#hotch x reader

[luveline]

angsty request coming!!! hotch taking care of an overworked reader who hasn’t been sleeping!! maybe the team notices r has been a bit scattered or feverish and hotch steps in!!!

thank you for requesting! fem, 1k Hotch knows, technically, that what he’s doing tonight is out of bounds. He just doesn’t care —can’t find it in himself to regret his actions as he shepherds you from the office and into his car. Doesn’t give your wide-eyed surprise any notice, doesn’t offer explanation as he takes you into the department store between the office and his apartment and tells you to choose. 

“I don’t understand.” 

He nods toward the lines of pointelle camisoles and shorts, gestures to the longer silken trousers, “Choose something to wear.” 

You blink hotly. He’s flustered you, but that’s easy lately. “Do they have anything warmer?” you ask. 

He takes your arm gently into his hand and turns you an inch, where the jersey material pajamas hang from the wall. There’s a nice brown coordinating set right in front of you. He guesses your size (he knows it from practice), pulling a hanger from up high to offer you. “Yes?” he asks. 

“Why?” 

“You’ll need them.” 

You rub your face. “Okay, yeah. I like those ones.” 

He folds them over his arm. He can feel you gaze on the side of his face as he takes you to the register and pays without giving the total any mind. Hotch doesn’t care how much anything costs, he only wants it to be soft. If it weren’t crossing a line, he would’ve found you new underwear, too. 

He accepts the bag from the cashier and guides you out again. “Is there anything else you need?” he asks you. 

“For what?” 

“You aren’t going home.” 

“I’m not?” 

He shakes his head gently. He isn’t being intimidating, only straight forward. Hotch obviously isn’t in the business of kidnapping women, especially coworkers, friends, he just knows now that this won’t be solved without some tough love. “You’re staying with me, if you don’t mind.” 

“Why would I mind?” 

Lethargic, you follow him to the car and get back in the front seat. He turns the heated seats on and watches you sink into the leather, clearly pleased, tired eyes slipping closed every now and then in the ensuing silence. 

Regretfully, you startle as he parks, roused from whatever hooks that had finally managed to hold you. Heat, he thinks, is key here. 

“I’m making oatmeal and cocoa,” he says as he opens the door, waiting for you to follow suit before he continues, “and you can go and get changed. You know where my room is?”

“Sure.” 

“Alright, good. You can make yourself comfortable there.” 

“In your room?” 

He sends you a loving and agitated look over the door. Really? it says. You and Hotch have been trapped in an excitable will-they won’t-they situation for months, and he’d think by now the obvious answer to it all is we most certainly will. “Honey, yes. Unless you’d be more comfortable in Jack’s?” 

“Does he still have the race car bed?” 

“Afraid so.” 

You hum, and lead the way to the house. Hotch hands you his keys, something in his chest tightly squeezed to see you turn the house key in the lock, to let yourself in, and to hold out your hand expectantly for the department bag. You head to his room like you do it everyday. Hotch resists the urge to call you back and kiss you with your jaw held in his hand —it’s not the point. 

He gets a strange pang a few minutes later, stirring the pot of easy-sachet oatmeal, a rare pang of regret. Perhaps he’s being too headstrong, letting his worry guide him like this, pushing you to come home with him and to sleep in his bed. You might be at the same level as he is, but it still feels a little like pulling Spencer home with him and demanding he dress and eat as Hotch likes. 

I’ll apologise, he thinks, setting your oatmeal and cocoa on a tray, conscious of the sun setting outside, night swiftly falling. If he really is going to say sorry and have you go home, you’ll be disrupted again. There’s a possibility Hotch has made this ten times worse. 

He climbs the stairs and finds you laying on his side of the bed with your nose turned into his pillow, a damp sheen to your skin. You’ve washed your face, and changed into the new pajamas, just a little too big for you where you’ve curled around your hands. 

“Honey?” he asks softly. 

“Sorry,” you say, twice as quietly as he had, “just, it smells so nice in here.” 

“That’s okay.” 

“I’ll move.”

“Just sit up,” he says, thinking of you in the office with your jittering and your glass-eyed stare. “I’ve brought you something.” 

You nod heavily and do as he’s asked, again. He sets the tray on your lap and you look up at him. It’s the look that does it, really. The half circles under your eyes are nothing to him beyond proof that you aren’t sleeping, the bloodshot in your sclera, it’s all inconsequential. What floors him is the unquestioning trust to be found when you look at him. He doesn't kid himself when he thinks that this could lend itself to love. 

“You know why I’ve asked you to come home with me?” he asks carefully. 

“I worried you.”

He puts the tray in your waiting lap, gracing your chin with a quick stroke underneath, feather-light. “I haven’t abused my power?” 

“Buying me new clothes and making me dinner?” you ask softly, evident delight on your face as you notice the squares of chocolate that have begun to melt into your oatmeal. 

“Forcing you home with me and sequestering you in my bedroom.” 

“It’s not how I thought it would happen,” you confess, gathering a heaping mountain of oatmeal onto your spoon, “not the first time, at least. I guess I should worry you more often.” 

“No,” he says, holding your chin between his fingers until you meet his serious gaze. “You shouldn’t.” 

Your eyebrows do something he can’t name, but there’s a word for what it inspires in his chest. “I won’t,” you promise. 

[rainydayathogwarts]

subtle diamond rings - aaron hotchner

summary: when your coworkers discover the ring on your finger, they are immediately driven to ssa hotchner's office to ask him who your husband is. wc: 0.9k+

A hand on your forehead, deep in thought. Eyebrows furrowed, trying to make out something you had written down in a rush two days ago. Your co-workers, jaws dropped and eyes wide. A ring on your left hand, with the biggest diamond they had every seen. You hadn’t noticed your mistake yet, and they unanimously decided to give you one last moment of peace before chaos would ensue.

Sighing, you brought both your hands down to grip the corners of the paper you were trying to read from, but your attention was attracted to the light catching on your diamond ring. You smiled fondly at the ring on your finger before your eyes widened. Inhaling deeply, you let go of the document in front of you, trying to delicately slide the ring off your finger. Before you could slip it into a safe pocket of your purse, a voice was heard across from you.

“Subtle.”

Your head snapped up at the sound of Derek’s voice. “Good thing no one saw you take that ring off, am I right?” Emily added, dragging her chair closer to Derek. “That would be a disaster.” Added Spencer, leaning on the back of Derek’s chair. You swallowed thickly, at a complete loss for words, your fist gently closing around the beautiful ring. “I… Please don’t tell anyone.” You found yourself begging, but Derek only grinned. “Don’t tell anyone what?”

You froze.

There was no possibility you could ever lie to the person that voice belonged to, so you supposed if you said nothing, you’d be safe. Penelope Garcia walked in front of your desk, looking at you with arms crossed over her chest. You cleared your throat nervously, blinking slowly at the blonde. “I-uh.”

“Put it on, show it to her.”

“Put what on?”

You opened your palm, letting Penelope see the jewellery in your hand. “You’re engaged!?” You opened your mouth, not wanting to betray them any further, but it seemed that your face had revealed enough. “Married?” Spencer whispered, his mouth agape, shocked that you’d hidden a committed relationship for the course of an engagement too.

“Let’s go ask Hotch who it is!” Decided Penelope, prompting Emily and Derek to stand up in unison. “Wait, why Hotch?” “He’s the supervisory special agent. They usually know those details about their agents.” Explained Spencer. “Oh.” Emily and Derek both shot you the same look, squinting their eyes at you suspiciously. “Right, let’s go ask!” You announced, pushing yourself off your chair as you slid your ring back on.

You watched as Penelope, Derek and Spencer walked ahead of you, but Emily stayed back, her hand curling around your wrist. “Hotch?” She whispered. You blankly stared at her, guilt painting your face. “Let’s go ask Hotch.” You repeated.

You pushed past the agents lingering in Hotch’s doorway, moving to sit on the leather couch in his office. Derek and Spencer’s heads moved to watch in astonishment as you slumped on your boss’ sofa, chewing on your bottom lip worriedly. “You know, I’m really starting to believe my suspicion is correct.” Noted Derek, before turning back to SSA Hotchner. “What suspicion?” Questioned Penelope.

“What are the five of you doing in here?” Hotch sighed, and you turned your gaze to stare at your lap, distracting yourself from everyone’s stares. “We want to know who y/n’s husband is.” Penelope declared, pointing at you. Hotch slowly turned his attention to you, and you swallowed thickly, shrugging your shoulders. “I forgot to take my ring off this morning.”

As though Hotch forgot he hadn’t been discovered yet, a fond smile made its way onto his face, causing your eyes to widen. “It is him.” Whispered Spencer with horror. “Him like Hotch?” Penelope looked around frantically, watching as you cringed softly, eyes still locked on your boss, sharing a look too intimate for him to only be your boss.

Your husband.

“Hotch is him!?” She shrieked, attracting the attention of JJ, who had been looking for the team, trying to call them up to the conference room. “Hey, what’s going on?” She asked softly, poking her head into the office. “These two traitors are married.” JJ laughed softly, but when no one broke character, she began looking around in confusion. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yes, agent l/n and I are married. Or, agent Hotchner, should I say?" At the squeals that came from your coworkers at the confirmation, he playfully rolled his eyes. "We have been before Prentiss joined this team. Have been in a relationship since before Reid joined. We got engaged somewhere in between.” Penelope screamed at your husband’s confession, her jaw dropping to the floor. “It seems silly to slip up now.” You mumbled, spinning the ring around on your finger. JJ gasped again, moving past her coworkers to get a closer look at the ring on your finger.

“This must have cost a fortune.” She spoke in a gossipy tone, smiling wildly when she looked up at you. “Well, it was less of a fortune back then than it would be now. Inflation. Now everyone get out of my office.”

