#hotch x reader

[alinathinkstoomuch]

Filthy Flat-Pack Thoughts

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: you had taken the day off to get yourself settled into your new apartment, not expecting hotch to show up at your door and offer a hand. warnings: suggestive, reader basically shoves her tits in hotch's face (you go girl!), hotch also catches reader in a towel, hotch being a gentleman (though not too gentlemanly because there's a filthy part two coming), like one cuss word, alcohol consumption. word count: 3.5k part 2 can be found here

You were pretty sure you’d maxed out every cuss word under the sun. If you spoke another language, you’d have burned through those swear words too. Guns? No problem. Paperwork? Manageable. Serial killers? Routine. But flat–pack furniture? That was where you met your match.

You had taken Friday off, thanks to your wonderful boss, who’d graciously allowed you the day. It had been a slow week, so you weren’t missing much – except your sanity. Because this damn bookshelf was out to get you.

The screw had slipped off the drill, skidded across the floor, and promptly disappeared into the abyss under your couch. Instead of hunting for it, you sighed, took another sip of your generously poured wine, and made a mental note to buy your new neighbours a bottle as an apology for all the yelling.

Just as you contemplated abandoning the bookshelf entirely and living amongst the scattered wooden panels like some modern art installation, there was a sharp knock at the door. You frowned, glancing at the time. You weren’t expecting anyone. In fact, barely anyone even had your new address.

Pulling open the door, you blinked up at Aaron Hotchner. Dressed in his usual suit, case file in hand, looking every bit the no–nonsense boss he was. Except instead of standing in the BAU bullpen, he was at your doorstep.

“Hotch? How did you –”

“Garcia,” he answered before you could finish.

Of course.

Your gaze dropped to the file in his hand, and you raised a brow. “This your version of a housewarming gift?”

“Consider it a reminder that work doesn’t stop just because you took the day off.” His voice was dry, but there was something in his expression – something amused – as his eyes trailed behind you.

He took in the mess of furniture, the scattered tools, the half–built bookshelf that somehow looked less assembled than when it arrived.

His lips twitched. “Do you need a hand?”

You needed his two hands somewhere where they weren’t supposed to be.

You cleared your throat, leaning against the doorframe like you weren’t having wildly inappropriate thoughts about your boss in the middle of your living room. It had to be the wine. Definitely the wine.

“I don’t know, Hotch. You any good with a drill?”

“I’m good with my hands.”

Your brain promptly short–circuited.

The squeak that slipped out of your mouth was completely involuntary and you just about covered it with a cough. Nope. No more wine. Never again.

He let the words hang there for half a second longer than necessary before stepping inside like he hadn’t just knocked the air from your lungs.

You shut the door behind him, barely registering the click as his gaze swept over the apartment, but you were too busy noticing something else entirely.

Like the fact that you were in nothing but leggings and a camisole. No bra. And the sudden draft from the door being open had done absolutely nothing to help your situation. Which was completely at odds with the heat now swimming under your skin as you watched Hotch – your boss – shrug off his jacket and roll up his sleeves with ease.

You stared. Really stared.

At his arms. At the way his fingers flexed as he pushed his sleeves up, forearms tensing, veins standing out in a way that was doing something entirely inappropriate to your already scattered thoughts.

You swallowed.

This was fine.

Totally fine.

Expect that was a lie. Because watching Aaron Hotchner, sleeves rolled up, tie slightly loosened, looking every bit the effortlessly competent man he was, was decidedly not fine.

“I assume this is supposed to resemble a bookshelf,” he mused, flipping through the instruction manual like it was a case file.

“That was the goal, yeah,” you muttered, trying not to hyper–fixate on the way he picked up a screwdriver.

“You were using the wrong screws,” he said matter–of–factly, turning the page and pointing to a very clear, very obvious diagram.

You crossed your arms. “No, I wasn’t.”

His expression didn’t change as he simply rotated the manual toward you.

You squinted.

Oh.

“Alright, maybe I was.”

He hummed in response, neither confirming nor denying your admission of defeat and got to work.

You sank onto the floor beside him, grabbing a stray screw in a desperate attempt to act normal. “So,” you began, determined to break whatever spell was settling between you, “is this why you really came by? To drop off paperwork and get roped into manual labour?”

He didn’t look up, but you caught the way his mouth quirked. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”

“No.”

His fingers paused before he resumed turning the screwdriver. “Garcia worries,” he admitted.

You scoffed. “Garcia meddles.”

“She was concerned about you being here alone.”

“I am an FBI agent, you know. I can handle a bookshelf.”

His line of sight flicked up to you then, slow and considering. “Can you?”

You narrowed your eyes. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”

“I’m not implying anything,” he said smoothly. “I’m stating that you were using the wrong screws, the wrong drill bit, and judging by the manual placement, attempting to put one of these pieces in backwards.”

Your mouth fell open. “Okay, first of all—”

“You also swore at it,” he added, like that was solid proof of your failure.

You exhaled sharply. “You heard that?”

“I heard a lot of things.”

The way he said it sent heat creeping up the back of your neck. “Well, if you’re such an expert, feel free to take over whilst I fix myself something to drink.”

Before he could respond, you pushed yourself up and made your way to the kitchen, grabbing the already open bottle of wine and topping off your glass. Then on impulse, you poured another, just enough to finish the bottle.

You weren’t sure what possessed you to do it, but when you returned back, two glasses in hand, it felt like some sort of silent invitation you weren’t ready to acknowledge. But it was completely harmless, right?

Just a casual gesture. A simple offering to someone who had gone out of his way when he didn’t have to. You were just being a good hostess, thanking Hotch for the extra mile, when realistically, this was probably the last place he wanted to be on a Friday night.

Re–entering the living room, you set your own glass down near your spot before extending the other to him. Hotch lifted his eyes, gaze moving from the glass to your face as he raised a brow.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Its either we share, or I’d have to admit to finishing an entire bottle of wine by myself.”

“That’s very responsible.” He took the glass, his fingers brushing yours, the contact sending something sharp skittering down your spine.

“Guess Garcia was right to send you over.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he lifted the glass to his lips, taking a slow sip, his eyes still locked onto yours over the rim.

Your stomach flipped. No – literally flipped. It felt like an entire theme park had set up shop inside you, rollercoasters and all. You swallowed, quickly lowering yourself back onto the floor, hoping that if you focused on something else – anything else – you could push past the fuzziness you felt.

“How can I help?” you asked, forcing a casual tone as Hotch set his glass aside.

He grabbed two of the wooden panels, fingers moving with that same precise efficiency that had definitely been an unfair distraction this evening. “Hold these in place while I put the screws in.”

You nodded, shifting on your knees to get a better angle.

“Here,” he murmured, adjusting one of the panels. “You need to hold this one higher.”

You complied, stretching a little too far in the process.

And that’s when it happened.

The movement tilted your chest forward – right into his space.

You froze.

And so did he.

The shift left you practically pressing against him, your camisole offering absolutely no barrier between the fact that his face was now far too close to your very braless predicament.

You caught the exact moment he realised it.

His grip on the screwdriver faltered for half a second. His breath hitched, just barely. And then – pointedly – he moved his eyes away, jaw tightening as if sheer willpower alone could erase what had just happened.

You should have moved. Should have said something. But you didn’t. Instead, some wild, definitely tipsy, possibly reckless, part of you decided to test just how composed the great Aaron Hotchner really was.

You shifted – just slightly. “Like this?”

His knuckles were going white. “Exactly like that.”

Your stomach flipped again, your mind taking that encouragement and running it into filthy places. Your pulse pounded in your ears as you watched him. His focus was locked on the bookshelf, or at least, that’s where it was supposed to be. But the stiff set of his shoulders, the sharp exhale through his nose, the way his grip tightened just a little too much around the screwdriver – none of it was subtle.

You really should move.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he made the deliberate choice not to look at you. Your lips parted, the tease on the tip of your tongue ready to push him just a little further, but before you could say a word, he spoke first.

“Hold still,” he muttered, adjusting the panel again.

But it wasn’t just his hands that moved this time. His knuckles brushed your ribs. The touch was light – so light it could’ve been nothing. But it didn’t feel like nothing. A sharp inhale slipped past your lips, barely audible, but enough.  

His reaction was instant, his head tilted up, instinctive and automatic. Expect his gaze didn’t land where it should.

It landed lower.

Again.

Right where the thin fabric of your camisole left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

“Sorry,” you whispered as he quickly looked back down at his hands.

“You’re fine. Almost done.”

You should have been relieved, but you weren’t. Because now, it wasn’t just the wine that was intoxicating – it was him. The scent of his cologne, the warmth of his skin, the sheer presence of him so close. It wrapped around you, all too much and not enough at the same time, making it impossible to think about anything else.

And suddenly, the thought of him being done with this – stepping back, putting distance between you – wasn’t something you wanted at all.

So you loosened your grip.

It was cruel, really. A calculated move disguised as clumsiness, using the precariously placed bookshelf as an excuse to move closer.

The panel slipped and everything happened fast – too fast.  

You gasped as it wobbled out of place, throwing off your balance. Hotch’s hands shot out at the same time yours did, but the angle, the movement, all of it caused you to lose your balance. Your knees slipped beneath you as you stumbled forward, half into his lap.

His hands caught you instinctively, one gripping your waist, the other splayed against your back. The air left your lungs in a rush—not just from the fall, but from the feel of him beneath you.

Your palms pressed against his chest, feeling the rise and fall underneath your fingers. His grip tightened just a fraction, just enough. Not pulling you closer but not pushing you away either.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The world had gone utterly still. Your hands stayed planted on his chest, his warmth seeping through the fabric, while his fingers hovered at your waist – undecided, restrained and yet so very present.

“I know what you’re doing.”

Oh no.

Heat curled in your veins, your pulse hammering so loudly it drowned out everything else. “What exactly am I doing, Hotch?”

His breath was steady. Yours was not.

And then – so slow it was torturous – his thumb brushed against your side. This time, it wasn’t accidental. It was deliberate. He traced a barely-there path against your hip at the same moment your fingers curled against his chest, the fabric of his shirt bunching up.

He knew this was wrong. Knew he should move away, put space between you, remind himself that this was a line that could not – should not – be crossed.

But he didn’t move because you weren’t moving. Because your fingers curled tighter on his shirt and he could feel your breath ghosting against his skin, because your body – so impossibly close – wasn’t retreating.  

And he wasn’t sure he wanted it to.

This had started out as nothing more than a simple visit. He’d barely hesitated when you asked for the day off. It had been a quiet week and you’d had enough on your plate between cases and moving. You’d earned the time.

But when Garcia had mentioned, a little too innocently, that you’d been tackling everything alone, something shifted in him. Maybe it was the excuse he needed. Or maybe it was the way he imagined you here on your own, frustrated, stressed and something in his chest tightened too much at the thought of you struggling.

He’d told himself he was just stopping by. Just bringing the files. Just checking in.

He hadn’t expected to find you you like this.

Cheeks flushed from the wine, eyes dark and full of something unreadable, dressed in a way that left his mouth dry.

And now you were in his lap.

Your skin was warm beneath his hands, your breaths shallow, lips parted ever so slightly.

“What is it that I’m doing, Hotch?” Your voice was barely a whisper now, lashes fluttering, the barest tilt of your head closing even more of the distance between you.

He wasn’t sure if you could feel the tension humming beneath his skin. And his restraint – the control he prided himself on, the discipline he’d spent years perfecting – became a fragile, splintering thing.

If you leaned in a fraction more, there would be nothing left to stop this. He wasn’t sure if that terrified him or if it was the most tempting thought he’d ever had.

It took everything in him to fight against the impulse, to loosen his grip, to exhale sharply and force distance where there was none.

“You’ve had a long day.” His voice was rougher than he wanted it to be.

You blinked, momentarily thrown. “What?”

His hands released you.

“And you’ve had too much to drink.”

Your eyes searched his, the teasing, playful edge now gone. Replaced with something else. Frustration? Disappointment? Hurt?

That nearly destroyed him.

But he had to do this because he knew you.

He knew you’d had a long week. Knew stress pushed you toward reckless choices. Knew the wine had stripped away just enough inhibition to let you push – to let you test him, to see what he would allow.

And God help him, he wanted to give in. But not like this. Not when he wasn’t sure if you’d wake up tomorrow and regret it.

“I will finish up here. You can go and get some rest.”

He heard you exhale, saw the tension in your shoulders shift like you wanted to argue. But then you reluctantly pulled back, dragging a hand down your face as if what you had just tried to do finally settled.

“I am so sorry I don’t know what I was thi–”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s alright.”

“No it’s not alright, I–”

He said your name, stopping you before you could spiral any further. Because the last thing he wanted was for you to feel embarrassed about something you both wanted, but just couldn’t have.

“I should shower,” you muttered, not even sure if you were speaking to him or yourself.

He nodded, already shifting his attention back to the damn bookshelf, pretending to focus on something else.

Something that wasn’t you.

You hesitated in the doorway, watching as he picked up the two panels. “You really don’t have to stay. It’s late and I can finish up tomorrow.”

“I don’t mind.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, dragging your feet toward the bathroom, your body still burning not just from the heat of the moment but from the sheer embarrassment curling in your stomach like a slow, humiliating ache.

What the hell had you been thinking?

You turned the shower on, letting the sound of running water drown out the chaos of your thoughts in your head.

You knew Hotch wasn’t the kind of man to cross that line, not like that. Not with you. And yet, you had still pushed him, only to end up rejected. The memory of it made you cringe, heat rising to your cheeks again.

You stepped under the hot spray, steam curling around you, and wished you could disappear into it – dissolve into nothing and escape the hole you had just dug yourself into. You contemplated what other career paths you could take because there was no way you were walking back into the BAU on Monday morning.

It wasn’t just the rejection that stung, it was the fact that he had been right. You had been drinking. You had been stressed, exhausted and overwhelmed.

But none of those things had made you do what you did. You couldn't blame them for the way you had leaned in, for the way you had tested him, for the way you wanted him.

Because the truth was, those feelings had been festering for months.

For him.

Your boss.

And now, you had just made everything so much worse.

By the time you finally shut the shower off – and racked up a hefty water bill in the process – your body felt clean, but your thoughts were still a mess. You wrapped yourself in a towel, sighing as you reached for the door handle.

And then—

A soft click.

The sound of the front door shutting.

Your stomach twisted. Of course he had left. You swallowed hard, pushing away the sudden tightness in your chest. You gripped the edge of your towel a little tighter as you cracked the bathroom door open, stepping out into the hallway.

The apartment was quiet as you padded toward the living room, heart sinking at the sight before you. The bookshelf was finished, not a single screw out of place. And the coffee table, that was finished too, every piece perfectly assembled.

But the room was empty.

Dragging a hand through your damp hair, you turned in a slow circle, scanning for any other sign of him. But there was nothing.

It wasn’t like you expected him to stay. You had all but thrown yourself at him tonight and he had done the right thing – the gentlemanly thing – by stopping it. And yet, standing there, wrapped in nothing but your towel, your home felt emptier than it had before.

You exhaled sharply, turning back toward the bathroom, ready to put on some clothes and pretend this night never happened. But the sound of the front door swinging open caused you to spin on your heel just in time to see Hotch stepping back inside.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

First, it was him catching you without a bra, and now he had walked in on you fresh out of the shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel that barely covered anything.

The moment his gaze landed on you, his entire body went rigid. His eyes flickered downward – just for a second – before he sucked a breath in, his nostrils flaring.

He immediately looked away, clearing his throat as he shut the door behind him like this wasn't the second time tonight you'd managed to put him in an impossible situation.

"I–" He hesitated, voice tight. Too tight. "I was just taking out the rubbish."

Of course he had. Because this man was nothing if not thoughtful.

“Thank you,” you managed, fingers gripping the towel tighter, holding onto it for dear life as you shifted awkwardly. “For everything, you really didn’t have to go through all the trouble.”

He didn’t respond right away but his eyes were back on you again. You caught the way they traced the delicate slope of your collarbone, down to where a single droplet of water clung to your skin before disappearing beneath the edge of your towel.

“I – I really am sorry about earlier.”

“Don’t be. There’s nothing you need to be sorry for.”

You nodded, your line of sight drifting to where his jacket hung over the back of a chair.

It was an excuse to move. To do something other than stand there, half–naked and vulnerable under his intense stare. You grabbed it with your free hand, clutching your towel tighter with the other, and made your way over to him.

Even as you stepped closer, you felt the weight of his eyes on you–watching, tracking.

“Don’t want to forget your jacket.” You held it out to him, but when his hand reached for it, his fingers skimming yours, his attention wasn’t on the jacket.

It was on you.

“Thanks. Get some rest.”

You nodded again, lips pressing together, forcing yourself to ignore the way your pulse wouldn’t settle.

And just like that, he turned to leave, the moment passing.

Or at least, that’s what you both told yourselves.

divider creds. cafekitsune

[juniperskye]

The Nanny

Based on the following ask: @itzvenus04I was thinking of like sunshine soft girl reader x cloudy and broody serious Aaron meet as he hires her as Jack nanny because Jack liked her the best and of course Jack thinking his nanny is perfect he tries everything he can to get his dad and nanny together which ends up working and Jack is happy because he has another mommy now, not to replace Haley but to love him like a mom because a kid always needs his mom no matter what age

Aaron Hotchner x Nanny! Fem Reader Fluff Word count: 2185

REQUESTS ARE OPEN - not edited - please be kind. Requests are open and feedback is welcome if it's constructive!

Warnings: My blog is 18+, minors DNI, significant age gap (non-specified, but legal), Sunshine! Reader, Grumpy! Hotch, reader is a nanny, Jack being the ultimate match maker, boss-employee relationship/blurred lines, let me know if I missed anything.

I do not consent to having my work translated or reposted to any other site. That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story.

You had been working for Aaron Hotchner for the last six months. You’d gone out of your comfort zone and signed up for one of those nannying sites, the ones where parents would go on and select your profile…almost like online dating. The only thing is, you were looking for a live-in nanny position, see, you’d just graduated college and had been living on campus and now that you had graduated, you needed a place to stay until you found a permanent residence. You could only stay in your friend’s studio apartment for so long.

Aaron hadn’t been too sure about hiring a nanny, especially a live-in one. Jessica had suggested it, seeing as she’d become increasingly busy helping her dad and taking on additional shifts at the hospital. She told him that it would be good to have someone at the house taking care of Jack, running him to and from school and soccer, someone who’d cook and clean and…the more she described it, the more Aaron thought it would be like hiring a 50’s housewife.

He sat on the idea a while; he hardly thought it would be appropriate for a man of his age to hire some young woman to come into his home and play wife while he was out working all day. He figured the best thing he could do would be to look into one of those sites that match nannies to families based on needs.

That is how he had chosen you and honestly, you couldn’t have been more grateful for that fact. Jack had been the best kid and getting to watch him felt more like hanging out with a child of your own…he’d made you feel so welcomed and it filled you with joy.  You’d enjoyed the Hotchner boys, although you didn’t see Aaron all that often, when you did, it always stirred up a fuzzy feeling within you.

--

Aaron was out of town at least once a week each month, those weeks were hard on Jack, but you’d made sure to fill the time with building Legos, coloring, baking, and soccer practice in the yard. You’d made all of Jack’s favorite meals and read him and extra bedtime story on nights Aaron was out of town. Anything it took to make things easier on him.

Truthfully, you liked the weeks when Aaron was out of town, it made your life a little easier, because despite that fuzzy feeling Aaron gave you…he wasn’t always the sweetest person in the world. He was kind of a grump.

In the six months you’d been working for him, you had learned that Aaron was an FBI agent, more specifically the Behavior Analysis Unit. You knew he was in charge of the team he worked with and that they travelled quite frequently. Jack constantly referred to him as a superhero. You learned that he loves the Beatles and the most important thing in his life is his son.

The other thing you had learned in that time was that he detested you. He’d made an effort to learn as little as possible about you, promptly changing the subject any time you’d said anything, even remotely personal. Little did you know, Jack was sure to fill his dad in on all the wonderful things he’s learned about you.

--

Jack had formulated a plan; he was going to get you and his dad together. In the short time you’d been working with them he’d been able to see that his dad was happier and less stressed out. His dad had more time to spend with him when you were around. He also loves you; you are sweet, and you take care of him, and it reminds him of his mom. That had made him sad at first, but very quickly, he came to appreciate it.

So, he decided he would help you by giving you insight into his dad’s favorite things. On the other hand, he’d talk you up to his dad in hopes to break his walls down just enough to let you in.

