her." You say looking at them both now. "I'm trying to be nice but I think i really dislike her... like come on, the new hair?"

"It's a bit of a coincidence considering the fact that her man fancies the shit out of you and suddenly dresses, acts and now looks like you," Emily shrugs casually and JJ hits her playfully but has a serious tone when scolding her.

"What do you mean?" You ask furrowing your brows and laughing, "Aaron doesn't like me in that way babe."

"For profilers, you are both in extreme loss of social awareness," Spencer walks past as says, taking a seat next to Emily. "Around 85-90% of people can be considered to lack a significant social awareness because they don't fully understand their own self-awareness, for example-"

"What Pretty boy is trying to say pretty lady, is that you and Hotch are in love but you don't see it yet." Moran waltzes in and states, bringing along a gushing Garcia and Rossi.

"Aaron's happy. I want him to be happy and I truly think he is with Beth." You state, diverting the conversation. Beth and Aaron walk over after that comment and you smile at them.

"Beth, I'm having a party for new years round mine... you should come." you offer kindly, wanting some peace considering she is dating your best friend.

"I don't really do parties." She retorts.

"Come on, it will be good to put your hands up a bit, have a little dance." You offer with a smile and she smiles awkwardly in return.

"I think i'll leave that to you babe." She smiles passively agressive at you. "I'm in a happy relationship."

You furrow your brows, "What's that got to do with anything?"

Everyone is watching the two of you bounce against one another now, flicking their heads like they're watching a tennis match. You're even sure you saw Rossi pass Emily a handful of popcorn.

"It means, I dont go whoring around babe." She smiles patronisingly and everyone looks shocked.

"Beth-" Aaron tries to step in.

"No- Aaron, I can handle this, thank you though." You say kindly to him, looking back to Beth. "No wonder you're so tight Beth, because I'm having a party? How am I a whore?"

"That's the type of party I see you throwing," she shrugs.

"That's an orgy babe," you retort, "Clearly you're opinions are too fixed to comprehend that not everyone's actions are centred around male validation."

She scoffs, "You're a fine one to talk like that. Clearly it's something you crave if it's all you look for in my boyfriend, hear that, mine. It's why you can't get in your own loving relationship babe."

You actually laugh in her face, the others trying to bump in but you stop them. "Girl, you're so confusing sometimes. I genuinely can't tell what I have done to give you the impression that I would 'steal' your boyfriend, whether I liked him or not, you should one have trust in him to not do that to you- which Aaron by the way, clearly would never do, and two, I am not the type of girl to go after another girl full stop. Whether it is her or her man, you don't do that as a woman, babe."

"Oh and you're so perfect aren't you?" she shoots back.

"Perfect enough to tell you that you don't have to change your appearance to look like me because you believe that your boyfriend is in love with me." You state quieter, knowing everyone had concluded that, but wanting to keep her confrontation private.

"You're a self centered bitch, you know that?"

"You know, we are totally different after all. You need to berate other women to feel good about yourself and I do not. Please, do yourself a favour and work on those thoughts. Be kinder to yourself and you will feel less worried about these things." You state directly.

"Aaron, we're leaving." she gets up angrily, walking to the door.

"No, Beth. You're leaving." He says crossing his arms and moving besides you, placing his hand on your shoulder in support. "I think you made a decision for me."

————————

[starchaser45]

Emily only allowing herself to cry when she's in Spencer's arms cause she's sure he's safe is my Roman Empire

[hotch-girl]

HOW AM I A WHORE?

- AARON HOTCHNER, 2009