“Oh! We have a case, by the way.” Your coworkers dispersed into the hallway outside and Hotch travelled across the room, shutting his door closed for a moment alone with you. “I’m sorry, I forgot.” You apologised, bringing up your hands up to rest on Aaron’s abdomen. He tilted his head to the side with a smile, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. “Don’t be sorry. I’m happy you get to wear it now.” “I forgot to take it off after dinner.” You reiterated.

“Well, if I remember correctly, we were quite busy after dinner last night.” You felt your cheeks go hot, and reached over to open the door of Hotch’s office. “Sweetheart?” You looked back at your husband, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Happy anniversary.”

[lavenderspence]

A bunch of cuties in love | A.H.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader

Content warning: fluff, nicknames (i think that's about it?)

Word Count: 2.2K

Summary: Running late to a meeting with Strauss, Hotch leaves Jack with his favorite person - you. The scene that greets him when he comes back leads to some realizations. 

Request: Hotch request: BAU!Reader is Jack’s favorite and always spends the day with them when he’s brought along to the office. They have a cute bonding moment that Hotch secretly watches. Cue the “oh god I’m in love with them aren’t I”

A/N: it’s been two months today since I made this blog, and it’s been wild, it’s been fun, and it’s been a little teary. thank you for the love and support! Please enjoy this cute little hotch piece, I had a blast writing it! Thank you to the anon who requested this, and I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I miss old Disney😭

masterlist

9:23.

On the days you weren’t working on a case, and the only thing you really needed to catch up on was paperwork, your usual start time was 8:30. Yet almost an hour had gone by and he wasn’t in his office like he usually would be.

With a punctual Unit Chief like Aaron Hotchner, it was a shock, and a little nerve-wracking that he was late. 

You’d lie if you didn’t say you were getting a little worried, taking into account the last and only time he’d been late - Foyet attacking him in his own home, leaving him with long-lasting trauma, scars, and without his family. 

You'd never forget that day, and every day after where he was left to suffer, laying the blame on himself. No matter how many times you said it, how many times Rossi patted him on the back, reminding him it wasn't his fault, you knew a part of him still didn't believe it.

And the part of you that cared about him, maybe a little more than you should, didn't have the heart to watch him do this to himself - the silent guilt, the long empty looks. 

You’ve known him awhile, seen him through many of his ups, and just as many as his downs. You’d seen him laugh in glee and beam with happiness, you’d seen him lose it in anger and anguish and you’d seen him cry in heartbreak. 

So much of your life spent beside him, so many memories linked with him, and your team. And much of it you knew was friendly love - your love for Emily and Spencer, JJ and Morgan, Penelope and Rossi. But the love you felt for him was just a tiny bit different, deeper, not the friendly kind. 

You’d only recently started to understand what you were really feeling for him, as recent as the last few weeks. Still new and a little unexplainable at times, you were learning to balance that, within your friendship.

You didn’t think you wanted to pursue anything, right now. It had been a little over two years since he’d lost Haley, since he’d needed to start navigating his life as a single dad, a widower. 

You could still see the pain in his eyes, fresh as the day it had happened. You knew he was managing, but it was still apparent, that it was hitting them both hard.

And Jack? He was a little ray of sunshine in the otherwise gruesome life all of you led - the same could be said about Henry. But Henry was Reid's favorite, as his godfather, you knew the bond between them was unbreakable. 

But Jack? You were his favorite, and he was yours. 

He was your little buddy, your partner in all things art, cartoons, and Disney shows. He was your little helper during all things baking - you'd babysat once and he'd requested chocolate chip, peanut butter cookies and you'd been more than happy to help him make them.

He was a natural baker and a little taster. 

Your love for the little cutie ran as deep as your feelings for his dad.

At the end of the day though, you were a friend, a shoulder both could use to lean on and rely on. You were comfortable in your role within their little family and weren't looking to make any changes then.

9:28.

You were playing with your watch, already having decided you’d be giving him a call if he didn't arrive by 9:30.

Worry was making your hands sweat, and just as you went to wipe them on your pants, the door to the bullpen opened, and in walked a very frantic Hotch - his tie was a little crooked, shirt a little wrinkled, and Jack - a little backpack on his back, and a curious look paired with a timid smile.

Aaron's eyes searched the bullpen, as did Jack's, the little Hotchner noticing you seconds before his father did. You stood up, watching as the blond pulled away from his dad, and on a little run, made his way towards you. 

“Cutiee.” He called out, using the nickname you called him, to address you too. You leaned down when he was a few steps away, accepting his hug, his little arms wrapping around your neck. 

“Hi, cutie.” You greeted him, a wide smile on your face. Hotch had made his way over to you by then, giving you a barely-there smile, but his eyes shone.

“You're late.” You started, pulling to your full height.

“Yeah, Jessica was called on an emergency at the last minute, and Liah is away on a hiking trip, so here we are.” Liah was Hotch's neighbor, she looked after Jack for a few hours when Hotch couldn't stay with him, or Jess was busy.

He looked at his watch, running a hand through his hair, messing it up a little.

“I have a meeting with Strauss…well, right now. Can you please watch him until I get done?” 

“Go, don't make her wait. We'll be okay and we're going to have fun. Right, Jack?” You watched him nod at both you and his dad before Hotch exhaled.

“You're a lifesaver. Be good for Y/N, okay buddy.” Another nod from Jack, and he was on his way to Strauss's office.

‘’Okay Jack, let's see if Aunt Penelope can download a few episodes of ‘The Suite Life’ for us, and then we'll go color and draw for a while. Does that sound good to you?” 

“Very good. Can I also have orange juice?” He asked, taking your hand in his small, soft one, fingers wrapping around your own.

“Let's go see if we have any.” You walked towards the small communal kitchen space, checking the fridge and then you checked the pantry…and, “Bingo. Let's go see the lair.” You led him to Penelope's office.

“Knock, knock, may us mortals enter?” You joked, making your little partner giggle. 

“Us?” Her voice rang from the other side of the door.

“I have sir Hotchner with me. The smaller one.”

“Hey,” Jack said in outrage

“My favorite Hotchner.” You added.

Penelope pulled the door open, beaming at both of you, before she made space for you to enter. 

“Jack, my love, hi,” She raised her hand, letting him give her a high five. Even though she was affectionate, Jack wasn’t as much, especially after Haley. He only hugged a few people now - Jess, his dad, and surprisingly, you. 

It really showed how comfortable he was with you.

“What brings you to my tech cave?” She asked. You raised your brows at him, prompting him to do the talking. 

“Can you, please, download a few episodes of Zack and Cody for us?” His voice rang with its usual child calm and sweetness, fingers intertwined in front of him. 

Penelope's smile softened even more, “Sure thing, sweetie,” Her eyes turned towards you then, “Your tablet?”

“Yes, please.” You knew it was a work tablet, but no one had to know.

“Any requests?” She asked the little guy.

“You pick.”

“Okay-dokey. Should have it in about 10 minutes, my loves.”

“Thank you, Aunt Penelope.”

“Thanks Pen.” You gave her air kisses before you led Jack out and towards his father's office. 

His day had started rocky, hell, the whole night had gone that way. 

Jack had woken up from a nightmare - twice at that. After the second time, he’d asked Aaron to sleep in his bed, too scared and sad to stay in his room.

He’d snoozed his alarm, just once, and had a hard time waking his son up too. He’d had 20 minutes to get himself ready, but Jessica had called 10 minutes before she was supposed to arrive - apologizing because she’d been called on an emergency at work. 

Aaron had to rearrange his whole morning then, already aware he’d be late for work. He’d had to get Jack and his backpack ready and cook him breakfast. All of that, and be in the office before his 9:30 meeting with Strauss. 

Breakfast and preparing Jack for a day at the BAU, he’d done successfully. Arriving on time had been a little tricky, with barely 2 minutes to spare. 

But when he’d walked into the bullpen, Jack spotting you just seconds before he did, and he’d watched your smile grow, he’d known all would be okay. 

Watching you with Jack always brought a warm feeling within him, like he was watching something sacred. You were always patient and kind, always interested in listening to him talk, even though he was a quiet kid, who appreciated quality time more. 

You gave him that too, and a lot of it - you watched cartoons and shows with him. Colored and drew, baked cookies, and played with him whenever he wanted. Any time spent with Jack was about what he wanted, what he liked doing, and above all, making him comfortable. 

Even if it meant cleaning flour off your kitchen floor and whatever had gotten in the drawers too. 

He appreciated, even loved the bond you had with his son, every smile, every hug, and every minute you spend with him. He loved hearing about you from Jack - what you’d done together, what you’d told him, the stories, the jokes, the conversations. 

Hearing his son proclaim you as his favorite person in the BAU had made his heart soar. Taking into account all the time you spent with him, it wasn’t really a surprise. He bonded hard, but once he did, he never went back.

He was much like Aaron himself in that regard. His trust had to be earned, as did his friendship, and it required hard work. Jack was much the same. And you’d successfully earned both of theirs with your beautiful and caring personality. 

He exhaled a breath, checking his watch, step fast, and briefcase in hand. 

11:18.

His meeting with Strauss had run longer than he’d anticipated - over an hour and a half. Diplomacy, politics, budgets, and cuts, they’d run through countless things, half of that meeting already fully blacked out from his memory. 

He was tired - every meeting with Strauss left him drained. Worried,  about Jack and his state of mind after last night. All he wanted to do was get to his office and check up on his son. 

Walking into the bullpen for the second time that day, he quickly made his way towards his office, only to stop short at the window. The blinds were open, having forgotten to close them last night, so he had a clear and full view of his office.

You were sat on the couch close to the armrest, Jack cuddled against you, cheek squished against your collarbone, face almost buried in your neck. 

Your work tablet sat propped on the coffee table, and your arm wrapped around his small body, keeping him close. His eyes were almost closed, your thumb running soothingly on his back. 