--

“Alright Jack, your lunch is all packed, can you run and grab your shoes and your backpack?” You asked him.

“Okay! Did you put one of our brownies in there?” He asked, jogging down the hall.

“Of course I did!” You called after him. “Mr. Hotchner, I packed your lunch as well. I was planning on going to the grocery store after I drop Jack off, was there anything in particular you’d like for dinner this week?”

“Whatever works.” He huffed.

“Okay, well I will email over the menu I had in mind then and if there’s anything you don’t like, just let me know.” You offered.

“Will do.” Aaron grabbed his bag and turned away. “Bye buddy, have a great day today.” Aaron pressed a kiss to the top of jacks head before ruffling his hair and heading out to work.

“You ready bud?” You asked.

“Make a pot roast with mashed potatoes.” Jack said.

“What?”

“It’s dad’s favorite.” Jack smiled.

--

You were putting the finishing touches on dinner while Jack was working on his homework at the kitchen island. You had taken his suggestion and went with a pot roast for dinner, figuring it couldn’t make matters worse.

“Alright bud, go wash your hands and put your homework in your folder.” You requested.

“Okay!” Jack made his way down the hall.

You set the table with three perfect place settings, you’d poured jack a glass of chocolate milk, yourself a small glass of wine, and Aaron his usual scotch. You plated up the food, mashed potatoes, pot roast with carrots, and a small salad. It was moments like this, waiting for Aaron to some home that your mind drifted to thoughts of truly sharing this domesticity with him.

You imagine him walking through the doors, placing his briefcase down, coming up behind you, snaking his arms around your waist as he presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder. Complimenting how good the food smells and asking you about your day. In these little daydreams, he was warm and sweet, not his usual grumpy self.

--

The door opens and you immediately hear the huff that escapes him. Exhaustion surely seeping in after a long day of work. This is part of why you loved this job, despite his coldness, you enjoyed taking care of the Hotchner boys. It made you happy knowing that he could come home after work and not worry about anything.

“Daddy!” Jack hollered.

“Hey buddy.” Aaron knelt down and lifted Jack into his arms.

“It smells good in here, what’s for dinner?” Aaron asked.

“Well, Jack informed me that pot roast is one of your favorites, so I changed up the menu a bit and made that for dinner. I uh – I hope that’s okay.”

“Oh, that’s – that’s fine.” Aaron let out an awkward cough.

So, the three of you sat and ate dinner. While you ate, Jack rambled on and on about his day and all the things that happened while he was at school. You were desperately trying to attend to the conversation, but you couldn’t help but be distracted…Aaron’s gaze had been lingering on you for the last ten or so minutes.

“Hey jack, why don’t you put your plate in the sink and go get ready for bed huh? I’ll come up in a bit to read a story with you.” Aaron said, his gaze never leaving yours.

Jack nodded his head and followed the directions his dad gave him. All the while Aaron continued to look at you, surely profiling you. You were becoming uneasy, sitting there under his gaze.

“What is it?” You asked.

“Nothing. Thank you, for dinner, it was delicious.” He complimented.

“Oh, um of course! I’m glad you liked it.” You blushed.

--

It was a rare day that Aaron had off, on these days he likes to let you off the hook. This allows you to shop, go out with friends and get lunch, get your hair and nails done, the whole nine yards. Jack thought that a day out with his dad would be the perfect time to talk about you. They had been talking about how you helped him study for his spelling test this week which led to him getting 100%.

“Hey dad?”

“Yeah buddy?”

“Why do you hate her?”

“What I don’t – I don’t hate her. I just, I ugh…I don’t know bud. I don’t hate her, she’s great.” Aaron stumbled over his words.

“You aren’t very nice to her though. Which is weird because she’s really nice and she makes us both happier, I can tell.” Jack smiled.

“I’m nice to her!” Aaron defended.

“No, you’re not. But you can be! Her birthday is coming up, we should have a party!” Jack suggested.

--

It was your birthday, you had been thankful it was on a Saturday this year, and Aaron was off which meant he’d likely give you the day off and you could spoil yourself a bit. So, after sleeping in a bit later than usual, you made your way to the kitchen only to be met with the Hotchner boys making pancakes.

“Well good morning!” You greeted.

“Happy birthday!” Jack shouted, wrapping his arms around your neck from his position on the counter.

“Thanks bub! Are you making chocolate chip pancakes? You know those are my favorite.” You teased.

“Yeah! It was dad’s idea to make them.” Jack informed.

“Oh – um thanks.” You were caught by surprise.

“Of course. Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.” You shyly smiled.

The three of you sat and enjoyed breakfast together, it had felt different than usual. Aaron had been different today, happy almost.

“So, I figured, since I’m home today, perhaps you could take the day off?” Aaron suggested. “I do have something to do around 6 though so if you could be back by then?”

“Really? That would be awesome, I really need to get my hair and nails done.” You laughed.

--

You had texted a few of your friends and met them at the nail salon, getting your fingers and toes done while filling them in on the latest…more specifically Aaron’s new kind side that he’s been showing.

They had told you it was because he likes you, to which you were quick to shut down. They all knew you had a soft spot for the older man, and they were sure he liked you back, especially when he was pushing you away. One of your friends claimed it was because he probably didn’t want to “corrupt” you.

 After getting them to finally relent in their teasing, you had suggested lunch. The girls treated the whole day, nails, lunch, hair and lastly a new dress from your favorite boutique.

“You should wear that one home.”

“Why?”

“For Mr. Hotchner…show off your hot self. Maybe get some for your birthday!”

“Oh my gosh, stop! It’s not like that.” You shook your head.

“Girl maybe it could be…just wear the damn dress!”

And so, you did. You changed into the new dress and had your hair perfectly styled and your nails done. You knew Aaron had somewhere to be at 6, but you figured you could at least catch him off guard prior to then.

--

You parked your car and made your way around to grab your bags, then headed up the two little steps that led into the house. Before fishing your key out of your bag, you paused, inside you could hear Aaron and Jack talking…something about balloons and streamers. You smiled to yourself, quietly letting yourself in.

“Hey guys! What’s all this?”

“You’re early!” Jack said.

You looked around and felt nothing but warmth radiating through you. There were balloons and streamers decorating the living and dining rooms, sat on the table was a birthday cake along with a few gifts. Pizza from your favorite place was sat on the coffee table and the living room had been rearranged so the guestroom mattress was laid out with cozy blankets and pillows, while your favorite movie was queued up on the TV.

“You did all this…for me?” You gasped.

“Yeah! We wanted to show you how much we love you.” Jack said, hugging you.

“You do?” Your gaze met Aaron’s.

“Yeah, we do.” He said.

--

That night the three of you ate pizza and laid on the mattress in the living room, watching movies. Before it got too late the boys made sure you had cake and opened your gifts, Jack had picked out a paint set for you, knowing you enjoyed watercolors. Aaron, well, he’d gotten you a first edition of your favorite novel. You’d been rendered speechless.

The three of you made your way back to the living room and laid down to watch a final film. Jack had been snuggled up to you, quickly falling asleep, and you fell not long after. Aaron smiled at the sight of you two, it had gotten him thinking that having you around may not be so bad after all.

Taglist: @bernelflo@pastelpinkflowerlife@just-moondust @khxna

[kiwriteswords]

I love the way the marriage of convenience fic turned out!! If you write more about that I will gladly read it! Thb I'm getting obsessive about it 😂

You set it up so well and I have so many questions about what could happen next and what is going through everyone's mind. 😁🥳

Like a Feather [Aaron Hotchner x Reader x Marriage Contract]

Masterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 3k|| AN: Thank you for requesting this!! I'm so glad you liked the first one! I'm loving this universe. Trying to navigate how I can make them all flow cohesively without feeling like you need to read them in order. Would love to see more requests for this universe! I feel like I could take it in so many directions! Tags/Warnings: female reader, marriage of convenience, contracted marriage, canon-typical themes, flirty!reader, bold!reader, girly-girl!reader, non-bau!reader, stressed!hotch, mentions of Jack Hotchner, mentions of Haley Hotchner, Traumatized!Hotch, can be read solo if you realize they're forced to live together and are technically married. Summary: For your own safety, you're forced to marry and live with Aaron Hotchner, but his apartment just won't do.

When you’re told, you need to marry a political figure’s daughter to protect her. It could go a million-and-two ways wrong. 

When Strauss and every single bureaucratic name stood before Hotch and assigned him of this--so-called, task--he thought of each way this could have gone utterly wrong. 

But living with a complete stranger wasn't as bad as it sounded. 

Jack took a liking to you quickly. Your past volunteering at children's hospitals and with struggling youth was more than just keeping up political appearances. There was a fun and nurturing side to you that Hotch was glad. 

Jack is always and has always been his first priority when this assignment was sprung upon him. How would this affect him? So seeing that it was only helping or aiding in his upbringing, even temporarily, Hotch would take it. 

What Hotch did notice is every day he would come home from the BAU, and things would look a wee bit different.

It started with the curtains. 

He had long panels that did the job of keeping light out, but one day, he came home, and you had added frills bordering his windows. The once stark and utilitarian drapes now fluttered with soft, feminine edges that seemed to dance lightly with the breeze. 

He didn't mention anything, but a week later, there were the throw pillows. What was the point in pillows that took up the entirety of the sofa that you would move just to sit on? They had buttons and cream-colored trim on them, sitting plump across the couch, asserting their presence in every available space.

He went along, noticing more and more touches of you throughout his apartment. 

Floral arrangements in vases on every surface added bursts of color where none had been before. A shrubby wreath with a giant bow now adorned the front door, greeting him with an almost jarring cheerfulness each day. 

The bathroom's once beige shower curtain was now replaced with a yellow gingham pattern that screamed sunshine, transforming a previously muted space into one that could rival a sunny day in a meadow.

Your bedroom became a reflection of the woman you were--bright and loud, but it began to seep outside of the rest of Hotch's apartment. 

Each new addition, each piece of you that filled up his space, was like a small declaration that this arrangement was becoming more real than either of you might have initially expected. The stark lines and muted tones of his world were slowly being overrun by a storm of femininity, each frill and floral arrangement a soft but undeniable takeover of the life he had meticulously organized. 

This was no longer just his and Jack’s sanctuary; it was a shared existence, vivid and continuously surprising, much like you.

One day, as Hotch came home from a grueling day at the BAU, he was mentally ready to unwind. 

He placed his briefcase by the door and headed straight for the cabinet to pour himself a finger or two of whiskey--a small ritual that marked the transition from his work life to whatever semblance of personal life he could muster under the current circumstances.

As he reached for a glass, he paused, sensing an unusual commotion at the entrance. Turning around, he saw two burly security guards maneuvering through his doorway, carefully balancing a Tiffany lamp between them. The sight of these stern men handling such a dainty, stained glass-colored item was incongruous enough to leave Hotch momentarily dumbstruck.

He had become familiar with the two men--your bodyguards that followed you even before this crisis at hand, but they often remained quiet. Taking shifts at the front door of the apartment. 

The part of Hotch that was riddled with trauma and overthought every move for his son was silently grateful for the added protection for his family as well, but seeing them like this? They didn’t seem like the type of men who could fend off a fly with the way they so awkwardly manhandled the delicate glass.

He watched, eyebrows raised, as you directed them with a flurry of indecisiveness. "There...no, there," you called out from across the room, pointing first to one corner and then another, clearly struggling to find the perfect spot for the new addition.

Hotch's curiosity overcame his initial reserve, and he approached, asking, "What's the lamp for when we already have"--he paused to make a quick inventory--"five perfectly good working light fixtures?"

You placed your hands on your hips, your expression mixing defiance and a hint of amusement. "This lamp is not just functional; it’s beautiful and decorative," you explained with a firm nod, as if that settled the matter.

Hotch glanced at the lamp, then around the room at the various changes you had implemented since moving in. "I've noticed all of the little touches," he acknowledged, his voice neutral but his mind reeling from the rapid feminization of his previously stark and only functional space

You gave him a faux pout, a playful challenge in your eyes. "Don’t you like it?"

"It’s not that I don’t like it," Hotch started, searching for the right words that wouldn’t offend. "It’s just very...” His voice trailed off, words like 'girly' and 'feminine' hanging on the tip of his tongue, but he opted for a safer, "different from what I’m used to."

He’d like to tell you that this wasn’t the set for some Better Homes & Gardens photoshoot, but he figured he’d keep that to himself. 

You quickly interjected, a hint of seriousness underlining your playful tone. "This place was a home to two men before I was forced to move here, and now I'm being forced to live here. A little warmth never killed anybody, you know." Your voice softened, reminding both of you of the odd circumstances that had thrown your lives together in this compact, evolving space.

Hotch took a moment, the tension in his shoulders easing as he considered your perspective. The lamp, with its colorful glass and intricate metalwork, suddenly didn’t seem like just an intrusion of your taste into his life, but more like a symbol of the blending that was slowly, inevitably happening between your worlds.

"Alright," he conceded with a small, conceding smile, "let’s find the perfect spot for it together." 

As you both moved to adjust the lamp, Hotch realized that these small concessions, these little adjustments to his environment, were not just about accommodating you, but about finding a way to coexist peacefully, respectfully, and maybe even harmoniously under the most unusual circumstances.

His apartment had purely served a place for he and Jack to rest their head at the end of the day. Most of the decor were things that he had leftover from his home with Haley--mostly things that weren’t painful to look at. Various photos, trinkets, and books. But that was about it. 

His idea of art was the sailboats Jack loved to paint or color. The walls were the same brown color from when he purchased this apartment years before. Everything about it was purely functional. Not frill or unnecessary bit about it.

He hated to think, in some ways, you might be forcing him to finally greet this part of him that he’d prefer to keep in a metaphorical storage box on a shelf somewhere. 

---

Hotch walked into the BAU the next day, his demeanor as serious as ever, but with an unusual addition--a feather lodged in his hair. He began to present the new case in the roundtable room, fully focused on the task at hand, unaware of the curious artifact adorning his head.

JJ, always observant, interrupted him mid-sentence. “Hotch, come here for a second,” she beckoned with a slight smile, motioning him closer. Confused but compliant, Hotch approached, and she delicately plucked the feather from his hair, holding it up for him and the rest of the team to see.

The team erupted in a mixture of laughter and bewildered expressions. “What is that?” Morgan asked, trying to stifle his chuckle.

Hotch let out a deep sigh, the kind that spoke volumes before words even formed. “It’s from the new throw pillows on my couch,” he explained, a trace of agitation seeping into his voice. “Feather-filled. I fell asleep there last night.”

Emily quickly chimed in, her tone half teasing, half serious. “Woah, woah, woah, you can't complain when this girl was ripped from her life--”

Morgan interrupted with a smirk, “--a very cushy life,” emphasizing the luxury she was used to, “to live with Mr. Functional here.”

Hotch opened his mouth to argue, his brow furrowing in frustration, but Spencer was quick to add his perspective, “I’ve seen Hotch’s apartment, and they’re right. It’s about as warm and welcoming as an interrogation room.”

The team’s laughter filled the room, but beneath the humor, there was a palpable sense of camaraderie and support. Hotch, realizing the futility of his frustration in the face of their united front, let out another sigh, this time softer, conceding the point.

“Alright, alright,” Hotch conceded, a small smile breaking through his usually stoic facade. “Maybe a few feathers aren’t the worst thing in the world.”

---

Returning from a local case that had wrapped up, Hotch walked back into his office without a thought, ready to sink into the routine of paperwork that awaited him. The room was dim, shrouded in the early evening gloom that only the setting sun breached through the slats of the blinds. As he moved to switch on the light, his hand paused mid-air when he noticed a figure reclining on his couch. It was you.

"What are you doing here?" His tone carried an edge, the surprise mixing with a flicker of irritation as he flicked on the light, flooding the room with stark brightness.

You sat up, blinking against the sudden light, your voice tinged with a hint of defensiveness. "I was bored at your apartment," you explained. "It’s lonely there, and this was the only place my bodyguards agreed I could go for a change of pace."

Hotch closed the door with a soft click and set his briefcase down with a heavier thud. The lines of his face were drawn tight, his mind racing through the security protocols and the weight of the responsibility he bore. "You know it's not just about boredom," he started, his voice firm as he leaned against his desk, facing you. "The threats against you are real and severe. We've already seen what they’re capable of. People have been injured, some killed. This isn’t a game."

Your expression softened, regret flickering across your features. "I know, Hotch. I do," you replied quietly. "It's just...hard, feeling so cut off from everything and everyone."

Hotch sighed, the initial resistance in his posture easing slightly, though his expression remained serious. "I understand that it’s difficult," he conceded, his tone softening. "But taking risks by moving around isn’t the solution. We need to ensure your safety, and sometimes that means making hard choices--choices that might not be the most comfortable."

You nodded slowly, absorbing his words, but a hint of rebellion lingered in your eyes. There was a pause, a charged moment where the gravity of the situation seemed to hang heavily between you. "I get it," you said finally, your tone a mix of acceptance and frustration. "I just wish there was a way to make this feel less like a prison."

Hotch straightened, his expression stern as he considered your words. He understood the isolation you felt; he’d seen it many times in witness protection situations, the toll it took on individuals. Yet, he couldn’t compromise on your safety. 

"We might find a balance," he suggested cautiously, his voice firm. "We can explore safe activities, perhaps more interaction with approved personnel, or even secure outings. I’ll discuss options with the team--see what arrangements we can make to keep you engaged but protected."

Your face brightened slightly, a spark of hope igniting in your eyes. "Thank you, Hotch," you said, a genuine smile briefly touching your lips for the first time since the conversation began.

"As for being here," Hotch continued, his tone still carrying an edge of authority, recognizing the need for rules even within this concession, "you’re welcome to stay in the office whenever necessary, as long as it’s coordinated. We’ll set some ground rules, make it work."

You nodded, relief apparent but quickly tempered by a sharp retort. "I’d appreciate that, really. And frankly, this place might be a fortress compared to your apartment," you quipped, challenging him with a playful yet piercing look. "Plus, your entertainment setup is tragic. Have you ever heard of When Harry Met Sally? It’s a classic, and you don’t even have it. What kind of living situation is this?"

Hotch raised an eyebrow, the challenge in your tone bringing a small, wry smile to his face. "I wasn’t aware that my DVD collection would be under review," he responded dryly. "I’ll make sure to update my library to meet your standards."

As Hotch watched you settle back onto the couch, the interaction had sparked a realization in him. This wasn't just about providing security; it was about accommodating a life--not just any life, but one thrust into his care under extraordinary circumstances.

He didn’t know it yet, but you were teaching him a whole new way to look at life. 

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @superlegend216

[hoe4hotchner]

Honey and wildflowers | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!reader | WC: 0.9k | CW: Fluff, exhaustion, i dunno beekeeping.

The dirt road stretched ahead of him, dappled with golden sunlight filtering through the thick canopy of trees. It was the kind of place where time seemed to move slower, where the wind whispered through the leaves instead of howling against glass and concrete. The SUV’s tires crunched over the gravel, kicking up dust as Hotch navigated the familiar path. The one he had taken oh so many times before.

The drive had been long, but not long enough to clear his mind of the past week’s weight. The cases had been brutal, they had burrowed under his skin and still refused to let go. He had felt it pressing down on him in the few quiet moments he had had, the ones between case briefings and interrogations, where his mind wandered somewhere softer—somewhere like this. Somewhere like you.

When he pulled up in front of the small red cabin, he barely had time to shut off the engine before the door swung open.

You stood there on the porch, bathed in the late afternoon sun, your hair messily tied back, wisps escaping to frame your face. You wore denim shorts and one of his old button-ups, the sleeves rolled up, the fabric draped loosely over your frame. His breath caught for a second—he hadn’t realized just how much he had needed to see you until this moment.

"Aaron," you said, your voice was soft, almost uncertain, like you hadn’t expected him to actually come.

His grip on the door tightened for a fraction of a second before he stepped out. "Hey," he said, his voice lower than he intended, rough from exhaustion.

Before he could say anything else, you closed the distance between you. Your arms wrapped around his torso, your body pressing into him with a warmth that he had been craving for weeks. The scent of honey and wildflowers clung to your skin, something sweet and familiar that filled his lungs like fresh air after too many days trapped in an unventilated office. "I missed you," you murmured into his chest, voice barely above a whisper.

His hands slid over your back, pulling you closer, grounding himself in the way you fit against him. "I missed you too," he admitted, the words slipping out effortlessly.

You leaned back just enough to look up at him, your fingers brushing over his jaw. Your touch was gentle like you were searching for something in his face, tracing the exhaustion he knew was written in bold letters across it.

"You look tired," you observed, your brows knitting together in concern. "Long week," he replied simply, not wanting to burden you with the details that haunted him.

Your lips pressed into a soft, knowing smile. "Then you're in the right place."

You tugged him inside, your fingers laced loosely with his as you led him through the doorway.

The cabin was exactly as he remembered—warm, rustic, filled with traces of you. The scent of fresh bread lingered in the air, mingling with something floral–Ah, a fresh bouquet from the garden. A few of his books sat on the coffee table next to your favorite mug, and a light breeze drifted in through the open window, carrying the distant buzz of bees.

"You hungry?" you asked over your shoulder, already heading toward the kitchen.

"Starving."

You grinned, your back still to him as you pulled out a jar of golden honey, placing it on the counter. "Good. I made bread this morning, and there's honey from the hives."

He raised an eyebrow as he shrugged off his jacket. "You're still beekeeping?"

You turned to look at him, amusement dancing in your eyes. "You say that like I ever planned to stop."

Hotch let out a chuckle, something that felt so foreign to his cords after the kind of week he’d had. The sound made your smile widen as you nodded toward the door leading to the backyard. "Come on, I’ll show you."

He followed you outside, the sun casting everything in gold. The hives stood in neat rows, bees lazily drifting in and out, their low buzz filling the silent space between you. The wooden frames were thick with honey, they were leaning against a makeshift worktable.

"You ever gonna put me to work?" he asked, watching as you inspected one of the frames with ease.

"Maybe," you teased, not looking up. "You up for it, city boy?"

Hotch stepped closer, his hands finding your hips as he leaned down, his lips brushing just below your ear. "For you?" he murmured, his voice low and warm. "Always."

You sucked in a breath, but before you could react, a loud bark shattered the moment. Hotch barely had time to turn before a familiar ball of fur barreled toward him, a tennis ball clutched between its teeth.

"You still have him playing fetch?" he asked, glancing down at the dog, who wagged his tail expectantly.

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. "He's obsessed."

The dog trotted closer, dropping the ball at Hotch’s feet before stepping back, waiting.

Hotch bent down, picking it up and tossing it a few feet away. The dog did not chase it. Instead, he tilted his head, his eyes locked onto Hotch with an almost comically expectant stare.

"He wants you to chase him," you explained, biting your lip, amusement clear in your expression.

Hotch let out a slow exhale, rubbing a hand down his face. "Of course he does."

You laughed then, the sound was bright and full of something lighthearted, something he had missed more than he could put into words. Before he could say anything, you leaned up on your toes and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek.

"Welcome home, Aaron," you whispered.

His chest ached at those words.

Home.

It wasn’t just a place—it was you.

[ssa-dado]

Pride & Pettiness

Aaron Hotchner x deskmate!fem!reader Genre: angst, mutual pining with the same energy of a sitcom Summary: Even the best partnerships - even a fresh one like yours and Hotch’s - had to go through rough patches. But that’s what mentors are for, right? Especially if they happen to be Rossi and Gideon - the undisputed masters of working in a duo. Too bad that even the BAU gods were not immune to human pettiness, and instead of fixing things when you and Hotch each stormed into their offices for advice, they somehow managed to make everything worse. Warnings: Rossi and Gideon, despite technically being your bosses, are way too caught up in their own petty feud to be of any actual help. Instead, they’ve chosen to channel their energy into something far more productive - gossiping about you and Hotch via fax. Because, well, it is the late ‘90s, after all. Word Count: 5.9k Dado's Corner: This piece is based on the first part of a request (and way too many private brainrots) sent by the co-relator of this series @c-losur3 for my 400 followers celebration event YEEEHAWWWW there will be a second part, set many years later… hehehe the angst is never over. Ah, also, the resolution of all of this is so silly. Sorry... I guess.

masterlist

The strongest bond someone working in law enforcement could form was a partnership - two people moving in sync, instinct sharpening instinct, and skill complementing skill.

Plato, in The Republic, had grand ideas about an ideal government ruled by two philosopher-kings - an 'interesting' proposition, considering he just happened to be a philosopher himself.

How convenient.

But the most remarkable part of his argument wasn’t the thinly veiled intellectual self-promotion, it was the number.

Two. Not one.

Because, according to Plato, the only way to arrive at truth was through dialogue, through debate, through the friction of two minds constantly challenging each other.

And while most people would assume that ancient political philosophy had very little bearing on the modern world, somehow, against all odds, Plato’s vision of dual leadership had found a foothold in an institution he probably never would have anticipated: the FBI.

Specifically, in the form of Jason Gideon and David Rossi - two men, one partnership, leading the Behavioral Analysis Unit.

And, much like Plato’s philosopher-kings, they operated under the firm belief that they possessed the wisdom to shape the world around them.

Which was exactly how you and Hotch - through what was definitely pure coincidence and not at all the result of their very deliberate meddling - had ended up as partners.

And now, thanks to their brilliant mentorship, you both found yourselves sitting across from them… airing your grievances about each other.

Of course, this wasn’t supposed to happen.

You had gone to Gideon’s office with the perfectly reasonable intent of professionally complaining about Hotch over a minor misunderstanding. Nothing dramatic, just a slight escalation that 'totally' warranted the intervention of your superior.

Or at least, that’s how Hotch saw it.

Because if you had just communicated like a normal person, you would have told him that you weren’t actually filing a formal complaint, you were just looking for advice.

But no, that would have been too easy.

Which is exactly why Hotch, ever the beacon of patience and maturity, having spotted you doing so, decided to return the favor. If you were going to drag your boss into this, then he was going to do the exact same thing, marching straight into Rossi’s office to even the playing field.

What neither of you could have predicted was that, somehow, a discussion that was supposed to be about you and Hotch had instead morphed into a thinly veiled continuation of whatever unresolved argument Gideon and Rossi had been stewing over for days.

Plato may have waxed poetic about two-person leadership as the pinnacle of governance, but clearly, he had never met Gideon and Rossi - what with him being dead for over two millennia and all.

Minor detail.

“I spent ten - ten - minutes explaining the UnSub’s pattern. Laid it all out, even a metaphor that I thought was particularly strong! And you know what Hotch said? You know what he had the audacity to say?”

Gideon, wisely, did not attempt a guess.

He merely adjusted his glasses and regarded you with the patience of a man who had endured enough existential crises - his own and others’ - to know better than to poke an already burning fire.

“He said-” you inhaled, because even the memory of Hotch’s voice made you feel the heat creeping up your cheeks - from rage, obviously, rage…

…“You’re overcomplicating it. That’s what I told her,” Hotch stated at the same time, on the opposite side of the wall, seated in front of Rossi. “It was just a perfectly rational observation.”

Rossi took a long, slow sip of his coffee. If he had known what he was about to deal with, he would have gladly corrected it with enough whiskey to make this tolerable. “Sure, Aaron. Reasonable.”

"But then she looked at me like I had personally insulted her, completely ignored the part where I agreed with her - just with fewer metaphors - and instead of talking to me like an adult, she stomped off to Gideon." Hotch exhaled, rubbing his temple. "That woman is a -”

He paused, searching for the right word, the perfect descriptor, something that fully encapsulated the absolute trial that was dealing with you.

“…A paradox.”

But no, that wasn’t enough. That wasn’t nearly enough.

“…A walking contradiction. She can read everyone else like a book but when it comes to herself? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She’s-” he exhaled sharply, frustrated beyond belief, “-she’s so infuriating.”

And then he winced.

Because what the hell had just come out of his mouth? A contradiction? A paradox? Was he seriously talking like that now?

Goddammit. You were infecting him.

Meanwhile Rossi, watching him spiral, was mentally preparing himself for the stupidity that was about to unfold.

Because unlike Hotch - who was still stubbornly convinced that this was about anything other than what it actually was - Rossi saw the issue with absolute, irrefutable clarity.

This wasn’t about communication issues.

This wasn’t even about professional disagreements.

This was textbook mutual pining.

And not just any kind of mutual pining - the worst kind.

The kind where both of you were so deep in denial that the only way your brains could cope was by turning every minor inconvenience into a full-blown incident, bickering like an old married couple because neither of you could stand being within five feet of the other without your neurons short-circuiting and risking the horrifying possibility of self-awareness.

It was, frankly, embarrassing.

Rossi knew exactly what he should do.

As Hotch’s mentor, it was his duty to sit him down, force him to face reality, and guide him toward the inevitable conclusion that all of this frustration wasn’t about you being impossible - it was about the fact that he was hopelessly, stupidly attracted to you.

But then he remembered that one time Gideon had acted intellectually superior to him.

And suddenly, this had nothing to do with Hotch and everything to do with the fact that Gideon was wrong about whatever they had been arguing about before.

So, rather than responding to Hotch, Rossi silently reached for his fax machine.

TO: JASON GIDEON

FROM: DAVID ROSSI

SUBJECT: IT’S YOUR KID’S FAULT

Your kid is the reason Aaron has been ranting for five straight minutes without blinking. And while I should be concerned about the blinking thing, I’m honestly more disturbed by the fact that I’ve never heard him talk this much since I met him. It’s unnatural. It’s unsettling. It’s frankly ruining my entire perception of reality.

Fix your kid. She should apologize to him so he finally stops.

You barely registered the whirr of the fax machine as you continued venting, pacing in Gideon’s office.

“What if I’m not enough for him?” you muttered. “I get it, I’d be mad too if I got paired up with someone who’s only been legally allowed to drink for a few months, but at least he could have said it differently.”

Gideon, barely listening - because his brain was currently short-circuiting over the sheer idiocy of Rossi’s latest fax - grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and started typing.

“Don’t worry, I hear you,” he said absently, which, given the circumstances, was not entirely true.

You huffed, still pacing. “He makes it sound like I’m incapable just because I don’t summarize my entire profile in monosyllabic grunts and I don’t stare deep into people’s souls with those unreadable-”

You frowned slightly. “What color are his eyes, anyway?”

That was the exact moment Gideon mentally checked out.

Because while he should have been focusing on mentoring you through this crisis, Rossi had just challenged him.

And there were some things in life that simply could not be ignored.

Like proving David Rossi wrong.

So, without hesitation, he sent his reply.

TO: DAVID ROSSI

FROM: JASON GIDEON

SUBJECT: INCORRECT. TRY AGAIN.

Oh, please. Your kid is the reason my kid has been pacing my office for ten minutes, trapped in an existential spiral so deep she may never escape.

And why? Because your Aaron - stoic, logical, deeply repressed Aaron - is either willfully ignoring her brilliance or is so profoundly distracted by something else (I wonder what that could be, David?).

And now, look at what he’s done. He’s unraveled her. Entirely.

Philosophers have written essays on the fragility of human perception, on the agony of misunderstanding - but even they would struggle to articulate the absurdity of what he’s done here. Because rather than acknowledge the blindingly obvious truth - that he is so disastrously affected by her mere presence that his entire ability to process information has been compromised - he has instead chosen to, what? Dismiss her? Challenge her? Stare at her like she personally upended his worldview and then claim she’s the problem?

So no, David. I will not be fixing my kid.

Fix yours.

Meanwhile, in Rossi’s office, to his absolute horror, Hotch was still talking.

This was unprecedented. Unnatural. Downright unsettling.

Rossi had seen a lot of disturbing things in his career, but this?

This was genuinely alarming.

“I don’t approach profiling the way she does,” Hotch admitted, his voice quieter, almost strained. “I’m not Peter Rogers. I never will be. If she wanted a partner who thinks like that - if she wanted him - I’d understand.”

Ah, Peter Rogers - the one agent in this entire bureau Hotch had the misfortune of knowing, solely because the man had once occupied your desk - which, by extension, meant he had spent far too much time sitting in front of him before you joined the BAU.

That moron.

That living testament to the FBI’s questionable hiring practices.

That bureaucratic seat-filler whose greatest contribution to law enforcement was proving that, apparently, anyone could get a badge.

If Rogers had contributed one remotely valuable thing to society in his otherwise remarkably unimpressive career, it was possessing just enough cognitive function to form complete sentences - and, for some baffling reason, to be your friend.

Which, naturally, checked out - you both had degrees in linguistics, spoke the same academic language, and were intellectually aligned.

Unlike him.

Because, of course, you never let him forget that he had once been a prosecutor - a lawyer - a fact you brought up constantly, with that little glint in your eyes.

Which was, clearly, because you despised him.

Obviously.

That was the reason.

Not because of… well, what other reason could there possibly be? That you liked him? No, that was ridiculous.

Hell, how could you? He barely liked himself.

People like you weren’t supposed to be attracted to someone like him - someone who had zero ability to flirt, zero charm, and zero interest in playing mind games.

Unlike Peter Rogers.

Oh. Again. That bastard.

And so, Hotch exhaled sharply, as if he could physically shake that idiot’s face out of his mind and replace it with something less infuriating… like yours.

Or - Rossi’s.

Anyone’s, really.

It wasn’t specifically your face he wanted to picture. Any face would be fine.

But now that he was picturing yours, he felt… calmer.

No wait, enraged.

Yes. That was what he was supposed to be. Mad at you.

“If she wants someone more in line with her methods, fine,” he muttered, forcing the words out like they physically hurt. “But she could have just told me. We’ve spent months working together - sharing a desk, hotel rooms - why throw all of that away without a conversation?”

Because, really, if you wanted Peter Rogers, you could have him. In fact, Hotch would be thrilled to gift-wrap him for you and never have to see his smug, thesaurus-abusing face again.

…Though, would that mean he’d never again get to see you frowning down at a case file, tapping a pen against the page whenever something didn’t quite add up - waiting, deliberating, until finally, you swallowed your pride, got up from your seat, dragged your chair around your desk, and settled beside him with a barely muttered, "Tell me if this sounds insane."

Would that mean no more of those moments that were supposed to last just a couple of minutes - just a quick consultation - but always, always stretched into something more?

Where your case somehow became his, where the file he’d left open to return to later suddenly had two sets of eyes on it instead of one?

Would that mean no more of those accidental non-accidental moments - like how you both always ended up in the break room at the same time?

And even though there were two coffee pots, you’d linger just a second too long near his, just so he’d sigh, roll his eyes, nudge your elbow, and pour you a cup before you could ask?

Would it mean no more of those quiet, almost too easy nights in whatever godforsaken motel the Bureau had thrown you into, where you sat cross-legged on your bed, case file open but forgotten, sharing a dessert you had insisted on ordering - because you knew he wanted it but would never ask for it himself?

Would it mean no more of those moments where you’d nudge the plate toward him near the end, claiming you were too full, even though he wasn’t oblivious enough to miss the way you always just so happened to stop right before the last bite?

No more of that way you glanced up from your files when you thought he wasn’t looking, brow slightly furrowed, like you wanted to ask him something but weren’t sure how?

No more of you in his space, where he had somehow, stupidly gotten used to you being?

Would that mean no more of those rare, exhausted moments in transit after a long case, like that time on the train back to Quantico? When, somewhere between wrapping up the last loose ends and reviewing the final report, you had dozed off mid-sentence, your head slowly tipping forward before settling against his shoulder?

Would it mean no more of the way he had to fight off a betraying smile - muttering something about how next time, one of Gideon or Rossi should sit beside you before they had the chance to start poking fun at him - when, in reality, he’d never give up that seat for anything?

No.

No, he couldn’t just give you away like that.

That would be insane.

Unfortunately, not as insane as what Rossi was about to tell him.

If only his mentor could read his mind, maybe he wouldn’t have made such a huge mistake out of sheer spite for his own partner, currently seated on the opposite side of the wall.

“Well, kid,” Rossi said casually, leaning back in his chair like he wasn’t about to detonate a nuclear bomb of bad advice. “She doesn’t trust you anymore. Clearly.”

And just like that, Rossi confirmed what Hotch had been trying to push down - what had been ringing in his head ever since you had walked right past him and into Gideon’s office.

Hotch froze in his chair, fist clenched, his thumb already moving along the side of his index finger. “…What?”

Rossi shrugged, as if none of this was a big deal. “She’s already decided you’re not worth explaining things to anymore. She thinks she’s the oracle of who-knows-what, and your job now is to bring her back to earth.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, with all the confidence of a man giving genuinely terrible advice, Rossi added, “You should get revenge.”

Like this was a completely reasonable course of action.

Like this was not one of the worst things he could have possibly said.

Hotch frowned, fully expecting this to be some kind of joke. “That is not helpful.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” Rossi lifted an eyebrow, looking deeply, profoundly pleased with himself. “Listen, kid, if she doesn’t think you listen to her, then stop listening to her. Completely. Ignore everything she says for the next few cases. Act like her theories don’t even exist. Hell, outright disagree with her just to make her question herself.”

Hotch just stared at him, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and actual concern. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” Rossi smirked. “You need to win this, Aaron. Make her realize how much she needs you to listen. Make her miss it.”

Hotch blinked. “That is-”

“Brilliant? I know.” Rossi shrugged, feigning modesty. “She thinks she’s above working with you? That she doesn’t need to explain things to you anymore? Then fine. Make her prove it.”

Hotch exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “This is insane.”

Rossi, seeing his hesitation, sighed and leaned back. “Look, Aaron. You came to me for advice. And I’m giving you advice.”

Which was, of course, the only justification he needed before turning to his fax machine with all the righteous indignation of a man personally victimized by his best friend’s existence.

TO: JASON GIDEON

FROM: DAVID ROSSI

SUBJECT: SUCK IT

You ever notice how your kid has a response for everything, until someone dares to disagree, and suddenly, it’s an affront to her entire existence?

Sound familiar, Jason?

Because it should.

She’s got that same holier-than-thou, no-one-understands-my-genius attitude you do, thinking she’s the only one with a fully functioning brain, acting personally offended the second someone suggests she might not be the sole guardian of the truth.

The only thing keeping her from turning into a full copy of you is the massive, pathetic, completely obvious crush she has on Aaron.

I would feel bad for him, but honestly, it’s probably still a better fate than what I’ve been dealing with for years.

At least she’s smarter than you. But then again, so is that half-dead plant you keep on your windowsill.

TO: DAVID ROSSI

FROM: JASON GIDEON

SUBJECT: STOP DIGGING

Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Dave. Aaron’s repression? Learned straight from his brilliant mentor, whose idea of guidance is bad advice and a pat on the back.

And don’t start on my kid when yours is one lingering glance away from self-destruction. If she’s me, then Hotch is just you, with even worse social skills.

Now, unless you want them to figure out we’re talking behind their backs, quit the fax war while you’re ahead.

P.S. The plant is alive, you absolute moron.

It didn’t matter how much the two old men were mad at each other, some things in life were just undeniable truths.

Like the fact that partnerships - the real ones, the ones that settle so deep in your soul they become part of you - created something stronger than just teamwork.

The greatest partnerships - ergo theirs, and, unknowingly to you and Hotch, yours too, despite having far less time to marinate in dysfunction - had a way of forming their own language.

A language of mirroring postures, finishing each other’s sentences, predicting a move before it was even made. A near telepathic connection that let you know exactly what the other was thinking without them having to say a single word.

Some people were just meant to be.

At work, of course.

Not that fate, luck, or - let’s be honest - the sheer misfortune of the universe always knew where to draw the line.

And maybe that’s what Rossi should have told Hotch…

Or - tying it back to the telepathy portion of this completely doomed thesis - what Gideon should have told you.

Because instead of actually helping, they both did what they always did when their own egos got in the way:

They screwed up magnificently.

And gave you the exact same, equally terrible advice – to get revenge.

“…What?” You blinked, certain you had misheard.

“Revenge.” He waved a hand, as if this was a well-established principle of psychology. “If he won’t listen to you, then don’t waste your breath. Let him see how well he does without your insight.”

You squinted. “So… you’re telling me to intentionally not do my job?”

Gideon sighed. “No. I’m telling you to strategically withhold information until he realizes how much he relies on your perspective.”

When you returned to your desk, Hotch was already at his, stiff-backed and stone-faced, his jaw so clenched that you could hear his teeth grinding.

Which was fine.

Because you weren’t speaking to him anyway.

Not that he was speaking to you, either.

Which was also fine.

Except for the fact that Peter Rogers, in all his wheeled-chair-rolling, space-invading glory, had wedged himself directly between you - parking himself right next to you, far too comfortable in a way that made Hotch’s grip on his pen visibly tighten.

"You know," Peter said, "I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you two actually not talking."

You didn’t respond.

Hotch also didn’t respond.