He watched, mesmerized by the scene. He felt himself soften, all of him. His face, the furrow in his brow, and the tight set of his lips. His whole body, his heart, suddenly at peace. 

For months he'd observed the kindness you showed everyone - the families of victims, heartbroken by the injustice of life. Passersby, people you might never see again. Your team, especially, your work family. Jack, and even Aaron himself. 

And as he watched you with his son, the one person left in this world who truly loved him, no matter his rights or wrongs - he couldn't help but feel himself unravel. 

Every little thought he'd had about you, every feeling he might have somehow suppressed in order to protect himself and his child, they all attacked him, in seconds. 

Because the truth was, you earned his trust, his friendship, and somehow along the way, you'd won his heart as well.

Right at that moment, his heart pounded in need, in adoration, in pure, clear love. Love he hadn't allowed himself to feel since Haley. Love, he'd frankly hadn't felt in years, ever since he’d put his signature down on the dotted line. 

He wanted to get home to see this. He wanted to see you put Jack to bed, and kiss his forehead with a whispered ‘good night’.

He wanted to stroke your cheek tenderly, pull you into a kiss that made you melt, and stroke a fire within you like no one else could. 

He wanted to tell you he loved you - in the car, as he drove you to work. In the kitchen during breakfast and dinner. In his office, a few stolen moments as you worked. And under the sheets, while you made love. 

And even through the fear that gripped him in a vice, of rejection, separation, and even trust - he still wanted to love you, as if he was loving someone for the first time again. 

“Everything okay, Aaron?” David asked, passing on the way to his office. 

Aaron barely spared him a glance, nodding his head a little, “Yeah, it's okay.”

He pushed the door to his office open and walked in, greeted by his new favorite sight, and his two favorite people. 

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[monzabee]

You know I'm obsessed with the nanny series so of course I have to send my little request to get more of them!!

And I was thinking, what if Jack has a football game and so Hotch and the nanny come to see him? I let you work your magic on that one, I trust you with all my heart 👀🩷

ice pops, jerseys, and the hotchner frown - a. hotchner

criminal minds masterlist || part of the nanny series

Summary: you show up for one of jack’s soccer games, and aaron has never been so distracted in his life.

Pairing: aaron hotchner x nanny!reader

Word Count: 2.5k 

Warnings: hotch is down baaaad and he is in his feeelingssss, jealousy (duh) but other than that, none

Author’s Note: ALI THANK YOU FOR THIS REQUEST, this was very fun for me to work with and i hope you like this!!!

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

Aaron likes to think that he is a modern man. He is up with the times; thanks to Penelope Garcia and her newsletter updates on pop culture news as well as tech updates, for him to consider as their unit chief, of course. And he would never dream of telling anyone what to wear, let alone a woman—let alone you. He’d also like to think that you’ve managed to break down all his expectations when it comes to fashion, he’s only now realizing how wrong he’s been.  

But when he steps into Jack’s soccer practice and sees you standing there in that jersey, it takes everything in him to keep his expression neutral. Jack spots him first, waving excitedly from the field. “Dad!” he calls, voice full of excitement. “Did you see? Y/N’s wearing my jersey!” 

Aaron’s mouth parts slightly before he clamps it shut. He does see. The red and white jersey with “Hotchner” stamped across the back fits on you like a glove. It’s his son’s, and yet, for some inexplicable reason, the sight of you in it makes something tighten in his chest, and somewhere else he’d rather not focus on at the moment. 

You turn at Jack’s announcement, grinning as you meet Aaron’s gaze. “Hey, Mister Hotchner,” you say, and it makes him feel a thousand times worse because you genuinely don’t realize what you’ve just done to him. “Jack said I needed to wear this for good luck.” 

Aaron blinks, willing himself to focus on your words rather than the way the jersey clings to you in places it has no business clinging to. “Good luck,” he echoes, voice steady—only because he’s had years of practice keeping his emotions in check. 

“Duh, for the game, obviously.” You gesture to the field, where Jack and his teammates are running drills. “I’ve been promoted to unofficial team mascot.” Aaron exhales slowly, nodding as if this is all perfectly normal. It should be. And yet, it’s not. Because it’s his name stretched across your back, his son’s jersey molding against your frame. And now, all he can think about is how easily you’ve slipped into their lives, how natural it feels to see you here, cheering Jack on, standing beside him. “I know your meeting ran late, but Dave got here early so he could set up for the drills, so you should be fine, coach.” 

“What did you just call me?” He asks as he turns towards you faster than he’d like. 

You blink up at him, completely unfazed by the sharpness of his tone. You tilt your head, clearly amused. “Coach? That is what you are, right?” 

Aaron narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Since when do you call me that?” 

You shrug. “Since you started bossing people around with that serious FBI voice of yours. Thought it was fitting.” 

A small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips before he tamps it down. He is the coach, and he’s used to being called that by the kids and their parents. But hearing you say it in that teasing lilt, wearing his name—it does something to him.  Before he can say anything, the whistle blows, signaling the end of practice. Jack waves at you from afar as he calls for his father to join them. 

“Are you sticking around?” Aaron asks, already knowing the answer. 

You shrug, rocking back on your heels. “Of course. Someone’s gotta be here to hand out the orange slices.” 

He gives you a dutiful nod—something Jack also does, now that you think about it. “I’ll see you after the game.” 

He tries to focus on the game, he really does. He is the coach, after all. But the task proves to be nearly impossible, as all he can think about is the way his son’s old jersey fits around you, snug as a bug, and those goddamn shorts that you are wearing. He’d love nothing more to march up to Washington and make them pass a law that prohibits you from ever wearing shorts like that outside the house, but he’s a little preoccupied at the moment. And don’t even get him started by the way you’ve made yourself at home on the sidelines—legs crossed, sun-kissed skin on full display, completely oblivious to the chaos you’re causing in his head. 

It’s absurd, really. He’s a grown man, an FBI agent, a father, and yet he can’t seem to stop himself from glancing over between plays, from tracking your movements out of the corner of his eye. It’s distracting in a way he’s not proud of. Aaron is a disciplined man. He has spent years perfecting his ability to compartmentalize, to suppress, to control—but right now? But it proves to be an arduous task to compartmentalize, as you lean forward to hand Jack a water bottle, the jersey riding up just enough to make his already wayward thoughts worse—he feels like he’s losing a battle he didn’t even realize he was fighting. 

And don’t even get him started on the way you cheer. 

It should be innocent. It is innocent. But every time you call out Jack’s name, every time you shout encouragement in that bright, excited voice, Aaron feels something deep in his chest unravel. He swears he even hears Dave chuckle from the other end of the bench, because of course he would notice.  

Rossi has a talent for sniffing out trouble, and right now, Aaron is drowning in it.  From his spot near the bench, he lets out a quiet chuckle “You know, for a man who prides himself on control, you’re slipping,” Rossi murmurs, just low enough for Aaron to hear. 

Aaron doesn’t look away from the field. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Rossi hums knowingly. “Right.” 

Aaron exhales sharply, forcing himself to focus. But when he hears you laugh, it takes everything in him not to look. And then he does.  

And he immediately regrets it. 

Because you’re sitting there, completely unaware of the absolute disaster you’re causing in his head, eating a popsicle like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Aaron feels his jaw tighten. His grip on the clipboard in his hand, already tense, threatens to snap it in two. He tells himself to look away, to focus on the game, to coach—but it’s impossible when you’re sitting there, all sun-kissed skin and bright eyes, tongue darting out to catch a stray drop of melted syrup before it drips onto your fingers. And he even hates himself for catching the way a stray drop drips onto your bare skin.  

He should not be watching this. 

And yet, he can’t seem to stop. 

The ice pop is red—strawberry? cherry?—he doesn’t know, doesn’t care, except that it’s leaving a stain on your lips, and his thoughts spiral into places they should not go. He drags a hand over his face, as if that will somehow erase the image from his brain. It doesn’t. 

“Hotch.” He hears Rossi calling out to him, but it’s a distant sound in his head. 

Aaron blinks, forcing his attention back to the field, only to find Rossi staring at him with an expression that’s far too smug for his liking. “Hmm?” he grunts, clearing his throat. 

“You’re staring.” 

“I’m coaching,” Aaron corrects, schooling his face into something neutral. 

Rossi smirks. “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.” 

Aaron exhales slowly through his nose, gripping the clipboard even tighter. He is coaching. He is focused on the game. Except he can still see you out of the corner of his eye, tilting your head back slightly as you take another slow, deliberate pull of the ice pop. 

He’s never hated frozen desserts more in his life, and he’s convinced of three things: 

One, this is, without a doubt, some kind of karmic punishment. Two, he is well and truly screwed. And three, Rossi is heading towards you.  

Rossi is heading towards—you. 

Rossi is heading towards you! 

Aaron does what a normal, adult, person would do. Try and focus on the task at hand—the task being his son’s soccer the game, the very game that he is supposed to be coaching, by the way. But he fails. Spectacularly. 

Because Rossi is already strolling toward you with that damn smug expression, hands in his pockets, every step of his leisurely pace feeling like a direct attack on Aaron’s sanity. And then—you look up, all bright-eyed and warm, like you belong here, like you’re completely unaware of the way you’ve turned his world sideways. 

“Y/N,” Rossi greets, easy as ever. “Come sit with us at the bench.” 

You blink up at him, mid-bite into your ice pop. “Oh, I’m okay here—” 

“Nonsense.” Rossi waves a dismissive hand. “You’re already part of the team, unofficial mascot and all. Plus,” he adds, barely sparing Aaron a glance, “our dear coach could use some company.” 

Aaron will kill him. 

You hesitate for only a second before grinning. “Well, if you insist.” 

Rossi definitely insists. Before Aaron can even think to protest, you’re already standing, brushing your hands off on your shorts before following Rossi back to the bench—back to him. 

And suddenly, you’re dropping down onto the seat beside him, close enough that he can smell your sunscreen, the faintest trace of something sweet lingering on your skin. The heat of your leg presses into his, and— 

This is fine. 

This is totally fine. 

“So, Coach,” you tease, nudging his arm. “How do you think we’re doing?” 

Aaron swallows hard. He keeps his eyes fixed on the field, straightening his clipboard as if it will somehow ground him. “They’re playing well,” he says, voice steady. He will not react to the warmth of your touch, to the way your shoulder brushes against his. 

You hum, leaning forward on your elbows and rest them on your knees. “That’s good.” Aaron does not look. Rather, he forces himself not to look. And this strategy proves to be utterly useless, because if he’s been completely honest, it’s very hard for him to focus on his son’s soccer game when you are sitting next to him. You pause for a beat, squinting at the field with a serious expression that makes Aaron glance at you from the corner of his eye. You look…focused. Intent. But then you speak. “Still think we need to work on defense though. Number eleven keeps drifting too far left.” 

Aaron’s head snaps toward you. You don’t look at him, just sip the last of your melting ice pop and squint again, like you’re some kind of assistant coach. “How do you know that?” he asks before he can stop himself. 

You smile, finally meeting his eyes. “What, you think I come to all these practices just for the orange slices?” 

Yes, actually. That is what he thought. You weren’t supposed to notice things like this. You weren’t supposed to talk tactics with him, like it was the most normal thing in the world to be sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the sidelines of his son’s soccer game, sharing this—what is this? 

Rossi, still sitting a few feet away, chuckles low under his breath. “Told you she’s sharper than she looks.” 

You roll your eyes. “Gee, thanks, Dave.” 

Aaron, for once in his life, is speechless. And maybe—maybe a little charmed. Okay, a lot charmed. He watches the way your brow furrows as Jack misses a goal, how you mutter something encouraging under your breath even though Jack can’t hear you from here. You care. You’re invested. And it stirs something deep in his chest, something warm and a little terrifying.  

And he knows he’s screwed.  

Royally, thoroughly screwed. 

“Okay,” you say, stretching your arms over your head with a satisfied sigh. “Game’s almost over. Win or lose, I say they deserve ice cream.” 

Aaron arches a brow. “You handing that out too 

You flash him a grin that’s definitely not innocent and your voice is nothing but mischievous. “If you’re lucky.” 

His mouth goes dry and he hears Dave cackle. He’s thanking God when the whistle blows, mercifully, signaling the end of the game. The kids scatter across the field, high fives and messy celebrations all around. Jack is beaming, the team won. But Aaron can barely focus on the score because you’re already standing, calling out to Jack, arms open wide as he barrels into you for a hug. It should be cute. It is cute. But it also knocks the air out of Aaron’s lungs, seeing his son wrapped up in your arms like you’ve always been a part of their little world. 

Jack is still bouncing with excitement as you ruffle his hair, beaming down at him like he just won the World Cup. “You were so good out there,” you say, and Jack practically glows under the praise. “That pass you made in the second half? Genius. I might need your autograph before you get famous.” 

Jack giggles. “You really think so?” 

“Think so? I know so,” you say, eyes twinkling. “Soccer and math whiz? You're unstoppable.” 

Hotch watches it all from a short distance away, pretending not to stare while Rossi mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “whipped” beside him. Jack tugs on your sleeve suddenly, glancing up at you, then at his dad. “Hey, did you notice how Dad was frowning the whole game?” 

You snort, trying not to laugh too hard. “Oh, I noticed. He looked like the team was negotiating with serial killers instead of playing soccer.” 

Aaron sighs—loudly—and gives you both a long-suffering look. “I wasn’t frowning.” 

“Yes, you were,” Jack and you say in perfect unison. Jack starts giggling again, and you bump shoulders with him like you’re part of some inside joke. “I think he was just concentrating,” you offer dramatically. “On pretending not to be nervous that someone else might know what ‘offsides’ means.” 

Aaron huffs, but there’s no real heat to it. “I’m surrounded.” 

You just flash him that same not-so-innocent grin, and Jack grabs your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Can we still get ice cream?” 

“Obviously,” you say, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “A deal’s a deal. Even your grumpy dad can’t argue with that.” 

Jack turns to Aaron, wide-eyed. “Please?” 

Hotch nods, slow. “Sure. Ice cream it is.” 

But even as he speaks, his attention is somewhere else—on you, your fingers still wrapped around Jack’s, the way you’re talking to his son like he’s yours too, the easy, natural way you fit beside them.You weren’t supposed to become part of this. Not like this. Certainly not this fast. But now you’re here, and Jack is looking at you like you’ve always been here. And Aaron feels it again—that sudden, tight warmth in his chest.  

And maybe that’s what does it. 

Maybe that’s what finally makes Aaron Hotchner realize—he’s not just charmed. Not just distracted. He’s falling. Hard. And there’s not a damn thing he can do to stop it. But maybe it’s also okay. 

Because as Jack tugs you both toward the car, chattering about his goal and asking what flavors you think the shop has today, Aaron can’t help but think—this is what home could look like. Not just peace and quiet and safety. But laughter. Teasing. Ice cream plans. 

And you. 

God help him, it’s you. 

[alinathinkstoomuch]

GAME NIGHT, RUINED

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (was supposed to be nanny!reader but lit rally no mentions of her being a nanny LOL) summary: one question you refuse to answer gives you the best sex of your life. warnings | an: p in v sex, choking, one bite, fingering, oral (f receiving), praise kink?? hotch profiling reader and its so sexy i want to kith him on the mouth, there is aftercare i just didn’t write it, oopsies, established relationship word count: 2.9k

✧ masterlist

In all fairness, you hadn't actually read the rules of the game before suggesting it tonight. But maybe Penelope had – and maybe that's exactly why she'd wrapped it in floral paper with a gingham ribbon, like it was some sweet little gift and not a trap in disguise.

Because now here you were, cheeks warm, pulse ticking too fast, staring down a question that made your soul want to leave your body.

Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad.

You liked being manhandled. Liked a little choking – nothing too wild, just enough to feel it. Worst things have happened. Honestly, it wasn't even that big a deal.

Until you looked up... and saw Aaron’s eyes on you.

You swallowed, looking back down at the card again just as a breathless little laugh slipped out.

Name a turn-on your partner doesn’t know about but should.

“Pretty sure we’ve already had this one,” you said, maybe a little too brightly, as you tucked the card neatly under the deck like it was nothing. “Next!”

You barely brushed the edge of a new card before Aaron’s hand closed over the stack, pulling it right out of reach.

“Oh, are we done playing?” you asked innocently, sitting up a little straighter as your hands slid to your thighs. “Good idea.” You were on your feet now. “Pretty sure there’s a pile of laundry upstairs with my name on it –”

“Sit.”

Your hands hovered for a second before landing on your hips, a half-formed protest catching in your throat, but you obeyed, lowering yourself back down onto the couch, trying to act unbothered. Trying to ignore the way your heart had picked up speed.

“We haven’t been playing this game long enough to get the same card twice,” he said calmly, a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Really? Huh. Could’ve sworn we already had that one.”

He arched a brow. “What was it?”

“Aaron come on,” you deflected, waving a hand like it didn’t matter. “It was something silly.”

He didn’t say anything, just flipped the deck over in his hand, eyes scanning the top card.

“Name a turn-on your partner doesn’t know about but should,” he read aloud. “Hm. Definitely don’t recall hearing your answer to this.”

“You don’t?” you said weakly.

“Just because you keep repeating everything I say doesn’t mean you’re going to get out of answering.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“You begged to play this game,” he continued calmly. “And now you’re skipping cards?” He gave you a dry look. “That hardly seems fair.”

You let out a quiet huff and leaned back into the couch, suddenly very interested in the ceiling. Your heart was beating faster than it should’ve been. Not because you didn’t trust him – you did. Completely. You knew he’d never shame you or make you feel small for wanting something.

But he’d also seen the worst of humanity. He’d spent his career staring into the darkest corners of people’s minds. You weren’t sure how he’d feel knowing his girlfriend got turned on by things like rough hands. The feeling of being pinned down and utterly helpless, even when she wasn’t.

It sounded a lot messier out loud than it did in your head.

“I just…” You hesitated. “It’s not a big deal. It’s probably not even your thing.”

“Well, if you’re unhappy in that department, I’d absolutely like to know what it is.”

“Oh my God – no, no. Not at all. I’m not – unhappy.” Your voice pitched as high as your hands flew up in protest, and now you were spiralling. “I’m very happy. I’m, like, obscenely happy. I think your ability to give me more orgasms in one night than I’ve had in my entire life before meeting you should be studied. Or patented. Or possibly banned in several states –”

He blinked once. Then bit back a smile.

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I do, unfortunately,” you muttered into your palms.

“Then tell me,” he said, voice dipping just a little. “Or am I going to have to profile it out of you?”

You peeked out from between your fingers. “You wouldn’t.”

He gave a mild shrug. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Your heart thudded.

“You get flustered when you lose control of the conversation. Especially with me. You fidget more. You avoid eye contact like you’re doing right now.”

You shifted almost immediately.

“You like routine and structure. You’re organised to a fault, but the second I step into your space and do something unexpected, you melt.” He tilted his head. “You act like it annoys you, but I’ve watched you for long enough to know it doesn’t. When I back you against the counter. When I pull your hair back mid-sentence just to kiss your neck. When I don’t ask and take instead. You don’t stop me, you lean into it.”

Your mouth went dry.

“You like being told what to do,” he said simply. Like it was a fact. Like it was always obvious. “In little ways. Safe ways. And when you’re overwhelmed, your instinct isn’t to push back, it’s to submit.”

He watched as your throat worked around a hard swallow.

“You like it when I’m in control.”

Your legs pressed together tight. Too late to pretend it hadn’t happened.

He smiled. “You throw around sarcasm, roll yours eyes, push back, pretend to fuss when I get bossy. But the second I tell you what to do – really tell you – you listen.”