Which, in Peter’s mind, was an invitation to continue. "Okay, what’s going on with you two?"

You both exhaled sharply through your nose and, in perfect unison - much to no one’s surprise except Peter’s - said, "Nothing."

Because him, a smug ass who apparently lived to poke the bear, grinned. “Oh, you two are so in sync.”

You shot him a glare. "Pete, I swear-"

But before you could finish, he leaned back, tilting his chair just enough that Hotch seriously considered kicking it out from under him - especially when he, with all the confidence of a man who had never been punched in the face, set a file down directly in the middle of both your desks, precisely equidistant, like he was deliberately trying to start a fight.

“So, partners,” Peter started, dragging out the word like he knew exactly what he was doing - or maybe, because he was bitter about the fact that he still hadn’t been formally paired with anyone himself. “Thoughts on this?”

“I’ll let Hotch answer first,” you said smoothly, barely glancing up.

Hotch’s eyes narrowed immediately. “No, I insist,” he replied, voice sharp, looking up from his desk.

“Oh, no,” you said, flipping a page in your file with exaggerated care. “I wouldn’t want to overcomplicate things.”

Hotch’s jaw locked.

Rogers blinked, glancing between the two of you. “…Are you two-?”

“Fine,” Hotch interrupted, because the last thing he needed was Peter Rogers analyzing his relationship with you. He turned his attention to the file, scanning it for a total of three seconds before declaring, “This isn’t the UnSub’s pattern.”

“Oh, really?” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because I could’ve sworn that the signatures do match-"

“They don’t,” Hotch countered.

“They do,” you shot back.

“I disagree.”

“Well, I disagree with your disagreement.”

Hotch exhaled. “That’s so childish, it’s not how that works.”

Rogers, still holding the file, hesitated before looking at his own notes. “…Actually, I think-”

Both of your heads snapped toward him so fast it was a miracle he didn’t die on the spot.

“Oh, do tell, Pete,” you said, voice sweet in a way that was clearly threatening. “What do you think?”

“Well,” he mused, rubbing his chin - probably in an attempt to convince the two of you that he was capable of actual thought and not just winging it as usual - “I think I just walked into the middle of a divorce proceeding.”

If he thought that was a joke, he was probably the only person on earth who considered it funny.

Didn’t help that you and Hotch were tough critics at the moment.

“But don’t worry,” Peter continued, absolutely delighted now, “I would be thrilled to play mediator. You know - help you work through your issues, since I’m obviously neutral in this.”

“I mean, I’ve known little Y/N since she was only fifteen,” he said, reaching out to ruffle your hair before thinking better of it, then he turned to Hotch. “And I was your desk mate buddy for two whole years, am I right, Big H?”

Silence.

To top it all off, Peter actually had the audacity to make a stupid finger-gun gesture, wink at Hotch, and fire.

Click. Click.

And was met with absolutely nothing.

Just the coldest, most silent, most deeply unimpressed stare Hotch had ever delivered in his life.

Peter, undeterred, clicked his tongue. “That makes me, what? Your best man, Champ?”

In Hotch’s opinion, that made Peter Rogers the best possible candidate to be murdered right here in the FBI building.

And yet, the absolute audacity of this man.

Something - something trickling at the edges of Hotch’s sixth sense, or maybe just his profiler instincts - had never sat right with him about the way Peter always had to stress that he had known you since you were fifteen…

…While he had been twenty-one.

And maybe Hotch could have voiced that. Could have said something. Could have acknowledged the way that detail had always gnawed at him.

But, unfortunately, Peter was your best friend.

Which meant, for the sake of professionalism, and also the fact that you would probably take a bullet for this absolute idiot, Hotch had to keep that particular opinion to himself.

“Well,” Peter continued, flipping casually through the file like this wasn’t a crime scene in the making, “Don’t you worry, guys. Every great partnership has rough patches.”

He paused, smiling.

“But - I can fix it... it is surely your lucky day. Divorce attorneys are expensive, you know?! And with this pay?!”

Silence.

Nobody laughed.

Again.

"Alright, fine. Moving on," Peter announced, standing up with way too much enthusiasm. "Step one: acknowledging the problem. And for that, we’re gonna do a little trust exercise."

Your eyes immediately narrowed. "Peter, no-"

"Peter, yes," he shot back, already gesturing for both of you to stand up - and, when Hotch predictably refused to move, physically dragging him out of his chair because, apparently, he hadn’t budgeted time for stubbornness today.

"Great! Okay, now come closer - yeah, you stay there - Hotch, maybe less like you’re standing in front of a firing squad… perfect, that’s my man..."

That made Hotch almost roll his eyes.

"Before either of you start whining-" Peter clapped his hands together, "let’s just-"

So, before even finishing his sentence, he shoved you forward.

Directly into Hotch’s arms.

And despite the fact that the last time either of you had done a trust exercise like this was probably in kindergarten, the entire world stopped.

Because for a moment - for one infuriatingly long, electric moment - every single reason you were mad at each other suddenly took a backseat to an entirely different kind of tension.

The kind that was definitely not workplace appropriate.

The kind that had Hotch’s hands tightening around you on pure instinct before he could even process it.

The kind that had your breath catching in your throat when you realized that, yeah, he was definitely built like a solid wall of muscle under that suit.

The kind that made you far too aware of how close his face was to yours, how you could actually feel the faint warmth of his breath against your hair.

The kind that had Hotch’s face immediately turning the exact shade of his tie.

The kind that had you way too afraid to check if yours was the same.

The kind that meant neither of you had stepped away yet.

“Oh.. alright now...” Peter beamed, far too entertained. “hold the pose …and tell each other how you feel.”

Hotch scoffed, like he was seconds away from handing in his badge, changing his name, and disappearing into the mountains to escape this entire mess.

Too bad his body language was telling a completely different story.

His grip on you tightened - just barely, almost imperceptibly - so slight that if you weren’t hyperaware of every tiny shift around you, you might have missed it.

“Look into each other’s eyes,” the idiot instructed, brimming with the confidence of a man whose entire playbook came from a $2 self-help book he picked up at a gas station.

And so you raised your eyes, leaning back slightly - and there he was, already looking at you, his pupils blown wide.

You convinced yourself it was from the shadow cast on him by that one broken lamp you’d been shuffling underneath, the dim light flickering in just the wrong way.

Because there was no way, no possible way, that his pupils were that dilated just from standing too close to you.

Just the lighting.

Just the lighting.

And yet, despite knowing that, your pulse still spiked.

Silence.

Absolute.

Dead.

Silence.

Peter sighed, as he glanced between the two of you, who - after who knew how many seconds - had still yet to utter a single word.

“Do you want me to count to three?” he deadpanned.

And maybe it was true, maybe the greatest partnerships were in sync, maybe they did move in tandem, maybe they did know each other too well-

Because at the exact same moment, you both spoke.

“I’m not enough for you,” Hotch said, voice steady, controlled - wrong.

“I’m too much for you,” you admitted, quiet, careful - wrong.

And then, you both turned to each other, eyes locking, like the other had just said the single most idiotic thing in existence.

More idiotic than Peter Rogers’ entire existence.

More idiotic than every ridiculous word that had come out of his mouth up until now.

“That’s not true,” you said, in sync.

And yet-

You had both believed it.

You had both convinced yourselves that this was the truth for a few hours.

That you were too much - loud, overwhelming, excessive, impossible to follow - while he was not enough - too restrained, too distant, too closed-off, too incapable of keeping up with you.

You stepped back - not entirely, just enough to put space between you, enough to feel the cool air where his warmth had been -

But not enough to look away.

Not enough to actually leave.

Because as much as you loathed to admit it, as much as you didn’t want to acknowledge it, there was something deeply unsettling about the way you had both spiraled into this.

How you had both ended up in opposite places, on opposite sides of the same fear.

And how, somehow, in all of it, the one thing neither of you had ever questioned-

Was each other.

TO: JASON GIDEON

FROM: DAVID ROSSI

SUBJECT: MAYDAY CANCEL PROOF

From the way they’re both storming toward our offices, I have a sinking feeling something’s gone horribly wrong. Yes, they’re dumb, but they’re also profilers. Very good ones.

And sure enough, Hotch burst into Rossi’s office like a man ready to prosecute a case in real-time.

Rossi, already prepared for impact, barely looked up. “Well, to be fair, you came to me for advice. I gave you advice.” He spread his hands like that was a reasonable defense.

Hotch stared at him, unimpressed. "Old man, have you taken your medicine? This is your fault."

Deciding Rossi was no longer worth another second of his life, Hotch turned on his heel and stalked back toward his desk - only to find you already mid-way, coming back from Gideon’s office, looking just as exasperated.

You jerked your chin toward the two closed doors. "They’re still mad at each other."

Hotch sighed. "Shocking."

Your gaze lingered on Rossi and Gideon’s offices for a beat before you spoke again. "Maybe we should intervene… before they cause any more damage."

Hotch gave you a skeptical look. "Do you have a plan?"

The second he saw the look on your face, he groaned. "If we seriously tell them to do a trust exercise, I think Rossi might just file for early retirement." His dimples flashed as he tried - and failed - to keep a straight face… they always seemed to betray him.

"Retire?! And what’s he gonna do to pay the bills? Become a bestselling author?" You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Oh, please."

You and Hotch had no idea, at the time, just how painfully accurate that little joke would turn out to be.

And you definitely hadn’t anticipated how often it would come back to haunt you - every single time you collapsed onto your shared couch, exhausted but grinning, only to glance at the monstrous, leather-bound book sitting on your coffee table.

A book that contained every single fax Rossi and Gideon had ever exchanged, all meticulously preserved and bound, because apparently, their legacy wasn’t their actual contributions to criminal profiling, but rather their collective inability to mind their own damn business.

It was your favorite bedtime read.

Except for the times when you were too busy doing things that two newly engaged lovebirds, in a brand-new home, had far better uses of their time for.

You both made sure to put the book away when that happened.

Because somehow, despite knowing full well that Rossi and Gideon were nowhere in your house, the sheer existence of that book made you feel watched.

Unfortunately, this time, your Aaron - who had been mindlessly flipping through its pages - suddenly froze.

"...No."

You, half-dozing against him, cracked an eye open. "What?"

He cleared his throat, stiffened, and angled the book just enough so you could see the offending text exchange.

TO: JASON GIDEON

FROM: DAVID ROSSI

SUBJECT: START STEAMING YOUR GOOD SUIT, OLD MAN

Because I bet they’re getting engaged in three years.

TO: DAVID ROSSI

FROM: JASON GIDEON

SUBJECT: THREE IS GENEROUS

For how it’s going, I give them two.

Silence.

You and Hotch stared at each other.

Then, in perfect unison - "They forgot to add ten."

Which felt even sweeter when Aaron pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin.

“…Aaron,” you murmured, fingers threading through his hair, already tugging just enough to make him hum.

“…Yes, honey?” he replied softly… knowing.

You smirked. “Could you hide the book?”

A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest - because, oh, he knew exactly what that meant.

Still, with a reluctant sigh - because this required temporarily leaving your side - he stood, barely resisting the urge to toss the damn thing across the room. Instead, he made his way to the bookshelf, scanning for a worthy hiding place.

“What about behind this one?” he asked, holding up a book.

You barely glanced at it before nodding. “That’ll do.”

Aaron exhaled, shaking his head as he returned to the couch - where, of course, you immediately pulled him back down into your space, arms wrapping around him like he'd been gone for years instead of thirty seconds.

"There," he murmured against your hair , lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Book’s hidden."

Hidden.

Buried.

Tucked away behind Plato’s The Republic.

Fitting, really.

that absolutely incredible gifset I used is by the insanely talented @holoship AAAAA I LOVE YOUR GIFS

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

[strawberymilktea]

I'm actually obsessed

helios

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x sunshine!reader Summary: Aaron thinks you're just about the most radiant person he's ever met. But then you fly too close to the sun, and all your light disappears. Warnings: grumpy x sunshine turned not sunshine, references to the greek myth of icarus and the sun god helios, graphic descriptions of violence, murder, mentions of abduction, heartbreak, complicated relationships, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unresolved trauma, aaron is a bit of a jerk (with reason) Words: 3.1K

Masterlist | icarus (part 1) | part 3

a/n: part 3 otw (don't kill me; we can talk about the next part of the grey area later)

When you first met Hotch, you knew he was wondering why you'd apply for the BAU. Most people wondered why you'd work for the Bureau in the first place. To make the world brighter, you'd thought.

But now your world was so dark that it made you wonder what the point of any of it was.

Did it matter if you helped some people? Did you really help anyone? You used to think so.

Now you were on the other side of the equation, and it didn't seem that way anymore. You weren't the agent, just the victim. And now you wondered—could you ever truly help anyone? Or were they all just dead the moment they were taken?

You never stayed long enough to see the aftermath, what happened to the victims after the unsub was apprehended. You now wished you did. Did this feeling ever go away?

It didn't feel like that right now.

Nonetheless, you still found yourself sitting at the BAU round table, coffee in hand in attempts to remedy your lack of sleep. It didn't help much, but it made you feel like you were doing something. Lately, everything in your life felt that way.

You sat across from Spencer, between Emily and Derek. They were talking about this movie they saw; Reid was arguing about innaccuracy and statistical probability. They invited you to go, too.

No thanks, guys. I'm busy this weekend. You didn't elaborate further.

You remembered the look of disappointment that washed over Spencer's face, but he covered it with a smile. You reciprocated it the best you could.

Smiling felt harder.

"Hey, Y/L/N, you listening?"

You blinked, turning to see Morgan looking at you expectantly. "Sorry. What?"

"I said, drinks. After this case. It's all on the old man's tab." Rossi made a sound of protest in the background, but Morgan barely glanced his way, keeping his eyes on you. "You in?"

Your mouth opened, but you didn't know what to say. You were running out of excuses. This felt like a test—

"Let's start the briefing."

At Hotch's entrance to the room, you felt a weight being lifted off your shoulders despite the air somehow getting heavier. You trained your eyes on the screen, relieved that you wouldn't have to answer.

JJ started, "Baltimore's seen a series of child abductions over the past few months. Jimmy Porter was abducted from the mall a week ago." She clicked to the next slide. "His body was found dumped by the harbor 2 days ago."

Diving into profiler mode, you tilted your head at the picture. "Dumped is a nice way of putting it," you commented. "The positioning shows an ample amount of remorse."

"And he dumped the body where it could easily be found," Hotch built off your point. He usually did that. It almost felt like things were normal between you.

Please, Y/N.

You cleared your throat. "Have the other bodies ever been found?"

JJ sighed, automatically indicating you wouldn't like her answer. "Baltimore PD is sweeping the water as we speak." She clicked to the next slide. "Last night, Max Campbell was taken from his home while his parents were asleep."

Derek sat up straighter. "That's a hell of a risk to take."

"To go from abducting from common hunting grounds like a mall to one's own home is extremely unlikely. It shows an immense jump in confidence and victimology, going from victims of opportunity to a specific victim in a specific location," Reid said, making gestures with his hands. 

You tipped your head in his direction. "There must be something specific about Max Campbell that made the unsub take him without even cooling off."

Hotch nodded, agreeing. "We'll discuss this further on the jet. Wheels up in 30." 

You all stood up, grabbing your things. You were about to leave the room when Hotch called your name. 

"Y/N." You turned back, seeing his soft expression that was simultaneously devoid of emotion. "Could I speak to you for a moment, please?"

No. Whatever he wanted to talk about could wait. He already got his fill the night before. You had nothing more to talk about.

But you couldn't say that. You'd already said too much. So, you reluctantly nodded, waiting for everyone to file out of the room and ignoring the glances they shared.

Rossi closed the door on his way out, like he could anticipate that you wouldn't want anyone to hear this conversation. You didn't know if you wanted to thank him for it or be angry at the assumption.

Most of your feelings were torn between extremes.

Sadness and anger.

Relief and intensity.

And as you stared at Aaron, standing there with stiff arms, hate and love.

He started slowly as if he was pacifying an unpredictable animal. "Y/N... I would like you to stay with Garcia for this case."

You involuntarily recoiled, shocked at the notion. If he was ashamed, he didn't show it. You scoffed. "What?" He opened his mouth, but you didn't let him get a word in, taking a step forward. "Hotch, that's ridiculous. Child offenders are my specialty. Are you seriously taking me off this case?"

"I'm not taking you off the case," he reasoned. "You'll be more help here—"

"How?" A look of offense crossed his face, but you couldn't care less. Maybe you would've been more scared to go against Hotch before, but this was now. He'd never suggested something so ludicrous.

Emily called you yin and yang, two sides of the same coin. He trusted you on all fronts. This didn't feel like trust.

It felt like punishment.

Hotch's eyes hardened, giving you a look you'd never seen directed at you before. "Agent Y/L/N, as your unit chief, I am ordering you to stay here. Your input is valued; you will still contribute. But effective immediately, you will not be joining us in the field until a psychological evaluation deems you fit."

Another scoff left you. "Psychological evaluation? That's what this is about? All because I wouldn't fucking talk to you—"

"Watch your tone—"

"You have my doctor's note. I am physically and mentally capable for this job. You are not a licensed psychologist—"

His voice raised as he cut you off. "I reserve the right to make decisions about the agents on my team." He gave you one final once-over, like he was daring you to say another word, give him a reason to do something more drastic. You clenched your jaw, holding back all the words you wanted to let flow. That seemed to satisfy him enough. "You will stay here. End of discussion."

Hotch grabbed his briefcase and promptly left the room, not sparing you another glance as you just stood there, left once again by Aaron Hotchner.

Yin and yang, Emily had said. It almost made you laugh. The coin was flipped.

He was leaving you in the shadows.

— 

Derek passed by your desk as you were grabbing your things, getting ready to go to Penelope's bat cave. He raised a brow at you. "Hey, where's your go bag?"

Without meaning to, you sighed, immediately regretting it when you saw the smile on his face falter. "Sorry, I'm—" not mad at you, "I'm not coming. Bossman's orders." You threw in a smile, trying to smooth things over, but it came out more sarcastic than anything.

He stared at you in silence for a few seconds with that same look that everyone had been giving you since you came back. The same way you'd look at a pressure-activated bomb. Careful not to move too fast, press too hard, press in the wrong areas.

Derek seemed to decide that whatever he was thinking was worth saying. "Kid, you know he just wants what's best for you." Kid.

Were you not grown up now?

You pursed your lips before responding, "Yeah." It was sure as hell hard to see it that way when you were being benched, punished for something that wasn't your fault.

You couldn't help but think that Hotch would never do this to Derek. Or anyone, for that matter. It was just you.

Morgan sighed, but he left it at that, sensing the cut was too fresh. His eyes travelled lower. Silence again.

You knew what he was looking at. You resisted the urge to cover your stomach.

"Does—" he hesitated. Derek Morgan never hesitated. "Does it still hurt?"

You sharply inhaled. The scars had two months to heal. Sometimes, you could still feel the knife ripping into your body. Once. Twice. Three times.

You could feel it most times, actually.

The medications could get rid of the pain, but they couldn't get rid of the sensation of that knife in your body. Sometimes, you thought nothing ever would.

"I'm told it doesn't hurt anymore than it should," you said. Whatever that meant. Apparently, you were in pain paradise. This is the spot you want to be at, you doctor told you.

You didn't call bullshit when he said that, but Morgan looked like he might do it for you in real time.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but he was cut off by Emily. 

"Are you guys coming?" Right after she spoke, her eyes darted between you both, asking you a different question with her eyes. Am I interrupting something?

You shook your head, giving her a smile that looked more practiced. No, you're not. "No, I'm not coming. I'll see you guys when you get back." You dodged any more questions by quickly turning around. Morgan could explain it to her if she asked. You didn't feel like answering any more questions, being treated like a ticking time bomb.

You just wanted things to go back to normal. Once they started treating you like they did before, then you could be the same as you were before.

You're not the same, Y/N.

Nothing was.

—

Penelope couldn't get through to you. You were quiet all day except to share your theories. The next day was the same. And the next. And the next. Until the bastard was caught.

Max Campbell was rescued. You weren't there to see it, but you wondered if it really made a difference. He was just a boy, so full of light.

Would that light ever come back to him?

You exhaled, running your hand over your face. Even though you stayed home, you were exhausted. You didn't sleep more than an hour at a time, but that wasn't much different from your new routine.

You were starting to see more of the moon than the sun.

When the team returned, you greeted them all with smiles. There, just like before. The only difference was that you didn't talk to Hotch.

He glanced at you, wordlessly telling you to talk to him, but you weren't gonna do that.