You stared at him, cheeks flushed, lips parted.

“And the truth is, you don’t want to say it out loud because you think it’ll sound messed up. But it doesn’t.” He paused for a second. “I understand you and I’m not judging you. I want to give you what you need.”

Another moment of silence passed before he added, “But if you keep pressing your thighs together like that, I’m going to start thinking we’re done playing this game.”

You let a breath out before speaking. “I…I think we’re done playing,” you managed, voice hoarse.

“Yeah? You sure?”

You nodded before your brain could catch up. “Yes.”

“Then get upstairs.”

You rose on shaky legs and turned towards the stairs, amazed you didn’t trip over yourself on the way up. You could hear him following behind unhurried, while your vision nearly swam from what he’d managed to do to you with just words.

Inside the bedroom, you stopped at the foot of the bed, unsure whether to turn around or stay still. But you didn’t have to ask.

“Turn around.”

You obeyed immediately.

He stepped in close, the heat of him pressing into you just as his hand gripped a firm handful of your hair giving it a tug.

“I can feel you shaking,” he murmured, his mouth brushing against your neck. “You’ve been so worked up since downstairs.” His lips trailed along your jaw slowly, down the curve of your neck, before you felt him bite down gently, his tongue smoothing over the sting.

“Clothes off, sweetheart.” He took a step back, giving you space.

You reached for the hem of your shirt and peeled it up over your head, letting it fall to the floor. His eyes tracked every inch of newly exposed skin, like he was cataloguing every place he intended to touch.

You pushed your pants down next, shimmied them over your hips, then stepped out, standing there in just your bra and panties, chest rising and falling.

“All of it.”

Your fingers trembled as you reached behind and undid your bra, letting it slide off your shoulders. Then finally, you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear and slid them down your legs, stepping out of them and standing bare in front of him.

He nodded toward the bed.

You turned and sat on the edge first, heart racing, then eased yourself down, your back meeting the cool sheets as you settled into place beneath his gaze.

It didn’t take long before he was hovering over you, one hand spreading your thighs as he settled between them, the other coming up to rest lightly – so lightly – around your throat.

You whimpered.

“There it is,” he whispered, kissing just beneath your ear. “That little sound you make when you’re starting to let go.”

Then his fingers found your clit, and you arched off the bed with a gasp, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure landed exactly where you needed it

“I can’t possibly imagine why you’d think this isn’t ‘my thing.’” His fingers kept working you. “Feel what you’ve done to me.”

Your hand moved down between you, palming him through his jeans – and Christ, was he hard. Straining against the fabric, so much so that it almost felt painful.

He groaned at the contact, his hips instinctively pressing into your touch.

“See?” he murmured, slipping a finger inside you without warning, drawing a moan from deep in your chest. “This is exactly my thing. And you—” he kissed the corner of your mouth, “you like this is my thing.”

You gasped, your back arching again, but his other hand was already moving, finding your neck again, pressing down just enough to hold you in place.

He leaned in close, brushing his nose along your cheek, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear as he added a second finger. “You don’t even realize how pretty you are when you’re desperate, do you?” he whispered. “The way you shake. The way you clench around me when I take my time.”

“Aaron…”

He smiled against your skin. “I could keep you like this all night.”

“Please –” was all you managed, the word falling out in a half-broken whimper.

His hand at your throat tightened just enough to make your breath hitch, the same time he curled his fingers inside you. You clenched around him so hard you thought your body might unravel right then and there.

“Fuck – I – I –”

“What is it? Tell me exactly what you need.”

You bucked against him, unable to stop it, hands flying to his forearms – not to push him away, but to hold on. He didn’t move, didn’t ease up either of his hands.

“Or… do you want me to decide for you, hm?”

You couldn’t answer, not in words. Your mind was a haze of heat and ache, your breath catching somewhere between a sob and a moan. Your nails dug into his forearms, desperate for some sort of release.

“Too overwhelmed to answer?”

And then he stilled.

Fingers deep inside you, his body caging yours, hand still resting at your throat but no movement. No friction. No relief. You whined, your hips shifting in an attempt to chase more.

“I’ll decide, then,” he said softly, like he was offering kindness. “You want release? Earn it.”

He withdrew his fingers slowly, achingly slow, and the loss had you nearly sobbing. But before you could even begin to beg, he brought his slick fingers up between you and pressed them to your lips.

“Taste it,” he murmured. “Taste how worked up you are. Taste what you do to me.”

Your lips parted without thought, wrapping around his fingers. You moaned as your tongue slid over them, tasting yourself on his skin. He pressed a little deeper, a little further down your throat, and you hollowed your cheeks, sucking greedily.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice rough now. “So fucking good for me.”

He began making his way down your body, peppering kisses over your chest, you stomach, your hips. You could feel him everywhere, his breath fanning against your skin, his hands sliding down your thighs, spreading you open again.

He lowered himself between your thighs, and when his mouth finally met you again, it was everything.

His tongue lapped at you, circling your clit before dragging lower to taste all of you. He groaned into you, the sound deep, pushing you that much closer to the edge.

You couldn’t stop yourself from moving – hips bucking, thighs twitching, grinding against his face, desperate for more. But he only gripped your hips harder, strong arms pinning you down like it was nothing. Like your squirming didn’t even faze him. Like it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

You whimpered, barely coherent and all you could think about was how badly you wanted those bruises. You wanted to see the outline of his fingers tomorrow. You wanted to remember exactly how they got there.

The pressure built low in your stomach, your thighs beginning to tremble, clenching around his face.

“S’okay baby,” he mumbled against you, voice muffled by your skin. “I’ve got you.”

And that was all it took.

Your thighs clamped around his head, your hips jolting up off the bed, and you cried out, high and breathless, one hand flying to your mouth, the other tangled in the sheets. You writhed beneath him, overstimulated and soaked, gasping through the aftershocks. Your whole body was twitching, lips parted, chest heaving.

He finally pulled back, mouth and chin glistening. “You should see yourself. You don’t even know how beautiful you look when you come.”

You were still catching your breath when you heard the sound of his zipper, the clink of his belt hitting the floor. You reached up to brush a strand of hair off your damp forehead, but your hand dropped the second you felt him between your thighs again, tip dragging slowly along your soaked slit.

Your entire body went still, mouth falling open and he hadn’t even pushed inside you yet.

“You okay?” he asked, pausing just long enough to check in.

“Yes,” you breathed, eyes wide. “More than okay. So okay.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Now you want to talk?”

“I’m just –” you started, breath catching every time the head of his cock slid through your folds. “I’m just saying, I didn’t know it could feel like this, and I – God, Aaron –”

And then he thrusted into you.

One deep stroke that filled you completely, stealing the rest of the sentence right out of your mouth. Your eyes flew open, a strangled gasp caught in your throat as your head tipped back against the pillow, hands flying to his shoulders to hold on.

“Yeah,” he gritted out, his voice hot against your ear. “I thought that might shut you up.”

You could only whimper in response, nails digging into his skin as he stayed there, buried to the hilt, giving you no room to think.

“You feel that?” he murmured, rocking into you once, slow and deep. “You take me so fucking well.”

You nodded, mouth open, breathless. “I wasn’t done talking,” you managed to whisper.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to drag the tip out to your entrance and paused. “Go ahead,” he encouraged. “Try.”

“Fuck y–”

He slammed back in, cutting you off mid-word with a thrust somehow deeper than the last.

“Fuck you?” he echoed smugly. “Yeah. I think I will.”

And he did – hips rocking into yours, each thrust pushing you further into the mattress. Then his hand came up, wrapping around your throat again and you clenched around him, a moan escaping your lips. He let out a low tsk, like he’d caught you misbehaving.

He leaned in closer, his chest pressing against yours, his thrusts slowing. They were deeper now, rougher, grinding into you with so much intensity you weren’t even sure where your body ended and his began.

“This,” he murmured, squeezing just a little tighter, “this is what you were so scared to ask for?”

You opened your mouth to answer, to give him something, anything, but he slammed into you before the words could form, another deep, brutal thrust that knocked the breath out of you.

“I—Aaron, I—” you tried again, voice thin.

Another thrust. Harder.

You gasped, your back arching off the bed. “You’re not even letting me –”

He did it again, cut you off with a stroke that had your vision going white at the edges.

“Fuck—you’re doing this on purpose,” you whimpered, dazed and desperate.

“I sure am.” His hand tightened just a little more at your throat. “You want to know what my turn-on is?” he muttered, not waiting for an answer. “Seeing you fucked senseless.”

Another thrust hit that perfect spot, making your entire body jerk beneath him. You tried to speak, to respond, but he snapped his hips again and you mewled out whatever nonsense your uncooperative tongue could muster.

“You want to come?”

You nodded frantically, words useless now, tears brimming from the sheer overload.

“Good. Then do it.”

He reached down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, setting a pace in perfect sync with his thrusts. Your hips began to stutter as you screwed your eyes shut, the pressure building too fast to stop.

It took mere seconds before your body seized around him.

“Jesus – fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. “You’re so fucking tight when you come –”

His rhythm faltered, stammered and then he was slamming into you one last time, your name falling from his lips as he came.

He loosened his grip on your throat, both hands sliding to your ribcage, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

Neither of you spoke. Both of you were too focused on catching your breath, sharing the same shallow air like it might not be enough.

Finally, after a minute, he leaned in, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. “Think we should play card games more often.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic

dbf!bodyguard!hotch using food as foreplay coming up next to an alina-blog near you!🌟

[kiwriteswords]

Planting Seeds [Aaron Hotchner x Florist!Reader]

Florist!Reader Masterlist|| Main Masterlist [I need to update this, sorry!]|| Ao3||Word Count: 2.3k|| AN: Florist!Reader is making me miss my days at a florist so much, I have been applying for weekend jobs just to get back into it for fun! Tags/Warnings: Female!Reader, Florist!Reader, Non-BAU!Reader, pre-relationship, slight angst, Hotch is clueless, Sassy!Reader, Flirty!Reader, JJ putting Hotch in his place, Reader is JJ's friend from college, sexual jokes, Aaron Hotchner doesn't realize how he comes across, mentions of bad men!!. Summary: Aaron Hotchner has to prove to you that he's not like other men who come into your flower shop, but when he's sort of clueless to how he might be percieved, he realizes he needs to make it right to you.

For someone who ran a flower shop, you’d long stopped believing in fairytales.

Romance? Sure. It bloomed in your shop every day. Husbands who still brought home roses after twenty years. First-date jitters, apologies tucked into tulip petals, “I’m sorry I was an idiot” scrawled on notecards. 

You’d seen it all. 

You arranged it all.

But the reality was this: for every sweet old man who wanted to surprise his wife, there were just as many men walking in with wedding rings they pretended not to wear and vague stories about coworkers or friends they just happened to be buying orchids for at 7 p.m. on a Friday.

You smiled for them all. 

That’s what you did. 

But you didn’t swoon anymore. 

Not even when the suit was expensive, and the jawline could cut glass.

Not even when he walked in again.

Badge and all. 

The bell above the door chimed, and you glanced up from behind the counter--

Aaron Hotchner.

You remembered his name, of course. JJ’s broody FBI friend. The one with quiet eyes and sad shoulders and impeccable taste in arrangements. The one you’d flirted with a little too easily last time, not expecting he’d ever actually come back.

And yet---

Here he was. 

Suit and all.

A small pause in the doorway, as if checking to make sure he wasn’t interrupting anything. He looked…better in the daylight. Less weight behind his eyes, maybe.

Or maybe you were just projecting.

“Agent Hotchner,” you greeted smoothly, standing up and brushing off your apron. “Back so soon. I’m honored.”

He gave you a polite nod. “It’s my partner’s birthday. I thought flowers might be a nice gesture from the team.”

Partner. Mmhm.

You walked around the counter, wiping your hands on a towel tucked into your waistband. “Let me guess. Female partner?”

He hesitated for a half-second. “Yes. Emily.”

“Right,” you said, nodding like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t already recognize that vague tone. That slightly-too-careful wording. Not girlfriend. Not wife. Just Emily.

You’d had plenty of Aarons in this shop.

Buying peonies for their assistant. Daisies for their kid’s teacher. Something casual for a friend---

Never clarifying the business or romantic variety. 

Always just vague enough to keep their conscience clean.

You’d also had plenty of men who looked at you like Hotch did now---

Measured, intrigued, maybe even a little charmed.

And sure, it stung a little, watching yet another man you might’ve flirted back with turn out to be someone else’s. You weren’t bitter. You were just tired.

“All men say that,” you muttered under your breath, then caught yourself.

He tilted his head. “Pardon?”

“Nothing,” you said, offering your best customer service smile. “So, for Emily---what’s she like? Fun and bright? Elegant and aloof? What’s the vibe?”

He considered it. “Tough. Smart. She’d roll her eyes if this was too sentimental. But she’s important to me. To the team.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So…understated, but meaningful.”

He nodded. “Exactly.”

“Alright, Agent Hotchner.” You stepped back toward the wall of fresh blooms, motioning for him to follow. “Let’s find the perfect ‘I swear this isn’t too sentimental, but I still care deeply’ birthday bouquet for your very important…partner.”

He didn’t respond to the teasing lilt in your voice. Just followed quietly, eyes scanning the rows of color in front of him.

You told yourself not to care.

You arranged flowers for wives and girlfriends and side pieces every damn day.

He was no different.

Even if---some small part of you hoped---you were wrong.

Hotch wasn’t oblivious.

He noticed the shift the second it happened.

One moment, your smile had been coy, your laugh light and easy as you teased him about flower language. The next---

It was like a door had closed. 

Not slamming, no. 

Just…quietly locking behind you.

You stopped meeting his gaze. Your tone went crisp. Polite. Your hands moved faster, more business than artistry. 

When you asked, “Would you like to include a card?” there wasn’t a trace of the playful warmth from last time.

He had no idea what he’d done.

But he knew what it looked like.

Disinterest. You were no longer charmed. Maybe you never were.

“Just sign it from all of us,” he said simply.

You nodded and scribbled the note without looking up. “It’ll be ready in ten minutes. You’re welcome to wait, or I can set it up as a delivery.”

“I’ll wait.”

You didn’t respond.

And he didn’t press.

The arrangement was beautiful, of course. You were good at what you did. The flowers were understated but elegant---

Dark burgundy ranunculus, dusty pink garden roses, seeded eucalyptus, and sprigs of something pale and trailing. It was thoughtful. Exactly what he’d asked for.

He thanked you. You smiled---distant---and turned back to your workspace.

Hotch left with the bouquet and a strange, tight feeling in his chest that he couldn’t quite name.

He told himself it didn’t matter.

He was imagining it.

Probably.

Later that afternoon, JJ knocked lightly on his office door, stepped in, and closed it behind her. She had that, “I mean business,” look written on her face that he’d only seen a number of times. 

Typically, when something hits close to home. 

Never a good sign.

Hotch looked up from his case file. “Something wrong?

JJ crossed her arms and fixed him with a stare he’d seen her use on suspects in the field. “You really tanked that flower shop visit, huh?”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

She walked up to his desk, voice low and unimpressed. “She called me. Five minutes after you left.”

“…She--who?”

JJ said your name like it was obvious. “The florist, Hotch? My friend since college, who I told you was sweet, single, and might actually like you if you tried being a human man for five minutes.”

He gave a slow blink, still very much processing. “She called you?”

“Oh, yeah.” JJ leaned against the desk. “Said---and I quote---‘Why would you tell me he’s single if he clearly has a partner? I don’t sell second bouquets for side chicks, JJ.’”

Hotch blinked again.

JJ threw her hands up. “Do you see what you’ve done?”

“I---wait. She thought---Emily?”

JJ stared at him. “Yes. Because you called her your partner and got all vague and cryptic, like every married man who’s ever flirted with her while hiding a wife and a mistress in the car.”

Hotch exhaled, rubbing his temple. “I meant work partner.”

“Well, yeah, we know that,” JJ said, exasperated. “But you didn’t say that. You gave zero context. You walked into her space again, brooded around her flowers, flirted like it was your job, and then acted like you were spoken for.”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

JJ raised both brows. “Hotch.”

A pause.

“…I don’t…flirt.”

She sighed, though there was the faintest tug of amusement at her lips. “You need to fix it.”

Hotch shook his head. “If she’s not interested---”

“She was interested,” JJ cut in. “Until you made it sound like you were emotionally unavailable and off the market. I told her you were a good guy. That you’re single. Thoughtful. That you used to buy flowers for your wife. That you’d never play games.”

Hotch looked down for a beat. That ache in his chest again---

Sharper this time.

“I didn’t mean to give her the wrong impression.”

“Well, you did,” JJ said, softening slightly. “But the good news is, she still asked me if you were actually seeing someone. Which means she cared enough to be annoyed.”

Hotch didn’t respond. Just stared down at the file, the corners now creased under his fingers.

JJ smirked. “You going to keep reading that page you’ve been on for ten minutes, or are you going to go get your dignity back?”

He looked up. 

And this time, he didn’t argue.

Hotch didn’t usually get nervous.

Not in the field, not with a gun to his head, not when standing in front of a room full of press demanding answers. But now? Standing outside a flower shop with his hands in his coat pockets, replaying JJ’s very blunt advice over and over in his head?

Yeah. 

He was nervous.

The bell chimed as he stepped inside.

You didn’t look up at first. You were focused, hunched slightly over your workbench, carefully arranging peach garden roses and lisianthus into a tall glass vase. 

You wore a sleeveless black turtleneck under your apron and a pair of gold earrings that swung gently when you moved. Even with your hair pulled back, you looked like you belonged in an editorial---

Effortlessly composed, fingertips lightly dusted with pollen.

When you finally did glance up, your posture didn’t change.

Neither did your face.

“Agent Hotchner,” you said, voice cool but professional. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

He nodded. “I was hoping you had a minute.”

You gave a small, casual shrug. “For you? Sure. Two minutes. That’s the customer service minimum.”

Ouch.

You wiped your hands on a towel at your hip, crossing your arms. You weren’t being rude---

Not at all. 

(Maybe a little…)

But you’d turned off the warmth you’d had before. Your smile was polite, lips pressed and practiced. Your tone was smooth and just a little flat.

Like you’d been disappointed before.

He exhaled slowly. “I wanted to apologize. For earlier.”

You raised your eyebrows slightly. “Which part?”

Touché.

He shifted his stance but didn’t look away. “For being unclear. I wasn’t trying to mislead you. Emily is my…my coworker. A close friend. But that’s it.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. Not unkind, just…guarded. Assessing him the same way he probably assessed everyone who walked through your door.

“Okay,” you said simply.

Hotch blinked. “Okay?”

“Well,” you added with a mild shrug, “I assumed either JJ was lying to me about you being single, or you were one of those guys who likes to keep their options open while pretending they’re not taken. You know how many of those walk in here?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

“I had a guy last month buy a bouquet for his wife, come back ten minutes later to buy the same one for his girlfriend, and then tried to get a third for his assistant. Said it was easier if they all looked alike so he wouldn't forget who got what.”

Hotch looked mortified. “That’s…”

“Creative,” you said dryly. “And disgusting.”

He actually huffed a small laugh at that, and you cracked a smile. Just barely.

“I’ve seen worse,” you added. “Men who text their mistress while I’m ringing them out. Men who ask if I’ll personally deliver the flowers to their wife, and when I say I don’t offer delivery, they go, ‘Well, maybe you could do it for me, sweetheart.’” You shook your head. “So yeah. I’m a little…guarded when a handsome man in a suit comes in, acts sweet, and says he’s got a ‘partner.’ It’s never just one woman, Agent Hotchner. It’s a minimum of three.”