Rossi noticed the lack of communication between you. Everyone did, but he was the only one who'd say something about it.

Stirring his coffee in the break room, he started, "Aaron is... stubborn. But he's extra hardheaded for the people that he loves." Loves.

Your hand stilled halfway to grabbing the coffee pot, but you recovered quickly, grabbing it and pouring yourself a cup. You glanced side to side, checking to see if anyone was around to hear him and whatever he was implying. 

When you found no one else, you replied, "Okay." You weren't going to dignify that claim with any other response.

You knew Aaron cared about you; you'd be a shitty profiler not to know that. But love was a strong word.

Love didn't leave you all alone when you begged it to stay. Love didn't stay away from you while you were lying in a hospital bed. Love didn't interrogate you and make you sit on the sidelines when you didn't answer its questions. Love didn't make you feel so cold when all you wanted was to feel warm.

Rossi stopped pretending to pay attention to his coffee. You didn't meet his eyes. "Bellissima, you're going to have to talk to him eventually."

"Can you pass the creamer, please?"

"No." Finally, you looked up, meeting Rossi's passionate gaze. "It gets worse before it gets better. You have to let that happen."

You clenched your fists, digging your nails into your palms. You didn't see how it could possibly get worse than this.

"You know, I don't really think I want this coffee anymore." You left the mug on the counter, exiting the break room and leaving the conversation altogether.

— 

"Hotch, please. The case is right here—"

"No."

"Come on, I'll be right by your side the whole time," you argued. A new case came in, just over in Montclair, and you were trying to negotiate your way into it. Two cases had passed where he made you stay in Quantico. It was becoming nonsensical.

You thought he'd crack by now, but he remained firm in his resolve, refusing to let you in the field until you talked about what happened. And "talking about it" was something you didn't want to do, much less with him.

His gaze had more heat than the sun outside. You could tell he was contemplating it. Even he must've been able to see how absurd this was, holding you back from your work when he wouldn't do the same to anyone else.

When it was him on the other side of this, he came back to work. He went into the field 30 days after being stabbed nine times. You only endured a third of that.

You thought back to that day. You'd rushed to the hospital and didn't leave his side. You visited him every day, keeping him company and updating him on your cases. You never iced him out the way he was isolating you right now. You never avoided him when you knew he was hurting.

If you talked to him—if you had that conversation—then that's what you'd say. You'd end up saying something foolish about the things you felt, feelings he wouldn't reciprocate. You'd reopen wounds you were desperately trying to close.

So you wouldn't.

You didn't say a word of what you were really thinking, sticking to the script. Please let me go. I'll be fine. I'll stay by you.

Eventually, he made up his mind. "Fine."

You could've nearly smiled.

— 

The case finished speedily. You captured the unsub and found the girl just in time. Happily ever after.

Hotch didn't seem to think so.

As soon as the elevator doors opened to the sixth floor, he was storming past you all, his footsteps thunderous against the floor. Garcia's smile fell from her face when she saw.

Without turning back, he called, "Y/L/N. My office, now."

You rolled your eyes, following him and ignoring the looks your colleagues exchanged. They did that a lot, lately. But everyone stayed silent, electing not to make commentary. It was smart, not wanting to add fuel to the fire.

But you... you were the most fire you'd been in months. For the first time since what happened, you didn't feel cold. White hot anger coursed through your veins, lighting a fuse that no one could get rid of.

You slammed Hotch's door on your way in. He immediately turned to you, seething, "That was reckless and stupid—"

"It got the job done—"

He raised his voice. "You walked into the house alone, without backup—"

"I talked him down—"

"You could've died!"

"It wouldn't be the first time!" you snapped. Your chest heaved as if you'd just run a marathon, phantom pains in your abdomen supporting your words. 

He glanced downward before meeting your eyes again. For a second, it was almost like you were looking at Aaron. It was almost like he was understanding. 

You got quieter, but your voice was no less firm. "It certainly won't be the last."

And just like that, Aaron disappeared. No longer your friend. Back to the prosecutor, the unit chief who took your words as a challenge. His eyes narrowed. "Yes, it will be." It took you a moment to understand what he meant, but he soon made it very clear. "Your gun and your badge, now. You're suspended for the next two weeks."

You took a step backward as if his words were a slap in the face. "What?"

Hotch didn't lighten up, his face completely impassive. "You are a danger to yourself, and I cannot allow you into the field in good conscience." He held his hand out. "Gun. Badge. Now."

You echoed, "You're suspending me?"

"Yes."

An incredulous scoff left you. He was suspending you after everything? When he had done the same and worse?

He was allowed to use his judgement and keep things to himself, but the second you stepped out of line, he wanted to suspend you? You couldn't believe it. You wouldn't believe it.

In a split second, you made a snap decision. If he didn't want you here, then it wouldn't be on his terms.

You unholstered your gun and unpocketed your badge, shoving them in his chest as opposed to handing them to him. You didn't take your eyes off him once, maintaining your glare.

You hoped it burned.

"You're not suspending me," you rebutted, taking a step closer to him. Realization dawned on his face. "I quit."

Hotch's face morphed into something that almost looked like regret. You wouldn't stay long to savour it.

You spun on your heel, marching out of his office with him right behind you. The team, who no doubt heard small bits of your conversation, looked confused. You didn't stop for any of them.

"Y/N, this conversation isn't finished." He must've thought that'd get to you. His unit chief voice, big and loud. But your feet didn't stop moving.

With your back still turned to him, you retorted, "No, but I am."

You reached the elevator, pressing the ground floor and close button within seconds of each other. When the doors closed, Hotch's approaching figure was gone, replaced by your own reflection.

A shaky breath left you. The fluorescent lights in the elevator were blinding. It was brighter in there than it was anywhere else in the building. But when you got out to the parking lot, it was just dark.

Artificial lights. Not the sun.

They didn't last. They had switches; you could turn them off.

Your switch was flipped, too. For a second, you were hot and blazing, burning brighter than you'd ever burned before. But as soon as you left the building, that changed completely.

You were immersed in darkness.

And you were alone.

[ssaaaronmontgomery]

thoughts about mean stepdad!hotch who is polite to everyone other than you... lashing out angrily because it's the only thing that can stop him from bending u over and taking what he wants from u, filling u up with his hot cvm over and over again 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

Stop Ignoring Me

Warnings: Smut, p in v sex, mean!stepdad!hotch (both consenting adults), mentions of oral sex (fem!recieving), mentions of Hotch masturbating and thinking of reader, reader gets bratty, I think that's it but let me know if I missed anything!

Word count: 850

Pairing: stepdad!hotch x fem!reader

A/n: Oh my god YESSSS. I got very carried away at some point when I was working on writing my thoughts out 😅. At some point it turned into a blurb so that is what I'll count it as. I hope you enjoy it 🫶. The writing may be a bit off because it was originally going to be a thoughts post but I am leaving it as is.

Forever tags: @greg-montgomery @boredelle @hotchsdoormat @ssahotchnerr @criminalskies @beardedhotchh @hotchnerbau @ssamorganhotchner @mrs-ssa-hotch @canuck-eh @luvehotch @callm3c0nfus3d @ivyflowers13

Hotch: @14buddy22 @pastanoodles11 @htchnr

For this post only: @queenofvelaris @itsneverlupus2

Let me know if you want to be added to my tags 🫶

*NSFW MDNI*

It is how he keeps you at a distance so that he doesn't rail you until you can't think anymore. You never understood why he was always so mean and cold to you but would turn around and be so nice with his voice so soft to everyone else. Sometimes you wonder what you did wrong to feel like he hated you so much. It made you sad. The one person you had eyes for would hardly even speak to you. He wouldn't look at you. But little did you know that if he did look at you that his eyes would wander, and he would end up hard in his slacks before leaving for the BAU every single morning.

And then there was one time you overheard him moaning in the room he shared with your mother. She was gone for that weekend, so it was easy to imagine what he was doing. You shouldn't have listened, but you did. And that's how you found out that he was fucking his fist to the thought of you. Your name falling from his lips sounded amazing, but it shocked you. Not only because he's your stepdad but he treats you like you barely even exist.

So, when you realise that he must be acting that way to keep you at a distance, you decide to try getting him to warm up to you. You do everything you can. You make him a drink when you know he will be home from a long case. You make him food sometimes. He loves how it tastes but he acts like it's just okay. You practically throw yourself at him multiple times, but he pretends that that's not what is happening and completely denies you any sliver of interest. When being over-the-top nice doesn't do anything to get that scowl off his face, you start to be a brat instead.

You start to be just as rude to him. You ignore him and you pretend that he's not there. You don't greet him like you used to whenever you saw him. You stop with making him any drinks or food. You act as disinterested in him as possible. He notices it immediately. And he does not like it. He liked the attention you would show him, but he knew he had to ignore you, or he wouldn't be able to help fucking you until you were screaming his name at the top of your lungs

It wasn't until you came home with so little clothing and smeared lipstick that he finally ended up breaking. He pulled you into his home office and asked where you had been looking like that. He asked if you were out fucking someone. You weren't, but clearly the show you had put on had worked. You smeared that lipstick yourself just to get this reaction from him.

"All this time I've tried so hard not to fuck you and fill you with cum. I've tried not to stare too long. I've held myself back from tasting you. You have no idea how many times I have thought about doing things to you, how many positions I've thought about taking you in. I can't decide which to start with. Any ideas?" His voice is so deep and dark and it makes your knees weak. You just stare at him with wide eyes. He chuckles and you think it sounds condescending. "I think I know where to start." And then he drags you over to his desk, clears it, and yanks your clothes off before bending you over it. He presses his crotch against your dripping heat and you can feel how painfully hard his is in his slacks that he has yet to change out of after work. You know that means he was doing paperwork as he waited for you to come home.

"You feel what you do to me? You're soaking wet. You like this? You knew exactly what you were doing, hm? Trying to piss me off enough to get me to fuck you?" All you can do is whine and nod.

"Wanted you to stop ignoring me." You manage to pout at him You can hear him undoing his slacks and you imagine him pulling his cock out. You feel his tip begin rubbing through your slit and then it's prodding at your entrance. He finally pushes into you completely without much warning. He feels big, but not too big. He doesn't give you any time to adjust before he starts pounding into your pussy with no mercy. He spends the rest of the evening fucking you over and over again. He is taking all of his pent-up frustration out from not being able to have you and he's not sure when he'll get to have you again. When he's not fucking you, he is eating you out until he gets hard again. By the time he's done with you, his cum is dripping down your thighs and you both know that you're ruined for any other person, and you know it will happen again at some point. Even if he tries to restrain himself like he had before.

[whosscruffylooking]

The Purest Things: If I Could Be Where You Are

Aaron Hotchner x Fem! Reader Word Count: 2.6k Warnings: Murder. Blood. Death. Weapons. Canon typical violence. Everything that makes Criminal Minds, Criminal Minds. The Purest Things Masterlist

au! april 2009

Bookend: "Healing yourself is connected with healing others." -Yoko Ono

It’s been a month since The Reaper attacked you, a month since his escape, and a month since you were forced on leave, unable to help your team in person. The days drag on, each one slower than the last. You’ve resorted to reorganizing every drawer in your house, making every recipe in the book, and even trying to learn how to knit, but nothing seems to quiet the restlessness gnawing at you.

One thing, however, has kept you grounded—the small, thoughtful gifts left on your doorstep by a mysterious someone. Whether it’s a meal from your favorite restaurant or a candle with the comforting scent of teakwood, they appear like clockwork, each more perfect than the last. You know it’s Rossi. He has a habit of quietly looking out for people like he once did for a family whose case stayed with him for years. 

You glance at the clock: 6 p.m. He’ll be here any moment. Another constant keeping you sane has been Aaron. Every evening, he arrives with the latest case files, ensuring you still feel connected to the team—even if they have no idea you’re working behind the scenes.

Knock, knock, knock…pause, knock, knock.

The secret code brings a grin to your face as you move to unlock the door. You and Hotch came up with it weeks ago—your foolproof way of ensuring it wasn’t George Foyet or anyone else unwelcome standing on the other side. He even insisted on always using the back door, just to be extra cautious.

When you swing it open, Hotch is standing there with a small, knowing smile, but tonight he isn’t alone.

“I brought reinforcements,” he announces, stepping aside to reveal Penelope and Spencer.

Your jaw drops, and you can’t stop the tears that instantly spring to your eyes. “Oh my god,” you whisper, overwhelmed.

Penelope wraps you in a tight, crushing hug while Spencer hovers behind, clearly eager but more cautious. The sharp pang of pain radiates from your still-healing injuries, but you don’t care.

“Oh my god,” you manage, your voice thick with emotion. “I missed you guys so much.”

Penelope pulls back to kiss your cheek, her bright smile fading as she studies you. “We’ve missed you more, babycakes. Look at you—so gorgeous even in recovery. What is your secret?”

“Endless hours of absolutely nothing,” you quip, turning to Spencer. “Finally, no more online chess games. We can actually play in person again.”

Spencer lights up. “You’ve gotten better,” he says, his tone as matter-of-fact as always. “It was starting to feel like you were anticipating my moves. I have a theory that—”

“Okay, Einstein, let her breathe,” Penelope interrupts, shooting him a mock glare. “Besides, she’s mine tonight.”

You glance toward Hotch, standing quietly at the kitchen counter like he belongs there, his arms crossed and his expression softer than usual.

“I have to ask,” Penelope says, turning her attention to him. “Why weren’t we allowed to see her until now? You said something about security, but really?”

Hotch’s face remains composed. “We needed to ensure there were no patterns Foyet could track. Foot traffic had to be limited to supervisors and law enforcement.”

Penelope narrows her eyes at him, a sly smile creeping onto her face. “And let me guess—‘supervisor’ mostly meant you?”

Hotch doesn’t dignify her with a response, but the corner of his mouth twitches, and instead, he turns back to the kitchen counter to busy himself. His easy familiarity with your home is not lost on Spencer and Penelope, and you catch the shared glance they exchange.

"Alright,” you announce, waving your hands dramatically. “Since I have all of you here, let’s make it a real party. Hotch, you’re in charge of drinks. Garcia, you’re my sous chef. Reid—don’t argue—you’re in charge of setting the table.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Penelope says, throwing her arm around your shoulders gently. “Do you even have party supplies? What’s in your fridge?”

“Nothing worth celebrating,” you admit with a grin. “But we can improvise.”

“Oh, I am SO good at improvising a party,” Penelope declares, already dragging Spencer toward the refrigerator. “Reid, we are going to make magic happen in this fridge of doom.”

You chuckle, watching them bicker over ingredients before heading to Hotch. He’s at the counter, organizing the files he’d brought with him, the faintest hint of a smile lingering on his face.

“You’ve been found out,” you tease quietly, leaning against the counter beside him.

He glances at you, one eyebrow raising a silent question, “I don't know what you could mean."

“She’s not wrong, though,” you say softly. “You’ve been here more than anyone.”

His movements pause momentarily, his hand resting on one of the files. “You needed someone to keep you in the loop,” he says, his voice even. “I didn’t want you to feel alone in this.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Well, you’ve done more than that.”

He finally looks at you, his expression unreadable but his eyes soft. “It’s part of my job.”

You shake your head slightly. “Not like this, it isn’t.”

You let the silence overtake the moment until Penelope’s voice breaks it. “Oh my gosh, there is nothing but condiments in here! Reid, we’re ordering pizza.”

Hotch’s lips twitch, and you smile, stepping back toward the chaos in the kitchen. “Come on, Agent Hotchner,” you call over your shoulder. “Even you can’t say no to pizza.”

The evening unfolds in an almost normal way, as if you’ve stepped out of the chaos for a little while. Penelope takes over your small kitchen like it’s a gourmet setup, insisting you sit while she and Hotch bicker over the proper way to open a bottle of wine. Spencer sets the table with mismatched plates, lecturing you on the psychological benefits of symmetry, and you can’t stop laughing.

Hotch eventually joins you in the living room, handing you a glass of wine. He doesn’t say much, but the way his hand stays on yours for a second too long says everything. By the time the night winds down, the laughter has eased the weight you’ve been carrying for weeks, and for a few precious hours, you almost forget about the scar carved into your skin and the monster who put it there.

When Penelope hugs you goodbye, she whispers in your ear, “He’s been your rock, hasn’t he?”

You glance toward Hotch, Spencer already outside. “Yeah,” you say softly. “He has.”

By the time they leave, it’s late, and the house feels quiet again. You’re clearing the empty mugs from the coffee table when Hotch stops you, taking them from your hands.

“I’ll get these,” he says softly.

You hesitate, watching him move toward the kitchen with the easy familiarity of someone who belongs here. It’s comforting in a way you can’t quite put into words.

“Thank you,” you say, and it feels like you mean it for more than just the dishes.

He glances back at you, his expression unreadable but warm. “Always.”

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

It’s your first day back to work, and you stand in front of your mirror, straightening your jacket with a steady hand. The weight of your badge in your pocket feels reassuring now, grounding you in the moment. You take a deep breath, looking at your watch, knowing Aaron will be here any minute to pick you up.

The sound of a car pulling into your driveway makes your heart skip a beat. You head out the door, and as you reach the car, you see Aaron sitting behind the wheel, a warm smile spreading across his face. “I got you a Diet Coke,” he says, handing you a can. “I know coffee isn’t your favorite.”

You laugh, taking the can from him. “This day is already off to a great start,” you say, grateful for the small gesture, the simple comfort of his presence.

The drive to the office is quiet but comforting. The familiar roads, the faint whirr of the car, and the knowledge that you’re heading back to your team—it all feels right. As you arrive at the BAU, you and Hotch ride the elevator up in silence, but you notice something. His usual composed demeanor is slightly off. His fingers are rubbing together in that subtle way you’ve come to recognize. It’s a tell—one of the small things you’ve picked up over the past month of recovery.

“You okay, Hotch?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, concerned.

He meets your gaze momentarily, offering a small, reassuring smile. “Just a little anxious,” he admits, his voice almost softer than usual. “It’s been a while.”

The elevator dings as it reaches the BAU floor. You step out, expecting the usual buzz of activity, but what you get instead takes you completely by surprise.

“Welcome back!” A chorus of voices rings out, and you spin around, eyes wide with shock. There, in the middle of the floor, is the entire team—JJ, Reid, Penelope, Morgan, and even Rossi—all standing together with flowers, balloons, and the biggest smiles on their faces.

Your heart swells, and your breath catches in your throat as you glance back at Hotch. He’s standing there, a playful glint in his eyes, looking pleased with himself. “You knew?” you ask, half-amused, half-incredulous.

He simply shrugs, giving you a little smirk. “I plead the fifth,” he says, his voice full of warmth.

You don’t waste another second. You rush over to your team, greeting each with a hug, a laugh, and a few tears. The joy of seeing them, of being back where you belong, makes everything feel right again.

Penelope pulls you into an exaggerated hug, “We missed you so much, baby!” she says, her voice thick with affection.

Reid offers a shy smile as he hands you a carefully wrapped book. “I figured you’d need something to keep you busy since you’re back in action now,” he says, his voice a little more tentative than usual.

"Thank you! I read all of my personal library twice in the past month," you giggle.

Morgan gives you a one-armed hug, ruffling your hair. “Good to have you back,” he says with his usual easy grin.

As you pull back from them, your gaze drifts to Aaron, standing a little to the side, watching you with a look of quiet pride. 

You finally turn to him, offering a soft smile. “I guess you weren’t the only one keeping secrets,” you tease, and he chuckles, looking a little embarrassed.

“This is nothing,” Hotch says, a slight twinkle in his eyes. “You should see the surprise party they’ve got planned for you at lunch.”

You can’t help but laugh, feeling lighter than you have in weeks. This is precisely where you need to be. With them. With him.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

Rossi knocks on Aaron’s door deliberately but gently. The sound breaks the stillness of the office, and Aaron looks up from his paperwork, nodding for him to come in. Rossi steps inside, settling into the chair across from him. His eyes drift toward the bullpen, where you’re working.

Aaron follows his gaze and immediately understands what this is about. It doesn’t take a profiler to know what’s coming next.

“I’m glad she’s back,” Dave says quietly, sincerity laced in his voice.

“Me too,” Aaron responds briskly, trying to deflect. “So, that report from last week’s case—”

“Does Haley… uh… have you told her about your visits to Y/N’s?” Rossi cuts in, getting straight to the point.

Aaron’s mouth opens, but no words come out. His eyes flicker to Rossi, a tightness settling in his chest.