He winced. “I didn’t mean to sound like that kind of man.”

You met his eyes. “You didn’t mean to. But you did.”

There was silence for a moment. Not cold---

Just full.

Then you softened, just slightly.

“I’m not mad,” you said. “I’m just used to protecting my peace. You’re not the first to walk in here and look interested until reality caught up to them.”

Hotch straightened a little. “And if I said I was still interested?”

You raised a brow. “Then I’d ask why you didn’t say that before walking out of here like you’d never met me.”

He paused. “I assumed you weren’t.”

“Aaron Hotchner,” you said flatly, “you assumed wrong.”

Something about the way you said it---firm, unapologetic, completely in control of your own narrative---hit him hard.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t backpedal. Just stood there like you’d said nothing out of the ordinary, even though his heart had stuttered a little.

“So,” you added, “are we still doing this apology thing, or are you going to ask me on a proper date?”

That actually made him laugh---

Low and quiet and genuine.

“I’d like to start over,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”

You gave a small nod. “Alright. Clean slate.”

You stepped behind the counter again, reaching for a narrow glass vase. Then, from a bucket behind you, you pulled a single dahlia---

Soft pink with deep copper tips.

You twirled it gently between your fingers before sliding it into the vase and pushing it toward him.

“This is my favorite,” you said. “Dahlia. Strength, softness, elegance, survival. Kind of a metaphor, if you think about it.”

Hotch nodded slowly. “It’s beautiful.”

You didn’t need to get into the specifics of the metaphor being that Dahlias…so rare and so difficult to grow and nurture, that there were contests to see who could grow the biggest and best one. In some ways you related to them. A flower that most couldn’t quite nail down how to care for. 

You tapped your fingers lightly against the counter. “If you come back with a bouquet of those? For me? Maybe I’ll flirt with you again.”

He smirked. “Was that what you were doing?”

You leaned in just slightly. “Don’t flatter yourself. I flirt better when I’m not annoyed.”

Hotch took the vase carefully, fingers brushing yours just for a second. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And Hotch?”

He looked up from the flower in his hand.

You gave him a soft, knowing smile. “Next time you walk in here, leave the guilt and the vague statements at the door. I don’t bite.”

Another pause.

Then you grinned. “Unless you ask nicely.”

And that was when Hotch knew he was in trouble.

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 @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy

[beahotchner]

I had to …

Pinterest <3 … down the rabbit hole I went ..

Aaron Hotchner … chief kiss 💋

[ssamorganhotchner]

HALDHSOFH it was so well written 😩 but why did i do that to myself 😅🫣

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 & 𝐓𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐬

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader [wc: 4.2k]

summary: aaron knows how much you love his hands.

warnings: this is filthy and I’m not sorry. Fingering (f), pure fucking smut, aaron definitely talks you through it and is here to please.

He’d put you in a trance one too many times before.

Just… watching the way he moved about. His hands distracted you from the corner of your eyes. Carefully turning and falling upon the pages of his file that laid in his lap above the sheets.

God. You couldn’t focus.

The words on the page before you were nothing but a blur as the veins took focus and the fantasy before unraveled in your mind.

It didn’t take much when a man like Aaron was so casually attractive. Glasses sitting on his nose, hair dried and loose on his head, a white tee worn relaxed around his chest.

And God… those hands. His fingers, the thumbs. What you would do in that moment under the cool lighting of the bedroom, in the heat of the comforter, and the plush of the pillow to have him trace the edges of your face with them. Paint a path along the lines brought by time and catch on the smooth curl of your lips, drawing a wave before wetting one, or two, so gently with the moisture of your mouth.

“Hey,” his voice broke your trance. “You alright?”

No. No, you weren’t fucking alright. Never in the time since you laid eyes on Aaron Hotchner have you been “alright”. He consumed you. He burned the bones of your body and sent the most inappropriate thoughts straight to your brain at a moments notice.

No. You weren’t fine. You were utterly entranced by him and for some celestial reason, you were lucky enough that Aaron felt the same about you. He just… contained it differently.

“Yeah,” you nodded and turned back to your book. “Fine.”

He hummed but continued on with his file. Marking notes in margins or looking down at a photograph for too long, Aaron always brought work home no matter the occasion. His job forced it but he made time. To sit up in bed and enjoy your company even in the silence, it was better than him not being there at all.

Yet your traveling thoughts had already convinced you it wasn’t enough that evening. You needed more. You needed him. And it was so hard to concentrate on the words you’d already forgotten about.

Who were these people? You thought. I’m four hundred pages in and I couldn’t tell anyone who the hell these characters were.

Because you weren’t alright. You were boiling. Adjusting your back against the headboard, your shifting unearthed the comforter and nudged his files enough for him to notice.

“You sure?”

“Mhm,” you responded.

But Aaron wasn’t stupid—you’d been sitting on that page, page four-hundred-and-sixty-two, for fifteen minutes.

The average person spent a range of one to two minutes per page in a typical novel. If he weighed the subject matter as fiction, he knew you could read equivalent to one but if it were for academics or your career, it would lean toward two. This was the former, a fiction. Pure fantasy that he knew you enjoyed on the regular even if something was amiss as he accepted your response and let you sit with it instead.

And maybe it was a bit cruel of him to not beckon to the unspoken call, but he could feel your eyes on him.

He needed to hear you say it.

Oh, fuck, you did really want to say it. His hands. Hands. They were there, on his body, like most people had, and they just gripped your heart so suddenly and never shook it away.

Your fingers flitted around the edges of the book as a shallow, barely there exhale escaped your body. You knew he heard it. He didn’t say anything.

So, he flipped to another page and this time, it went upwards instead of to the side and his right hand held the paper up, giving you a better view of the callousness they’d grown into over the years. So worn and tough, they could be what you needed at any time.

A protector, a comfort, a help, or a guide.

You wished so badly to feel them upon your skin. Feel him cupping every piece of you or filling you completely as his breath fanned your face and his small, barely there smile encouraged you to relish in his touch.

“What’s the chapter about?” His voice mumbled from beside you.

You broke the stupor again. Eyes flicking down to the pages abruptly to search for an answer. Everything made sense but no sense at all. Who was who, what was what, you had no recollection of the last five hundred words. It caused you to slip the bookmark in and close the cover.

“I think I’m just too tired, I’m not sure.”

He grunted a non-reply. Smug. He knew. He had to of known. How could he not feel the need radiating from you? He couldn’t see the nervous gulp you swallowed.

“I’m going to go to bed. You don’t need to stop.” Moving to place your book on the bedside table, you waved a hand in his general direction and he caught it with his own.

Your head turned swiftly, eying your hand in his as he let his larger one overtake it. Aaron pulled the back of yours to his lips and placed a warm, soft kiss on it. Once, then twice. He didn’t pull it back but side-eyed you while you watched him.

“You know you can ask me anything, right?” His breath was hot on your hand. His lips grazed your smooth skin, feeling the pull of his mouth upwards.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I know.”

He kissed it again. “And if there was a problem, you’d tell me… yeah?”

“Of course I would.” You furrowed your brows at his suggestion. “Wha—“

“Then tell me what you want from me.”

Your breath caught in your throat. A small, gasp of boldness on his behalf that sent the synapses firing every which way. His free hand removed his glasses from his face and set the case file soaring to the floor in a grand “plop” against the wood. Two lights on, his hand in yours, Aaron looked into your eyes and asked again.

“What do you want from me, sweetheart?”

The wiring short circuited. A part of you was baffled at the attentiveness of it. His words were always carefully chosen and spoken in a manner so firm and decisive and you could barely form words. But you glanced down at his hand in yours and he caught you.

Hook. Line. Sinker.

“I’m… distracted. I’m just…”

“Use your words.” He squeezed your hand as if to encourage you but it only made your ridiculous spiraling worse.

“Y-you distract me, that’s all it’s. You’re very distracting. All of you.”

“Well you’ve got my attention so I’m glad to have yours,” he teased. His lips found your hand again before he held them to his chest. If you were of power, you could hear his heart beating for you so loudly.

“I don’t know if you realize how much of my attention you have, Aaron.”

His head rested against the backboard and he smiled.

“Why the hands?” He asked and your eyes wanted to break away from his stare.

“Are you profiling me in bed, Mr. Hotchner?” You deflected instead. “I thought you said you’d never do that to me.”

“There isn’t an ounce of profiling when you make it so obvious. You sat on that page for longer than it takes you to drink a cup of coffee and I caught you, twice, but you didn’t even notice.”

Your face was on fire and for what? He loved you, you loved him, and you were far from a puritan when it came to what he’d seen and done to you in that very bed.

Maybe it was the shameless way he felt emboldened then. Perhaps it was the rapidness of your want setting in that made your heart skip more than one beat.

“Then… yes,” you settled, “your hands distract me.”

Aaron nodded. One hand still intertwined with yours, he ran the other over your outstretched arm and back. Back and forth, back and forth too sooth the embarrassment he couldn’t fathom you truly felt about it.

“Do you want me to do something with my hands?”

“Aaron,” you sighed and looked away sheepishly.

“What?” He laughed faintly. “It’s just a question. Baby, don’t be embarrassed.”

“Oh God,” you nearly wailed instead and wiggled your hand away from him, back to you, switched off the light and in an instant, laid down onto your side away from him.

“Goodnight. I love you.” You finished.

He let out a breathless scoff and shuffled down into a lying position too. The light on his bedside table, however, remained on. As if protruding like spotlights, you could sense his eyes on your back. He said your name smoothly.

“Come on,” he nudged. “You can’t ignore me now.”

“I think I can.”

“What happened to goodnight?”

“It’s starting now,” you reset. “Goodnight.”