“Ah,” Rossi murmurs, leaning back in his chair, a knowing glint in his eye. “I assume that’s because of the safety protocols after she was attacked?”

Aaron sinks into his seat, fingers absently tapping against the desk. The guilt is heavy, pressing down on him. “No,” he admits quietly. “I just haven’t brought it up to her.”

Rossi sighs, his gaze softening. “Aaron, you’re not fooling anyone. Especially not me.” He pauses, letting the silence stretch just long enough to let his words settle. “You can’t keep this under wraps forever. You know that, right?”

Aaron meets his gaze, the weight of his words hitting harder than he expected. “I know,” he mutters. “It’s just… complicated.”

Rossi studies him, then nods. “I get it. But you’re walking a tightrope here. You need to figure out where you stand—before someone else does it for you.”

“Dave, there’s no tightrope,” Aaron says, his voice firm, though there’s a trace of frustration underneath. “There’s nothing to keep under wraps. I’m her supervisor. I went over to her house to gain her perspective on the case. That’s all.”

He leans back, crossing his arms, trying to convince himself as much as Rossi.

Rossi raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Right,” he says slowly, his tone teasing. “And you’ve never felt any… personal connection to her? After all the time you two have spent together?”

Aaron’s jaw tightens. “I’m not blind, Dave,” he snaps, but his gaze drops to the desk, avoiding the question. “But I’m also not foolish enough to cross that line.”

Rossi watches him for a beat, then smirks. “Just remember the fraternization rules, Aaron. I think I’m the reason they exist in the first place.”

Aaron exhales, rubbing his temples. “I’m aware of the rules,” he mutters. “I’m just trying to figure out what to do about… everything.”

Rossi hesitates before speaking again, choosing his words carefully. “There’s a reason Foyet targeted her, Aaron, whether or not you want to believe it.” His tone is measured, but the implication lands like a gut punch. Aaron’s posture stiffens.

“Dave,” he warns, his voice low, edged with tension, daring him to continue.

“She’s scarred, Aaron. Forever. And it’s your initials she carries for a reason. He branded her with your name because he saw it—the connection between you two. He didn’t target one of us; he went after her because something about her led him straight to you.”

Aaron’s pulse quickens, his jaw tight. “What exactly are you implying, Dave?” His voice is steady, but his guarded expression gives him away.

“If Foyet could see your attachment to her, I can, too. And I’d wager she’s noticed it as well,” Rossi says, leaning forward slightly. “Maybe it’s time you stop running from it and admit it to yourself before she gets hurt again.”

Rossi pushes himself up from the chair, gives Aaron one last knowing look, and then leaves the office, leaving Aaron alone with his thoughts.

Aaron exhales slowly, the weight of their conversation pressing heavily against his ribs. He stands, moving to the window, his eyes finding you in the bullpen. You’re fully immersed in the files in front of you, strong and resilient, throwing yourself back into the work as if nothing ever happened.

But something did happen.

Dave’s words echo in his mind as he watches you. You’re scarred—forever marked by his initials, a cruel reminder of the consequences of his choices. Of chasing a ghost and letting it get too close to the people he cares about.

Aaron’s chest tightens, guilt coiling around his thoughts. He silently vows that nothing else will ever happen to you. Not to you. Not to anyone else he loves. Loves.

The realization lands like a blow, and he presses a hand against the window frame for support.

His gaze lingers, the truth hitting him harder than he’s willing to admit, even to himself.

“If only I could be where you are,” he murmurs under his breath.

But in another lifetime, maybe. One where he isn’t an older man, divorced, a father weighed down by years of mistakes and ghosts. One where the miles between the lives you’ve lived and the lives he’s endured didn’t feel so insurmountable.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

[littleslaywrites]

control | aaron hotchner x reader

nsfw, mdni 

summary: when aaron comes to your hotel room to apologize for yelling at you, he admits his struggle to give up control, and you force him to submit for once. 

word count: 2.5k

cw: smut, f!reader, sub!hotch, dom!reader, restraints (handcuffs), choking, coming in pants, unprotected sex

The conference room was deadly silent. Tension hung in the air as everyone reviewed the case files, trying to come up with a solid theory. Nobody wanted to speak, not after Hotch had chewed you out for incorrectly assuming the suspect you were interviewing was the unsub.

“What did you think you were doing, taking control of the interrogation? You rushed into a theory, and now the unsub knows we’re looking for him,” he said, voice raised to the point where he was nearly yelling. “This sloppy work won’t fly. Another mistake like this will force me to reevaluate if you’re fit to be on this team.”

His berating continued for a good five minutes. You’d seen him speak this way to unsubs or local officers that disobeyed his orders, but he’d never been this way with you. A lump formed in your throat at his words. You could feel the team’s eyes on you, watching as Hotch embarrassed you in front of everyone in the station.

You only nodded in response, head hanging low. The team averted their eyes as you returned to the conference room, eyes trained on the papers in front of them.

Emily had pulled you aside, reassuring you he was just upset in the heat of the moment. Her words only did so much to soothe you, Hotch’s remarks still echoing in your head. 

You sat in your hotel room that night, case files splayed on the small table across from the bed. Your mind was filled with ideas, trying to figure out how you went wrong. A knock at the door pulled you out of your spiral. 

Looking through the peephole, you sigh when you see it’s Hotch standing in front of the door. Part of you wants to ignore him, but you don’t want to seem childish.

“What do you want?” you ask, opening the door. You know you shouldn’t be so passive aggressive with your boss, but you can’t help it.

“Can I come in?” 

You nod reluctantly, closing the door as he stands in front of you.

“I just,” he lets out a heavy sigh as he speaks, “want to apologize. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

“Okay,” is all you say, your words lacking any acceptance of his apology. You sit on the bed, still waiting for him to say anything more. 

He continues when you stay silent. “Your work isn’t sloppy, and I have no intentions of ever kicking you off the team.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

He looks down at his hands. “In the interrogation, you took control. That’s supposed to be my job. I’m always the one in charge, and you caught me off guard.”

You stay quiet, considering his words.

“Ever since you joined the team,” he continues, “you’ve been more authoritative than the others. In interrogations, in the field, even when delivering profiles.”

You sigh, slightly annoyed. You could tell there was something he wasn’t saying. “What’s this really about, Hotch?”

He fidgets with his hands, reluctant to open up. “I never give up control, and it’s hard. It’s hard on me, to always have to be in charge, because I know all my decisions will impact everyone else.

“Sit,” you say, inviting him to join you on the bed. He settles down next to you. “I know you value your position, but you let someone else have control for once.”

“I guess… I just feel so much pressure. I have to be the one everyone relies on, and I have to be this image of strength, no matter how I’m feeling inside.

You’re surprised at his confession, at the way he’s opening up to you. “I know you feel like you have to be strong around the team, but if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here. As long as you never speak to me the way you did earlier.”

“I understand. I shouldn’t have treated you that way. You’re one of the few people who can see through my facade, and,” he trails off, confessions hanging heavy in the air, “it makes me nervous. You know me too well, even when I try to hide it.”

“I’m a profiler, after all,” you try to joke, wanting to relieve the tension between you. “I’m sure it’s hard to always have to be in charge.”

“It’s exhausting. I always have to be strong, never showing weakness. And then I go home, and nobody’s there to help shoulder the burden.”

“I’m sorry, Hotch,” you say. “If you ever need someone, just call me, no matter how late.” You sense something else behind his eyes. “Is that all?”

“There’s something different about you,” he begins, avoiding your gaze. “It’s terrifying, the way you knock down the walls I’ve spent so long building up. And the worst part is that you don’t even realize it.” 

Your hand moves to cup his jaw, before you quickly remember yourself and remove it.

“Why’d you pull away?”

“I don’t know,” you say. You return your hand, thumb running along his cheek. You feel him lean into your palm, and you can only imagine how long it’s been since someone’s touched him like this. You bring your other hand to the back of his neck, trying to soothe him. It’s a side you know nobody else sees, feeling him drop his tough exterior. “I’m here, Aaron.”

He lets out a shaky breath, feeling the warmth of your hands. “Hold me, please,” he requests, voice so low it’s nearly a whisper. 

Pulling him close, you run your hand along his back, wanting him to know you’re there for him.

“I’m so sorry,” he says quietly. “There’s no excuse for how I spoke to you, and I’m sorry.”

“Aaron?”

“Yes?” he responds, pulling away to look into your eyes, searching your gaze.

“Show me. Show me how sorry you are.”

Hotch’s breath catches in his throat. He’s desperate to prove his apology. “What do you want me to do?”

“What do you think? What could make it up to me?”

There’s a moment of silence, Hotch’s answer on the tip of his tongue. “I think,” he pauses, eyes looking into yours. “I think you should punish me.”

You hum, heart beating as he gives up control. “Punish you, baby?”

“Yes, punish me. I deserve it. I need it.”

“Stand,” you say, smiling.

Hotch takes a deep breath, following your instructions. He stands before you, waiting for more.

“Strip. Down to your underwear.” 

Hotch can feel his heart racing in his chest as he tries to curb his nervousness. He slowly undoes his tie, then his shirt, then takes his pants off. He sets everything down neatly on the floor. You run your eyes over him, watching him in such a vulnerable state. Even with his underwear on, you can see how hard he is. 

“Now, tell me, Aaron, what would a girl like me do to punish you?”

“You should make me suffer for what I did. Make me pay for being…” he pauses, “for being a bad boy.”

“A bad boy,” you repeat, smiling at his submission. 

“Yes, a bad boy. I’ve been bad and need to be punished.”

“Lay down on the bed.”

Hotch feels anticipation and arousal combining within him as he lays down on the hotel bed. You walk to your bag, rifling through it. You find your handcuffs, showing them off as you approach him again. The metal glints in the light as they dangle from your fingers.

“Hands above your head.”

He does what you say, and you clip them onto his wrists, securing him to the bed. Running a finger down his chest, you soak in the image of him when he’s given up all control. He looks good like this, muscles flexing above his head. 

You back up, making sure Hotch can see your whole body, and slowly remove your own clothes. Holding eye contact the whole time, you keep him in anticipation with your strip show. “Like what you see?” 

He groans, throat dry from the sight of you. “I love what I see. You’re gorgeous.”

You mock disappointment as you move closer to where he lies on the bed. “Too bad you’ve been naughty and won’t be able to touch me.”

His body tense, straining slightly against his restraints. “Please let me feel you.”

You sigh, pouting at him. “If you wanted to touch, you shouldn’t have yelled at me earlier.”

Hotch lets his head fall back, knowing you’re right. He’s been bad. He doesn’t deserve to have his hands free.

Sitting on your knees between his spread legs, you brush a hand against his bulge. Your touch is light, teasing him. He sighs as your thumb moves against his clothes hardness, needing more. You move your hands to his neck, not pressing down just yet. “All mine,” you say. 

“Yours. All yours.” His hips buck up beneath you. Taking his response as a sign, you squeeze down. Leaning over, you bring your mouth to his neck, sucking a hickey to his skin. He moans, making you giggle at how pathetic he is. 

When your hands leave his neck, you sit back on your thighs. Looking down at him, you notice a wetness soaking through his boxers. “Baby, did you…”

“Yes. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. It felt too good.”

“It’s okay, baby,” you soothe, running a hand through his hair. “You haven’t had anyone touch you like this in so long, have you?”

He nods. “And never like this. I’ve never given up control.”

“You’re so good when you do, baby.” You sit on his clothed cock, grinding down. “All that yelling was just a disguise for what you really wanted.”

He nods, so pitiful from your touch. Even though he’s already had one orgasm, he’s already needy for another. He can hardly control himself as you move your wetness over him. 

He’s moaning beneath you as you move your hips. “Imagine what the team would think if they knew their boss was nothing but a bad boy who needed to be punished,” you say, movements relentless. 

“They can’t know. They’d think I’m weak.”

“Not weak. You just need some guidance, a good punishment to get you back on track.”

You feel his arousal growing below you. Looking down at his lust-filed eyes, you realize he’s hungry for you once more. “Are you hard again, baby?”

He whispers a quiet “yes”, face flushed.

You slide his boxers down his legs, fingers brushing his bare skin. You hover over his cock, gripping the shaft. You’re on your knees facing away from him, wriggling your ass slightly to tease him. Sinking down slowly, you place a hand on his thigh. It takes a while to take him fully, which luckily doubles as another way to tease him. 

“So good. So tight.” He’s nearly whimpering, and you haven’t even moved yet. 

You start bouncing on him, caring only for your own pleasure. He’s straining against the handcuffs, wanting more of you. He’s fighting to keep his eyes open, wanting to see you, but he’s overwhelmed by the pleasure. 

His cock is large, hitting you deep. You slow down, wanting to feel him. Moving your hips steadily, you focus on the sensation. He’s dragging against your walls, rubbing your sweet spot. His feet are flexing and pointing, his leg muscles taut as he tries to control himself. 

As you speed up, he lets out a guttural moan. Fluttering against him, your breath comes out unsteadily. You control your sounds, not wanting to let him know that you’re approaching your release. 

His hips go to meet yours, thrusting up. You grab his hip forcefully, commanding him to stay still. 

Your movements speed up slightly as you feel your release approaching. You let a whine leave your lips as you cum, arching your back. Before he can finish, you roll off of him. 

Hotch’s eyes widen as he lets out a strangled cry. Desperate for his release, his hands tense against the cuffs.

You fake innocence. “I don’t know why you’re whining. I feel fantastic. Is something wrong?”

He grits his teeth. “No, nothing’s wrong.” His cock is hard and red, twitching and aching for any touch.

You lean down, lips brushing against his ear. “Are you sure?”

He shivers at the sensation. “It’s perfect, except…”

“Except what? You can tell me.” 

Hotch takes a ragged breath. He’s trying to hold himself back, not wanting to beg. “Except I’m desperate. I’m aching for you. I’m so close.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, baby?” You put your hand on him, slowly stroking. 

He hips meet your hand, and this time you allow it. “Want more,” he breathes out. 

“Beg.”

“Please, I need to feel you around me. I need to cum inside you.”

Grinning, you remove your hand. You think of making him beg more, but his request to finish inside of you has you dripping. 

This time, you face him. Having adjusted to his size, you take him in faster. Your movements have little rhythm. You’re sensitive, still recovering from your earlier release. You feel yourself reaching your peak again. 

“Let me cum, please. Tell me I can,” he whines out, whole body tense. 

“Cum for me.”

His moans echo throughout the room as he stills, releasing inside of you. At the same time, you cry out, another orgasm hitting you. You sit on his cock for a second, letting both of you recover. 

“Feel better?” you ask, moving off of him. His seed drips down your leg, and you can feel his eyes watching. 

“Yes. Thank you.”

Pressing a light kiss to his forehead, you go back to your bag, grabbing the key to the handcuffs. You unlock him, throwing the cuffs beside the bed into your clothes pile. Cuddling up next to him, you grab his hand, kissing his red wrists. “So good for me,” you say quietly. 

“I’ll be good from now on, I promise.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

“Can I touch you now?” His hands are still in yours, not wanting to do anything without your command.

“Of course you can. Hold me, Aaron.”

He sighs, wrapping his arms around you. His embrace is gentle, and he buries his face in your neck. Bringing your hand up to cradle the back of his head, you twirl his hair around your fingers. You let the moment go quiet, enjoying each other's company.

“Have you ever let anyone take control like that?”

Hotch hesitates. He’s always prided himself on being strong, in charge at work and at home. “No. I’ve never given myself up in this way.”

Holding him a little tighter, you ask “Did you like it?”

“I did. More than I expected. It was nice belonging to someone for once.”

“Maybe you should do it more often, then.” 

His heart skips a beat at the thought. “I would like that.”

You smile, glad he’ll want to come back to you again. “I think you’ve had enough punishment. Let’s get to sleep.”

[frazzledfawn]

18+ !! <3 coming to theatres soon...

aaron hotchner ✧ .・doting, international passport, black coffee, dinner reservations, knowing glances, family home, early riser, i love you notes, late night calls, upside down smiles, pressed ties, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, classic musicals, awful flirting.

fucked my way to the top, lana del rey

still into you, paramore

knockin' on heavens door, bob dylan

something, the beatles

false god, taylor swift

new york, new york, frank sinatra

[ksascriptt]

Suck It And See - Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Aaron Hotchner x Wife!BauProfiler!Reader

Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, mentions of mutilation (just the fact that it had happened at some point), lots of crying, not so great writing :( Haley isn’t murdered in this but she has fully left Hotch and Jacks life for reasons I haven’t decided yet — I don’t want Aaron to quite have that ptsd from losing a second lover.

Summary: You and Aaron have been married for five years, and you both hold jobs at the Behavioural Analysis Unit as Criminal Profilers — how is he supposed to react when you are the target that is doomed to die ?

Notes: The original plan was a LOT different than how this is gonna turn out, so consider this as like some background info for the later chapters. Enjoy ! 🫶

Word Count: like 1100 or something close to that

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

Three Weeks Ago, 29 January.

Yesterday and the day before, with an abundance of phone calls, meetings, messages, and tears, you were delivered the unfortunate news that you had fourteen days left to live — two weeks. It didn’t seem real, but you were quick to realize just how real it was.

The deal you hadn’t quite agreed to was that you were to free two highly dangerous and hostile prisoners (which, you couldn’t even do, it was beyond your jurisdiction) or you would be killed in two weeks time. Several agents had tried to find the group that planned this, attempted to stop them even, and they were all murdered. Brutally, really, their bodies mutilated in ways you hoped yours wouldn’t be.

So, you had no choice but to accept the fact that death would hold you in its clutches when life could not. Your friends and family didn’t take this well, they all rioted and tried to make it better but somehow, the group was untraceable — the BAU team, the best of the best, couldn’t save you. Aaron was your husband, you’d been married for five years and together for seven, and he couldn’t save you either. This information destroyed him, tore his chest open and gripped his heart like a vice. How does one accept the inevitable death of their lover?

He felt helpless when he realized he couldn’t help you, felt unsure and afraid for the first time in a long time — but he was determined to change your fate. Aaron was always a focused man, his attention rarely strayed from his priorities and he was so put together. It was odd to see him now, on the floor in front of the couch, ankles crossed and elbows resting on them. His hands were running through his dark hair, messy and unruly with stress and his fingers trembling as he occasionally clenched them. Your husband wasn’t the type to sit on the ground and damn-near panic, like he was doing now, face red and the remnants of tears stuck to his beautiful face.

The lights were off and it was dark outside, the only visible glow being emitted from a lamp in the other room, casting an orange-grey shadow on the room and the man it contained. The day had already been long, many tears had been shared and shed throughout the past two days, and you were not exempt from that. In fact, you were nearly drowning in the sheer amount of sadness and fear that coursed through your blood, as though it had entered your lungs in the time it took you to realize this was happening. But you couldn’t help but set your eyes upon Aaron, his casual clothing of a crewneck and jeans, and just how different he appeared now. Everything he stood for felt like it had been crushed in just a few days. You were such a prominent part of his life now, he adored and loved you more than anyone could ever understand, how could he cope with knowing he would lose you when he spent so much time trying to never let you go?

Leaning against the wide, open-formatted archway in the living room, you couldn’t bring yourself to rip your teary eyes away from the nearly crumpled form of your husband. This wasn’t right, you knew that — but you couldn’t let this tear everyone apart from the inside.

“ Aaron, honey? “

You asked softly, sniffling a little as you tried to keep your head level.

“Come here, I think maybe we should go to bed; it’s… been a long day,” you decided, keeping your volume low even as you moved to walk over to him. His head raised, eyes red and a little bloodshot as he took in the sight of you. A short time passed until he was able to stand to his full form, exhausted from work – or, rather, exhausted from trying to find anything that could save you. The taller man merely hummed in response, frowning for a second before wrapping his trembling arms around you, as though he’d never let you go. He didn’t think he should have had to let you go. It was unfair, cruel, irrational.

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

You had managed to coax Aaron to bed, and he barely let you go, not even just to change. He hated the sudden attention to detail he had, how he was forced to commit everything about you to memory for you were running on a clock until you were torn away from him. From the world. How would Jack take this? And even worse, how could you tell him that it was inevitable? Nobody understood. It hurt, you almost felt like you had been given up on so fast, as if the FBI had decided they couldn’t even try to save you, as though you weren’t worth the trouble. Maybe you were bitter out of fear, maybe you thought it was unjust.

Your mind wandered everywhere as you lay in his arms, the cold air drifting in from the open window a harsh reality in the safety of Aaron’s hold. “I don’t understand,” he finally spoke, the first words since a mild outburst he’d had this afternoon, emotions at a high at the office. “You don’t understand?” You repeated back to him, confirming. “No,” he began, “I don’t. It’s.. untraceable, I don’t know why I can’t stop this. It’s my job to stop this, sweetheart.” Aaron was shirtless, wearing only flannel pajama pants, legs entangled with your own. You wore a shirt of his, something older; from college, probably. “I.. there’s been four agents dead because of me. There’s more risking their lives. I’ll get everything arranged,” you explained with a slowly breaking voice. Tears welled in your eyes at every blooming thought. You were thirty, barely a real adult but you weren’t lucky enough to live until your next birthday. The lottery of life was not yours to be rewarded. “I love you, Aaron.”

“I love you more, honey.”

Nobody could count just how many times those words had been uttered already, for fear every time would be the last. The feeling that eventually, you would say it once and never say it again. But the clock was ticking everyday, and you couldn’t change that, no matter how much you yearned for just a little more time. With a mind racing a mile a minute, tried to zero in on his heartbeat, not on the tears slowly slipping from your eyes and onto Aaron’s chest.

[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

[reidalert]

spencer is for the girlies who want a cutesy nerdy boy who will beg for you

& hotch is for the girlies who want a cold yet caring man who will make you beg for him

[ssamorganhotchner]

Lord have mercy 😵‍💫🤭🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋

Our Secret Moments in Crowded Rooms [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader] *

Ki2k Masterlist||MainMasterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 2.5k|| AN: Combined a little thirsty thursday smut with 5+1 weekend prompt for one of my last Ki2k fics! ||Requests are still open for Ki2k!!

Tags/Warnings: female reader, sexting, nudes, 5+1, mdni, smutty themes, sexual themes, bau!reader, lingerie, implied age gap

Summary: Five times you send Aaron Hotchner a dirty text message, and the one time he sends you one.

The first time you did it was in the bustling conference room, everyone’s attention had been squarely focused on Erin Strauss, who was remotely detailing the future financial directions for the BAU.

Hotch sat with his usual impeccable posture at the head of the table, a fortress of professionalism. 

The entire team--Rossi, Derek, Emily, JJ, Penelope, and Spencer--were present, occasionally exchanging weary glances or stifled yawns. The atmosphere was stifling with budget talk and strategic projections.

You, well aware of how mundane these meetings could be, decided to add a spark of excitement. 

From across the table, you could see Hotch’s phone next to his notepad, the screen innocently dark. Remembering the daring photo you had snapped the night before--just a little something in very revealing lingerie--you couldn’t resist.

Quietly, with a mischievous smile, you selected the photo and sent it to him, your heart thumping with a mix of nervousness and thrill.

The moment the phone buzzed, Hotch’s hand moved reflexively to check it, a motion masked by the table. His expression, typically unreadable, faltered for a split second as he viewed the message. His eyes widened imperceptibly, a flush creeping up his neck--an uncommon sight. He locked the phone quickly, placing it face down with more force than necessary, his fingers tensing around the edges.

Rossi, sitting beside him, noticed the subtle change. Leaning closer under the guise of discussing the budget, he whispered with a hint of amusement, "Rough numbers, Aaron?"

Hotch, catching himself, gave Rossi a small nod and a wry, controlled smile, "Something like that," before turning his attention back to Strauss.

From the corner, Derek watched the exchange with a raised eyebrow, leaning back in his chair as he murmured to Emily, "Seems like the budget's more interesting than we thought." Emily covered a chuckle with her hand, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

Penelope, ever the sleuth for gossip, shot you a knowing look from across the table, her interest clearly piqued. Spencer, on the other hand, looked from one person to another, confused by the sudden shift in dynamics but deciding it was just another quirk of team interactions he'd yet to understand.

As the meeting wrapped up, Hotch stood, adjusting his suit jacket with a nervous energy. Passing by you, he murmured low enough for only you to hear, "Nice photo," a stern look on his face but his tone warm with appreciation.

The second time, with a sly smile, you observed Hotch through the glass window of his office, his face etched with stress as he furiously penned down reports. The deep lines on his forehead spoke volumes of the pressure he was under. Inspired to ease his burden and inject a spark of youthfulness into his day, you knew just the trick to divert his attention and perhaps elicit a more relaxed expression.

Pulling out your phone, you crafted a risqué text, teasing and bold: 

"If I were there right now, those reports wouldn't be the only thing spread out on your desk..." 

Your fingers hesitated only a moment before sending it, your heart fluttering with a mix of anticipation and mischief. You then fixed your gaze on him, watching as his intense focus on the reports was interrupted by the buzz of his phone.

Hotch paused, his hand reaching automatically for the device. He read your message, and for a moment, he seemed frozen; the pen halted mid-air. Then, slowly, a smile creased his usually stern face, and he shook his head in disbelief at your audacity. The stress lines seemed to smooth as his eyes lit up with a mix of amusement and something more intense, more fiery.

After a brief moment, his fingers began to move rapidly over the screen. You waited, curious and a bit nervous about what his reply might entail. The phone buzzed in your hand, and you glanced down to read his response. The words on the screen were shockingly bold and flirtatious: 

“Promise to handle me with more care than those reports? Because that’s an offer I’d hate to file away for later.” 

Hotch was playing along, stepping up to your challenge with a surprising flair.

Looking up, you caught his gaze through the window. He was watching you, a smug smirk replacing the usual stoic expression. His eyes twinkled with mischief, clearly pleased with the exchange. The atmosphere between you, charged with a playful yet palpable tension, promised more daring banter and perhaps some interesting developments once the workday ended.

The third time, the BAU team was scattered across hotel rooms, weary from a long day on a challenging case. With the set protocol firmly in place, you and Hotch had separate rooms to maintain professionalism while on duty. But knowing the kind of pressure Hotch was under, especially after the particularly tough day he'd had, you felt a compassionate urge to offer him a bit of a reprieve--even if it was a bold move given your agreement.

As you settled into the solitude of your room, you remembered Hotch’s tense expression earlier that evening; his jaw set firm, his eyes shadowed with the weight of the day. The image spurred a mischievous yet caring idea. 

With a quiet resolve, you decided to take a daring step to ease his stress. You took a moment to set the scene in your dimly lit room, ensuring the ambiance was just right, subtle yet inviting. Then, with a deep breath, you snapped a tasteful yet undeniably sexy nude photo of yourself, one that accentuated your curves and held an artistic flair.

You hesitated for a moment, considering the implications, but your desire to lighten his mood won out. You sent the photo to Hotch with a simple, flirty message attached: 

“Wish you were here...”

Minutes ticked by, each one stretching longer than the last as you awaited his response. Finally, your phone buzzed. Hotch’s reply was succinct, yet it carried a depth of emotion that was rare for him to express in words: 

“Thank you, that means a lot right now. We *definitely* need to discuss vacation plans soon.”

Though brief, his message conveyed a warmth and appreciation that reassured you. It was clear your gesture had touched him, perhaps more because of the sentiment behind it than the photo itself. It was a small, intimate exchange, but it reinforced the deep connection between you, straddling the line between professional boundaries and personal support.

The fourth time, was after a fight. 

If you were asked what even started the fight, you’re not sure you could remember. It was that silly. 

As the tension from the silly argument lingered in the air of your shared apartment, you could feel the heaviness of Hotch's aggravation from the other room. Despite the trivial nature of the disagreement, his mood had soured, a rare occurrence that left the atmosphere charged with a silent stiffness. 

Knowing you had already moved past the disagreement and sensing that the prolonged silence was doing neither of you any favors, you decided it was time to lighten the mood and mend fences in a way that would catch him off-guard yet remind him of the deeper bond you shared.

With a playful resolution, you typed out a message from the comfort of the living room while he remained secluded in the study. Your fingers danced over the phone’s keyboard with a flirty intention: 

“Truce? I’m wearing the smile you gave me...and not much else. Come and make sure it stays on?”

You hit send, a small smile playing on your lips as you anticipated his reaction, hoping to dissolve the remnants of his frustration. 

It didn’t take long for the sound of shifting furniture to reach your ears, followed by the soft but rapid footsteps approaching. The door creaked open, and Hotch stood there, a slight smile breaking through his earlier demeanor. His eyes softened, humor mixed with affection warming his gaze as he took in your playful stance.

“I suppose that’s an offer too good to ignore,” he responded, the tension melting away as he stepped into the room, extending his hand in a peace offering and a promise of a heartfelt reconciliation.

The fifth time was a present of sorts--a prelude to the actual gift. 

For Hotch’s birthday, you had planned something extra special to end the day on a memorable note. Knowing he would be in the office later than usual due to a crucial meeting, you seized the opportunity to prepare a surprise that was sure to delight him. 

After slipping out of work a bit early, you ventured to a boutique and selected a stunning piece of lingerie, intricately designed and bold, perfect for the occasion.

Once home, you carefully arranged the lingerie, adorning yourself as if you were a gift needing unwrapping. The silky fabric felt luxurious against your skin, and you couldn’t help but feel a mix of nerves and excitement at the thought of his reaction. 

However, as time ticked by and Hotch’s meeting dragged on longer than you expected, the initial thrill began to wane, replaced by impatient anticipation.

To regain the spark and signal to Hotch the evening awaiting him, you positioned yourself in front of the bedroom mirror. The reflection that stared back at you was enticing--a playful yet irresistible invitation. 

You snapped a suggestive photo, the angle and lighting accentuating the curves and contours hugged by the lace and silk. Attaching a flirty message, you sent it to him: 

“Hurry home...your birthday present is waiting to be unwrapped.”

 Moments later, your phone buzzed with his response, his words fueling your anticipation further: 

“That’s the best motivation to end this meeting early. Save me some wrapping to tear into when I get there.” 

His message, a perfect blend of tease and affection, reassured you that the evening would be as thrilling as you had envisioned. 

Now, all that was left was the waiting, each minute stretching out with the promise of the celebration to come.

Your fingers raced over the phone’s keyboard, your tone playful and a bit teasing. Deciding to cross the line even further, you hoped this would be good motivation to hurry up and get here: 

"I might start without you...Can’t promise I’ll be patient much longer."

You were surprised when you saw the next message come in just as soon as you sent yours, meaning he was watching and waiting for your next move. 

"Now, that would be a crime. Give me 20 minutes. I'm leaving now."

Now, this could be fun. You chuckled softly, the excitement tingling through you as you typed another message, hinting at the evening's impending delights.

"20 minutes? I guess I’ll just have to find some way to occupy myself...Maybe I’ll start with the ribbon."

Twenty minutes? You knew very well the apartment was more-like thirty minutes away and Mister-I-Don’t-Go-That-Much-Above-The-Speed-Limit wouldn’t test that tonight. 

"Hold off on that ribbon. I want the full experience of unwrapping my gift. Consider it an order from your unit chief."

The reply was quick, infused with affection and a hint of mischief. You toyed with the edge of the lingerie, truly wishing time travel was a thing right now. You took a deep, shuttering breath and decided to be patient. It was his birthday, after all. 

“Yes, sir! I’ll be here...waiting and ready for inspection."

Poking the buttons had seemed to become your specialty. You knew if you wanted him here quicker, you might as well stop texting, but this game was far too fun. 

"Stay just like that. I’m rushing home. And, just so you know, you’ve already made this the best birthday yet."

Although you had already made the unknowing promise to fulfill his birthday dreams tonight, you knew now to amp it up a little--following through with that best birthday ever.

And then there was the one time that Aaron Hotchner truly---yes, truly, surprised you. 

He always surprised you, to be fair. His intelligence, his thoughtfulness, his quick-wit...all of it. 

But his ability to adapt to sexting? At work?! Now, this was a surprise.

It was a slow afternoon at the office, and the BAU team had just wrapped up a case. You were busily organizing files at your desk when your phone vibrated subtly beside your keyboard. 

Expecting a mundane work-related message or perhaps a reminder, you were surprised to see Hotch's name lighting up the screen. Curiosity piqued, you swiped open the message, your eyebrows rising in surprise at the content.

"Thinking about last night...can't get it out of my mind. How do you manage to do that?"

Flashbacks of last night passed by in your brain. It was a great night, you can’t deny that. A day of tension that turned into some perfect stress relief--stress relief that went on for quite a long time, mind you. 

You glanced around to ensure no one was peering over your shoulder before replying:

"I could ask you the same. But I’m glad it's stuck with you. Keeps the day interesting, doesn't it?"

There was a short pause during which you continued your work, albeit with a slightly distracted air. Soon, your phone vibrated again. 

You couldn’t believe your eyes; he was truly sexting you. 

In the middle of the workday. 

In the middle of the BAU. 

"Very interesting...and speaking of interesting, what if I told you I’m looking forward to more? Might even have a surprise for you tonight."

The vague hint at something more made your heart skip a beat. The tension between your legs began to grow too, suddenly wanting--needing some friction. 

You tapped out a response, your fingers moving swiftly over the phone’s keypad:

“Now you’ve made me curious...and a little impatient. Should I be preparing anything?"

And horny. You wanted to reply. 

"Just yourself. Maybe wear that necklace I like--and nothing else."

Holy shit. You looked around and life was funny this way. The rest of the world continuing on as if you weren’t sitting here ready to run up and fuck Aaron Hotchner in the middle of the work day. You knew you couldn’t, but the idea...the idea kept crossing your mind. Just like you crossed your legs in hopes it would help with the sudden ache that sat there. 

"Consider it done. I’m counting the minutes until I can see what you’ve planned."

You could almost hear his deep, even tone through the text, serious yet playful. The conversation was uncharacteristically bold for Hotch, especially during work hours, showing a side of him that rarely came out in the open. This unexpected twist in your routine day made the hours seem to drag as anticipation built.

"Count faster. I’ll be home by seven."

You were sure that sexting with Hotch was by far your new favorite thing. 

[honeypiehotchner]

Juno (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- one shot

Hello again! This goes from zero to 100 in two seconds flat don't @ me!! Sabrina's new album came out and reawakened something in me (everyone say thank you Sabrina) (also this is not beta'd I wrote this in a short n' sweet haze)

Summary: Aaron is working from home but what paperwork he needs to do is the absolute last thing on your mind.

Warnings: smut! 18+ only! this is so filthy! in no particular order: multiple orgasms, cockwarming, choking, brat tendencies, stoplight system, unprotected sex, breeding kink (briefly), face fucking, overstimulation

WC: like 3,400 I lost my damn mind clearly

You’re not sure what’s gotten into you. Blame it on period hormones (probably) or the fact that Aaron looks absolutely delicious right now in his tight black t-shirt (most likely), but you’re going to go insane if either of you have clothes on for another five minutes. 

The problem is, Aaron is trying to focus. It’s one of his days where he works from home, an idea you gave him when you realized how easy it would be for him to do the same paperwork just from the comfort of your living room. It was a brilliant idea at first. You got to see him more, and were able to do your own thing around the house while he did his work. You got to have lunch together, and offer a genuine mental break in between his mountain of paperwork. 

Now, though, you can’t find it in you to give a single fuck about whatever needs to be signed, who needs to clear what, and what phone calls he still needs to make. 

“Honey,” you call sweetly from the kitchen. You watch him from over the island, your thoughts going all sorts of ways -- namely, deep into the gutter. “Want to break for lunch?”

You see Aaron shake his head, still typing furiously on his laptop. “It’s not even noon yet.”

“Brunch?” you try again, walking out of the kitchen. You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms over your chest in the way you know he loves because of the view it gives him of your cleavage. And you’re wearing a v-neck shirt today for that exact reason, too.

Aaron still doesn’t look up. “I’m sorry honey, maybe in an hour?”

You let out a huff that you know he hears because he finally looks up, eyebrows raised just so. It’s a look that you love. Curious, veering toward that playful annoyance that you can’t seem to go a few hours without his undivided attention. 

Which, you can, by the way. You’re more than capable. It’s just that right now, it’s a crime that his eyes have been looking at paperwork when they should be looking at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and there’s some hesitation in his voice. You know he’s assuming the worst. That you’re not okay mentally, and that’s why you need him to take his lunch break now or maybe for the rest of the day. He’s done it before on your darker days.

But you’re okay. You’re perfectly fine. You’d just be even better if he put the damn laptop away and put his fingers to use somewhere else.

Which is exactly why you come to a stop in front of him and reach forward, tilting his screen down and down until it closes. He lets you.

He lets you take his laptop and put it on the table beside the couch. He watches you, his fiery brown eyes taking in every second. He lets you straddle his hips, your arms circling his neck.

“I see now,” he smirks, his hands finding their rightful place on your waist and squeezing lovingly. “By ‘lunch break’ you mean…”

“Put a baby in me,” you blurt, rocking your hips against his.

He stills, his hands making you stop your movements, too. His eyes are darker now in a way you haven’t seen in a while. “What?”

“Please,” you say, leaning your forehead down onto his, trying to move your hips again. “Need you.”

“Honey, we can’t have--”

“Yes I know the semantics, Aaron,” you mutter, now annoyed and lifting your head to glare at him. He has a vasectomy, you get that. “I mean fuck me like you’re putting a baby in me.”

His hands squeeze again. “I see.”

You frown. “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not,” he smirks, one hand leaving your waist to stroke your cheek. “You’re adorable when you’re horny.”

You roll your eyes, peeling yourself off his lap. He lets you go, albeit with a curious look. You turn and head for the bedroom.

“Where are you going?” he calls out after you, still with that damn smirk lacing his words.

“To get myself off,” you reply in a deadpan. “Since someone--”

You don’t have a chance to finish your sentence before Aaron is right behind you, hands on your hips, spinning you around to face him. That look full of fire is back again, stern this time.

“Did I say you could do that?” he says in a low tone.

“Did I ask?” you retort, backing out of his grasp and darting into the bedroom. 

Now there’s a smirk on your lips. It’s quickly approaching shit-eating grin territory, which you know will only egg Aaron on further. This little game of cat and mouse happens to be your favorite, and he knows it.

You’re barely two steps into the bedroom when Aaron is attached to your back yet again, this time wrapping his arms around your waist, locking you in.

“Color?” he whispers, his lips right at your ear, sending shivers straight down your spine.

You groan. “Green. Neon green. So green, I need you to--”

He spins you again, this time backing you into the wall and attacking your lips. Finally, you think, though you know you’re in for it now. The thought has a grin crawling up your lips, and you’re unable to stop it.

“What’s so funny, hm?” he scolds, moving his lips to your neck instead, to the exact spot he knows makes you weak in the knees. Like clockwork, he has to wrap an arm around your waist to keep you upright, your knees buckling when he bites down just so.

“Nothing,” you manage through a moan, tipping your head back onto the wall. “Shit.”

“You’re ridiculous sometimes, you know,” he says, but he’s smiling against your skin. “Can’t let me focus on work because you need me to fuck you.”

“In my defense,” you try, your hands scrambling for his shoulders, for something to ground you. “You didn’t fuck me this morning.”

“I fucked you last night,” he reminds you, as if you needed the reminder. It’s the reason you slept so soundly. “Was that not enough?”

You can’t help it; you laugh. 

He lifts his head, raising an eyebrow at you. The same question as before on his lips.

“Sorry, I thought you were joking,” you say. 

“You’re insatiable.” 

“Guilty,” you grin, grabbing his face and pulling him back in for another kiss.

You make out against the wall for too long like two teenagers behind the bleachers at school. You hook one leg around his hips, pulling him in and grinding against his obvious erection. It’s enough to have him groaning into your mouth, pressing you against the wall with renowned vigor. 

You can feel how wet you’re becoming and fuck, neither of you have even taken a single article of clothing off yet.

Aaron notices, one hand traveling south without you paying attention, too busy relishing the way he licks into your mouth, stealing your every breath. The kissing becomes increasingly sloppy when he works his hand into your leggings, under the waistband of your underwear, and into you.

“Oh my god,” your back arches against the wall, pushing his fingers deeper. He doesn’t bother with one, starting right away with two, curling them when you grind harder.

“You’re soaking my hand,” he practically growls into the next kiss, adding a third finger after only a few thrusts. Your body accepts it willingly, always ready for him. “Jesus.”

“More,” you gasp, pushing him deeper. “Aaron, more, I’m serious--” Your words break off as he scissors his fingers, making your eyes roll back instantly.

“I can feel you already,” he smirks against your cheek, pressing a kiss there, an action so sweet and gentle compared to what the rest of him is doing. “Come on, honey. You’re cumming as many times as you want.”

That makes you inch closer to the edge at a frightening speed. He says you can cum as many times as you want, but what he means is he’s going to force as many orgasms out of you as he can. Until you tell him to stop or he decides you need a break. 

The thought of being an overstimulated mess in his embrace later has you climaxing against his fingers, your head falling onto his shoulder as his movements never cease, milking every last wave out of you. 

You lift your head in search of his lips again, which he willingly gives to you, his fingers slowing to soothing strokes as you whimper into his mouth. You’ve only had one orgasm and you already feel ruined. He can tell the way you tremble against him, so he checks in once more.

“Green?” he whispers, kissing your forehead.

You nod. “Green. You?”

He smirks. “Absolutely.”

He picks you up into his arms, inelegantly tossing you onto the bed behind you. You giggle as you bounce on the mattress, tugging your shirt over your head as he does the same to his. His hands move for his belt and you practically jump to the end of the bed, swatting his hands away.

“Since when is that your job?” you frown up at him, unbuckling his belt without looking.

He laughs, petting your head gently. “So sorry, you’re right.”

“What was that?” you tease. “I don’t think I heard you.”

“Don’t push it.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” you smirk, pulling his belt out of the loops and tossing it somewhere. You don’t wait for him to reply before you unbutton his jeans, yanking them down with his boxers.

There’s just something about his dick. You hate that you love it, or maybe you don’t hate it at all. All you know is you need it in your mouth right now.

So, you do that, without any warning. Aaron thrusts forward into your mouth on pure instinct, not expecting you to wrap your lips around him so soon. You slide down the edge of the bed onto your knees, pulling him back to you by his thighs. 

You take your time, pushing his jeans and boxers down further. When you pull back for air, he steps out of them and kicks them elsewhere, returning to you quickly, knowing better than to keep you waiting. 

You swallow him down again, moaning around him in the way you know he loves. It takes all of two seconds before he gently holds the back of your head, asking silently for permission that you were already about to grant. You look up at him, batting your eyelashes as you squeeze his thigh twice. Go ahead.

The thing about Aaron fucking your face is that it took a while for him to do it as hard as you really wanted. He’s always so gentle, a quality that drew you to him initially. You love how gentle he can be. But you love it equally as much when he is rougher with you.

Like now, when he has you pinned against the bed, one hand on the back of your head as he fucks into your throat. It’s blissful, quite frankly, the way he feels, and you thank the universe every time for your lack of a gag reflex. 

He holds you there with a deep groan, and you feel him twitch in your throat once before he pulls you off entirely. You frown up at him, once again not getting what you wanted, but he doesn’t have any time for that.

He picks you up by your armpits, hauling you back onto the bed. Your leggings and underwear are gone in a single second, along with your bra. He’s crawling up your body and crowding your space before you have a second to protest that he wasn’t down your throat for near as long as you wanted him to be. 

All frustrations leave your mind the second he pushes inside of you, immediately sliding home, his hips flush against yours. 

It’s a feeling you’ve grown to love, the way he hits you so deep. Another thing it took him a while to be comfortable doing.

He’s not average sized by any means, and you’re the first to admit it made you salivate the first time you saw. The first time he fed himself into you and worried that he was hurting you, meanwhile you were clawing his back because you wanted more. It hurt for a moment, only an uncomfortable pressure because he was bigger than your vibrator, but as soon as you were used to the size of him, you wanted all of him.

He stays there, deep in you without moving for a moment, grinding against you. His lips attack yours again before he pauses to lean his forehead on yours, trying to catch his breath.

“You drive me crazy,” he says on a shaky exhale.

You wrap your legs around him, thrusting your hips up to take him a little more. His hips stutter, pushing in the way you wanted him to, the way you know you can make him do involuntarily.

“Fuck,” he bites out, turning his attention to your neck again.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging. “Exactly. So why aren’t you moving?”

He nips at your neck. “Because if I move, I will cum right away.”

“Who said I only want you to cum inside me once?”

He groans again, fingers digging into your hips as you circle them, though he doesn’t try to stop you. “Greedy” is all he says, but he finally moves.

The thrusts are slow at first, Aaron clearly trying to pace himself. You can’t say you’re doing the same, already chasing your second high as he slams his hips into yours. Your hand reaches down to rub your clit, but is promptly smacked away by Aaron’s hand as he glares at you.

“Since when is that your job?” he echoes you from earlier, only this time, there’s more heat to it. He grabs both of your wrists, pinning them above your head to stop any other temptation. “Not this time.”

His thrusts pick up speed and depth, his body moving against yours in the exact way that makes you fall apart. It’s not often that he doesn’t let you cum from added clit stimulation -- not that you can’t without it; it just makes the high feel that much better -- but sometimes he does. It’s an ego trip for him as much as it is for you.

It also adds an unpredictable nature to it, which is why your second orgasm takes you by such surprise. You seize against him, your hands doing all sorts of squirming to try to break free of his grasp, but he doesn’t let you, and he doesn’t let up. You don’t realize why until you feel the warmth spreading into you as he reaches his own peak. 

You’ve clearly worked him up as much as you worked yourself up because his thrusts barely slow down, and he doesn’t soften inside of you. 

Instead, he pulls out only to flip you on your side, sliding in behind you and pulling your leg up and back over his hips. The action causes some of his cum to spill out of you, but you don’t have any time to focus on that before he fucks back into you. 

You’ve ceased to have any coherent thoughts as Aaron whispers dirty nothings into your ear, one arm wrapped around your body to keep you pinned against him. The pleasure doesn’t stop and at one point, you question if your second orgasm stopped at all or if it has continued this entire time.

Aaron reaches underneath the pillow where he knows he’ll find one of your vibrators because he heard you using it this morning. No, he didn’t fuck you this morning, but you fucked yourself, and truly, at 8am, he should’ve known you’d end up like this by eleven. 

Your mind doesn’t register what the sound means until the vibrator is pressed against your clit. Your body jerks, scrambling for some grounding, your hands finding it in wrapping them around his arm. 

He switches hands on the vibrator, so one hand is free to wrap around your throat. Your eyes roll back as soon as you feel the gentle pressure, your body practically going limp against him. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs directly into your ear, his thrusts slowing to deep strokes. “You’ve got a couple more in you.”

“A couple?” is all you manage to say, your hand squeezing his wrist so he knows to squeeze your throat a little more.

“Mhm,” his voice rumbles in your ear, sending goosebumps all over your body. “Is it too much?” His question is laced with just the right amount of pity that makes you shake your head against him. “I thought so,” he replies, switching the vibrator to a higher setting.

It sends you into your third orgasm instantly, squirming violently against him as he pushes into you deeper. He knows how much you love that, and loves how much you squeeze around him as he slides inside, fighting against your muscles that threaten to force him out. You’ve done it before, a mesmerized look on his face and yours when you both realized what happened. Since then, you told him you liked it more when he fought to stay inside. 

He takes the vibrator away as you calm down, his hips also pausing, keeping himself deep inside you. The pressure is soothing, and you take a moment to take a deep breath. His palm falls away from your throat, instead propping underneath your cheek.

It takes a few seconds before you feel yourself spasming around him. He chuckles against your back, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Still?”

You nod dumbly, rocking your hips again. “Yeah. I don’t know, I just-- Need more.”

“I’ve got you,” he soothes, pulling out again to roll you onto your stomach instead, one of your favorite positions.

You’re floating as you settle into the pillows, letting Aaron manhandle you wherever you need to be. You groan in your happy, blissed out state as he slides home again, draping himself over your back.

He is gentler now, knowing that’s exactly what you need at this point. The last orgasm he pulls from you is just as gentle, and he pushes deeper into you, letting you ride it out. 

He pulls your hips up and thrusts once, twice before he’s spilling into you. You didn’t realize he was that close again. The warmth is soothing this time as it spreads through you. 

Aaron leaves you only to settle behind you, spooning you once again. Your hand reaches behind you to find him, and he catches your wrist. 

“You need to rest,” he chides softly.

“I know,” you whimper. “Need you inside me.”

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your neck as he slides in again, still half-hard, but it’s enough. You settle down as soon as the weight of him is tucked inside you again. “Better?”

“Mhm,” you sleepily nod, pushing back into him so he holds you tighter. “Do you have to go back to work?”

He chuckles against you, sighing. “No, I’m done for the day, I think,” he says. “I’ll tell them you weren’t feeling well.”

That makes you laugh. “We need a better excuse.”

“Or I need to go back to working in the office.”

You roll your eyes. “Like that’ll make a difference.”

He shakes his head, his mind remembering the same memories that you are. The many lunch hours when you went to eat with him, and ended up with your back pressed into the couch, his tie stuffed in your mouth to keep you quiet.

“Go to sleep,” he says, pulling you impossibly closer. “I’ll make us lunch when we wake up.”

“Perfect,” you smile, nuzzling into him. “Love you.”

“Love you too, honey,” he says, pressing little kisses to your neck and cheeks, wherever he can reach. “Now sleep.”

You’re already halfway there. The combination of him nestled inside of you and the post-orgasm exhaustion is enough to lull you into a restful sleep.

[chithereader]

jealousy, jealousy / aaron hotchner

here’s my masterlist! pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader / shy!reader word count: 2.4k genre & cw: fluff, a little jealousy and pining angst if u squint, mentions of made-up case, different use of cm character a/n: thank u so much for all the support i've been getting on my fics!! hope you love this one as much as i do, i really enjoyed writing this one the most!

Today was a bad day. That much was clear. From the moment you woke up to the minute you arrived at the BAU– you’re convinced that the universe has simply gone the extra mile to make your life a little harder. 

You slept through your alarm and a few phone calls from Garcia, making your morning stressful and complete chaos. You didn’t have time to grab a cup of coffee or a snack, and apparently you also didn’t have time to remove the colorful pimple patches that adorned your face. 

Your blouse is buttoned asymmetrically, your hair resembling a bird's nest, and you left your ID at home, making your arrival more delayed as you had to employ Garcia’s help in presenting a copy of your ID to let you through. 

That too was not without stress given that your phone was on the verge of dying as you were in the call, but thankfully you could finally breathe in the elevator. Or so you thought. 

There were two things that immediately caught you off guard as you walked into the bullpen: one, almost all the desks were deserted and two, Reid and Morgan were watching you- as if waiting for your reaction, which led you to look around in anticipation. Is there a surprise? A prank? Did I miss a patch? I’m…wearing pants, right? 

Not wanting to prolong your search, you look at the two for any indication or clue. Tilting your head to the side as if to ask what? But to your surprise, they both nod their heads in one direction. Oh.

Strauss was in Hotch’s office, along with Rossi and a woman you don’t recognize. Hotch looked a bit tense, Strauss firm, Rossi is as relaxed as ever, and the woman… is looking directly at Hotch. Just Hotch. Huh. 

You were stood just shy of your desk when you shook thoughts out of your head, slowly approaching your desk to settle your things. Dozens of scenarios were running through your head, trying to make sense of new additions to an otherwise normal day. 

But the way she was studying him made your chest tight like someone was stepping on it.. and you couldn’t figure out why. 

You approach the two rascals only to lean on Derek’s desk as you whisper under your breath, “What’s happening there?” 

Morgan shrugs but his focused face remains, “I don’t know, kid. I tried Garcia but she doesn’t have a clue either.” Eyes studying the people in the room, noting anything that could tell them something. 

Mulling over more possibilities, you hum in response. Turning to Reid, you ask him- hoping that his eidetic memory can tell you anything about the woman even if they’d only met in passing. 

“Do you know anything, Spence?” But Reid only pouts at you, a sign that he’s thought about it hard but is coming up empty. 

Shaking his head, he soberly replies, “No..I don’t think so. I– I’ve never seen her before. Sorry.” 

Before any more thoughts could be voiced between the three of you, the door to Hotch’s office opens and all four of them file out- the woman walking a little too close to Hotch. 

-

You’re approaching your usual seat on the jet beside Morgan and across from Hotch when suddenly Agent Seaver overtakes you and sits on your seat. Caught by surprise, your eyes instinctively go to Hotch who’s already looking at you. 

He nods to himself, moving from the aisle seat to the one by the window. But it appears Agent Seaver misunderstood his gesture and moved beside him, “Oh! Thank you, sir.” Even going as far as touching his arm and leaning closely. 

Now, you’ve never been a violent person. Rage has just never overcome your senses like that but today.. of all days– you couldn’t help the image of spilling your hot chocolate all over her cream blouse. 

You don’t even notice that you’re frowning as you sit beside Morgan, somehow still unaware of how much their closeness really upsets you. You honestly thought you’ve maintained an expressionless face until Morgan looks up from his file and leans close to whisper in your ear, “You’ll need claws not paws, baby girl.” Winking at you as you separate. 

You steal a glance at Hotch only to see him watching you and Morgan with furrowed brows. He almost looks normal if it weren’t for the clenching of his jaw that’s his tell of irritation. Moving your gaze to Seaver, in case you missed something that’s causing his new mood, you find her reading the case file. 

As you return your gaze on Hotch, you watch as Seaver touches his arm again and engages him in conversation about the case. It’s through the whole jet ride that you had to stomach the constant Agent Hotchner, Agent Hotchner! paired with a giggle or a slight touch. UGH!

If it weren’t for Strauss personally recommending Agent Seaver as a consultant for this case, you would have done– …still absolutely nothing. You had no claim whatsoever over Hotch. Morgan and Rossi may tease the two of you occasionally, forcing that he treats you specially or whatever but his behavior could simply be chalked off as him being a good and attentive boss. 

And yes, okay fine. You may have some moments here and there… but! they could honestly just be built up in your head because of the feelings you have for him. Like when he said he likes it when you stare? Come on, being stared at can be flattering and that’s just a universal truth. 

- 

After a whole day of coming up with theories, visiting crime scenes and M.E.’s, you’re all completely spent. Lounging in the makeshift discussion room, all of you are still working tirelessly on the case given that the unsub’s on a spree and his timeline is alarmingly short. 

Reid’s been silently staring at the board for 20 minutes while Morgan’s pretending to read files of potential suspects with his legs stretched out and feet on the table, “This is impossible. We just don’t have enough.” He exclaims as he tosses the file on the table with a thud. 

To the left of Morgan, you’re also silently mulling over files of potential suspects. Not wanting to admit that he’s right, you guys don’t have enough…bodies. You barely have anything on the guy, barely any clues- for a working profile. 

You sigh heavily, peeling your eyes off the paper and looking at the board. “Reid?” The boy genius shakes his head softly, confirming that the known dump sites don’t say much about the unsub’s comfort zones or hunting ground. 

You suddenly wonder where Seaver, Hotch and Rossi are. You and Morgan got back to the precinct at around 11PM, and you realize you haven’t seen any of them, “Where are the others?” 

Morgan, in an effort to lighten the mood, jumps at the chance to tease you, “Hmm. I think what you’re really asking is: Where’s Hotch and is he with Seaver?” He punches your arm lightly, making it obvious he’s only teasing. 

The smug, playful smile on his face makes you fight one of your own, desperately trying to not give yourself away, “Shut up,” hitting him in the head softly with the file in your hand. 

While you two were exchanging playful glares, Reid interjects, “Seaver wanted to turn in early since she’s also the one meeting with the families tomorrow so Hotch brought her to the hotel.” 

You instantly lift your gaze to him and watch as he removes the marker’s cap and scribbles rapidly on the board, quickly adding “And I’m pretty sure Rossi’s getting us coffee from the diner around the block.” 

You want to blame it on your exhaustion– your inability and ineffectiveness at hiding how you truly feel about what Reid just revealed to you, groaning loudly in pain and frustration. You put your head in your hands, muffling the sounds you’re making that are somehow a combination of a laugh and a sob. 

Morgan understands your reaction immediately and laughs out loud. 

“It’s not funny!” There was honestly no point in hiding it. As much as Morgan teased you, you knew he wouldn’t tell anyway, and Reid.. well, he was honestly an even better keeper of secrets than Morgan, Rossi and Garcia. 

He puts a hand on your shoulder to comfort you, “Baby girl, worry not. You know you hold a special place in boss man’s heart.” Then gripping both your wrists to pry your hands off your face. 

Pressing your face even further into your hands, you let out a muffled version of “That’s not true!” that came out more as “Daffs noft thwu!” 

When Morgan successfully pries your hands off your face, you’re surprised to see Reid’s moved from the board to behind Morgan, half leaning half sitting on the table, curiously watching you. 

Morgan turns around to look at the door behind you, making sure the coast is clear before he says, “Kid. Be real with me for a sec… are you blind?” That was not the question you were expecting. 

You must have looked so lost because he continues, “Hotch cares for you. Deeply. And not in the same way he does for us. You’ve gotta have felt that, kid.” Funny, you are starting to feel like a kid– the only thing missing are his hands on your shoulders to complete that huddle pep talk experience. 

“That’s just not–” you try to start. But Reid swiftly raises his hand, signing you to stop–

“Did you know that every morning Hotch makes sure all the pens and mug handles on your desk are pointing to the right– the way you need it to be– in case the night janitors move any out of place?”

“Or that he never really ate lunch in the office before but started bringing sandwiches and other food he could microwave, while timing his lunches with yours presumably so he could strike up a conversation with you during break?” 

“Or do you remember that one time the AC in the bullpen broke and we were all sweating badly, and I said the heat was making me too thirsty then he disappeared into his office and came back with a bottle of water and an orange juice box only to give it to you?” 

Morgan lets out a loud laugh at that one while Reid pouts playfully, “I mean I was genuinely dying then.” 

Not without his own input, Morgan smiles softly at you with a raised brow “Did you know he personally restocks your favorite hot chocolate in the pantry and on the jet? Including the marshmallows.” 

You breathe in deeply, the revelations sounding too good to be true but winding nonetheless. You crack a small joke, trying to play it off “And I thought the bureau was just feeling really generous.” 

The two, who have grown to be such brothers, give you the exact same look of Really? 

As Reid rounds the table to go back and stand by the board, Morgan catches your attention and holds your eye, “Look, there’s so much more, kid. But they all point to the same thing.” He says this as softly as possible, as if to not scare you away. 

You let out a soft, breathy laugh. Shaking your head, “That just can’t be true.” 

With all three of your backs to the door, you don’t notice Rossi nearing. You just suddenly hear his voice from behind, rounding the table and settling the coffee cups in front of all of you, “Coffee, anyone?” 

As if trapped in the null of the previous conversation, you’re still looking at Morgan as you lean back in your chair, slumping further to seek non-existent cover. Reid, who is now back in his own world with the board, is handed a cup by Rossi, who didn’t even turn to look- only stretching out an arm to receive it and mumbling a distracted “Thanks.”  

Rossi, who is simply too smart for his own good, impressively senses something hanging in the air, nonchalantly asking about the tailend of a conversation he was not supposed to hear, “So… what can’t be true?” 

Back to lounging excessively on a chair that is a tad too tiny for him, with legs outstretched and feet on the corner on the table– Morgan spouts, “That she’s Hotch’s girl, and has no reason to be jealous of Seaver– who by the way needs the HR orientation more than Penelope and I.” 

-

Now– all of your backs are to the door except Rossi’s. Not one of you tried to move due to fatigue, let alone look.

Unbeknownst to you, Morgan, and Reid, on the way back to the precinct from the hotel, Hotch had the genius thought of picking up Rossi so the latter wouldn’t have to walk a block with trays of coffee on hand.

Hotch and Rossi arrived together. And as Rossi went around the table to give you your cups of coffee, Hotch stayed behind– leaning on the doorframe with arms crossed, watching you and the team.

Imagine his surprise, hearing what Morgan just said. His heart skipped a beat, his stomach dropped. His entire being froze entirely.. What? Jealous? 

In his mind, he had two choices: Act like he didn’t hear it and save you from embarrassment or use it to his advantage and make his intentions clear..ish. 

-

You gasp loudly at his bluntness– and in front of Rossi! Straightening in your chair and pointing an accusatory finger at Morgan, “You little– I am NOT jealous! and I am NOT Hotch’s–” 

Cut off by someone loudly clearing their throat from behind all of you, you all freeze, including Reid who hasn’t been actively paying attention until now. 

The hair on your neck stands up as you hear the nearing footsteps, already envisioning digging your own grave in your head when finally, Hotch is standing right beside you. 

You’re all still pretty frozen, save from the slow movement which is your eyes slowly lifting its gaze to the man in question until they meet his hazel orbs. He holds your stare as he leans on the desk, arms straining in his shirt– 

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Rossi fighting a smile, and just as you’re about to mentally curse him in your head, you’re broken out of your thoughts by a deep voice, 

“You don’t think you’re my girl?”