“I’m not tired and I don’t think you are either. Come on, turn around.”

You huffed, but not in anger. More in an, “I’m so pathetic in my emotions that it feels so awkward to vocalize what I want” way. It was a product of womanhood—the layered shame of saying or acting upon what you want. How it’s lewd or improper to be vocal in bed, or to be vocal about how you want your partner to please you.

Aaron had never made you feel ashamed for wanting things.

He set his boundaries, you set yours, and together you found a balance that kept you both happy and satisfied but there were still times that the old feeling of inept muteness riddled you.

You turned over onto your back anyway.

He was already on his side and waiting for you. The hair on his head gradually fell in the direction of the mattress as he quickly scanned over your face beneath the shadow of what he could see.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop profiling me?”

“I will once you start telling me what’s going on.”

Your eyes bounced around every bit of him that was exposed. His face, his neck, his shoulders, his arms, the hand you could see, his torso. Then you glanced around him and shook your head against the pillow.

“It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s nothing!”

“Distraction is one thing but you’re on another planet.”

Turning again to look away from him, you stared at the ceiling as you settled into the bed on your back. He shuffled closer and you closed your eyes tightly as the feel of him hovering in your space overtook your senses.

“Sweetheart,” Aaron’s voice carried a length of warmth within words.

“It’s embarrassing,” you moaned dramatically, your fingers covering your eyes and Aaron fought a smile at your distress. He pried them off your face and cupped your cheek gently with one of his hands.

The way he looked at you… how could you ever be embarrassed to say what you want? He knows how you love him, and he you. There is nothing you could say that would make him turn away or cast you aside. This was it. It’s the world he crafted and drew space for you within it beside him at the center.

You kissed his palm softly.

“I am here to bend at your will,” he sounded so poetic. Who knew Aaron had it in him? “And if you need me for something that you want, take it. Take it from me and let me provide.”

“Fine,” you huffed and forced the nerves to the back burner. “You know what I want?”

“What do you want?” He asked once more.

“I want you to touch me.” Aaron moved closer, head hovering above yours. “Make me feel something, Aaron, and I don’t want to think about anything else but you.”

He leaned in, nose bumping yours. “Yes ma’am.”

Aaron’s lips met yours slowly. A barely there touch of his lips to yours as he felt the waters around him. His hand cupped your face, while the other rested with a tight grip at the bottom of where your breast met your ribs. He gripped the fabric of your shirt as he titled your head to better angle you to him.

His mouth met yours again but this time ferociously. Determined to make you feel something more than just a peppering of love through his passing, but a permanent sting of his presence. You breathed through him; aching to his touch and melding to his body in urgency at his kiss. You returned it as ardently. Lips molding together like a puzzle.

You placed your hand atop his on your cheek. Tracing the raised veins and light pattering of hair that rested at the base along his wrist. He was so firm and adroit.

And you took delight in it. Shuddering to the point of your chest emitting a splutter, Aaron took your hand and guided it up the bed above your head. You opened up for him. His tongue slipping into your mouth with ease at your malleable lure. Both hands grabbed at you tightly, feeling bits of you from palm to chest.

The coarse hand on your chest wandered with knowledge beknownst to only him. A granted privilege of the passage of time and the trust you’ve given him. To explore and caress in curated touches that leveled you to the ground—Aaron being the one to raise you to the peak again.

He tracked his hand along your torso to feel you breathe. You’re here. You’re wanting him. It took in the fabric of your clothes and bunched them into a fist as the sensation of its removal to feel the skin of your stomach. It fell into the underside, hidden by the clothes and traveled back up to your breasts that pebbled with anticipation.

Over your breast, his thumb soared over your nipple tenderly as his lips separated from yours. His hot breaths colliding with yours while a pleased look washed over his face. Aaron did it again, palming rougher at the flesh and took note of the way your shoulder rolled as you careened into him, legs knocking into his and hand straining against the one that held you to the mattress.

“That feels good, doesn’t it?” He rumbled.

He let go of your hand. Designating their own path to the back of his head, you ran them along his arms, over his biceps and cradled his head into your hands. Your fingers carded through his short hair, fanning away the strays that laid loose on his forehead. He was so close, so warm in his caging of your body that all you could think of was him.

Him. Aaron. And nothing but him.

Your teeth caught on your lip as you smiled up at him softly. I love you, I love you, I love you.

“Kiss me, Aaron.”

You didn’t need to tell him twice. He leaned down once more and knew that his lips were sending you to euphoria. The fluttering of your chest seemed to burst. Your hands weaved into his shallow hair to feel every bit of him as he devoured you. A bolt of electricity shot through you; Aphrodite’s fountain exploding in rejoicing elation.

His lips were soft. Hungry, but careful with every tilt and turn of his head as the pressure of him above and holding you was pushing you into the mattress. Aaron’s tongue long breeched your lips and the teeth that protect his most valued actions. And when he retreats, he’s rewarded with a pull of his bottom lip between your teeth, letting him linger in your space for a moment longer before separating again.

You didn’t need to tell him twice. He leaned down once more and knew that his lips were sending you to euphoria. The fluttering of your chest seemed to burst. Your hands weaved into his shallow hair to feel every bit of him as he devoured you. A bolt of electricity shot through you; Aphrodite’s fountain exploding in rejoicing elation.

His lips were soft. Hungry, but careful with every tilt and turn of his head as the pressure of him above and holding you was pushing you into the mattress. Aaron’s tongue long breeched your lips and the teeth that protect his most valued actions. And when he retreats, he’s rewarded with a pull of his bottom lip between your teeth, letting him linger in your space for a moment longer before separating again.

Aaron loved the feel of your body beneath his fingertips. The plush of your hips and sides and legs. Everything intoxicated him with an irresistible urge to have you any way, every way, until the end of time. His hand worked along your stomach, traveling low to the crux of where your leg perched under the covers.

“Are you gonna keep fondling me like a teenager or do something about it?” You broke the air with a content, yet pushing, sigh.

“You told me to touch you, then to kiss you.” Aaron’s nose traced the line of your jaw as you extended you neck with the recline of your head. “I need more than just a visual offering.”

He laid a whisper of a kiss on the column of your neck.

“You’ve gotta tell me.”

But you couldn’t find the right words because every time you thought them, they sounded… so…

“What if I just showed you myself?”

His eyes met yours curiously. “Yourself?”

You nodded, taking the hand on your stomach and bringing his fingertips to your lips. “I can lead you there. You just have to trust me that it’s what I want.”

As you spoke, the tips of his fingers caught on your bottom lip and pulled down lightly before it sprung back with a new sheen of saliva daubing it.

“Whatever you want.” And he meant it.

You guided his middle finger into your mouth without breaking eye contact. His pupils blown wide, you swirled your tongue around his digit before releasing it back out slowly. Then, you took his ring finger and did the same. Wetting two of his long, thick fingers to prime what was already going to be a welcome encounter.

You slipped his ring finger out of your mouth and directed his hand below the sheets. A man with lesser control would have forced them away, ripping them off the bed to watch his ministrations. Aaron didn’t. He watched your face. The pure, determined stare you kept with him as he breached your sleep shorts and the glaringly lack of panties that his fingertips brushed. You led him straight to you. Barely a gasp left your mouth at his feather touch gliding along the already slicked skin and feeling the most vulnerable parts. But he knew them as well as he knew himself. The gentle caress of skin, the glide of those two fingers casting the shape of your folds sent synapses firing greater than before.

You sucked in a shallowed inhale.

Aaron teased you. Rubbing those two damp fingers along the edges of your cunt at the slight twitch of your body. He saw the shaking breaths, the incline of your hips into his hand. With a growing pressure of four fingers, he dragged them slowly, in a elliptic motion once, twice, and a third for good measure. They gathered the growing wetness—realizing quickly there was no need for the lube in the bedside drawer—and used it to glide his thick fingers around a now-aching clit.

One of your hands folded tightly over the sheets and grasped it hard in your palm while the other latched onto his outstretched arm beside you. It was half holding him up, straining the muscles of his shoulders as he worked two fronts.

“Fuck,” your voice wavered at a wave of pleasure taking over.

“You want me to talk you through it?” He murmured.

“Yes please.”

His fingers slid down and back up. He watched you carefully, waging what he wanted to say and what he knew you wanted to hear. The two fingers that you had taken into your mouth worked worked low to open you up—a feathered touch at your entrance as his thumb stayed above, putting a consistent pressure on your clit.

“Jesus,” his voice was barely a whisper. It was a hymn only you could hear and meant only for you. “You’re so wet.”

You hummed two different octaves as he pushed his two fingers into your slick pussy. First knuckle deep, Aaron was tight even now. He pulled back and circled where he had just been to spread the wetness along your lips. He guided them in again, deeper than before.

“I know you think about this,” Aaron said. His thumb picked up in pace as his two fingers curled into the most plush spot.

Your back arched toward him. Legs threatening to close in, Aaron clicked his tongue and shook his head. Eyes baring every selfless emotion across his soul while he nearly cooed.

“No, no, no,” he repeated. “Gotta leave those open for me.”

“I know,” you groaned, nails digging into his forearm. You withered at his determined pace. Shoulders tensing and releasing when they hit just right.

“You think about my hands all the time,” Aaron continued on. “Staring at them when I grab my coffee, when I read in bed… you imagine them at work and in the way I hold my gun. You think about when they’d gather your hair as you suck my cock.”

“Well,” you could barely form a coherent sentence as the hormones went straight to your brain, “maybe stop making them look so fucking hot.”

“I’m just existing, baby… that’s all your mind’s doing.”

“Not when—oh,” you careened. He flattened his fingers and drove them deeper. Your toes curled at the feeling of his cock straining in his boxers against your leg.

“Shh,” he encouraged. “Let’s focus on you, hm? You’re doing so well.”

He continued to pulse his fingers in and out, in and out, and all you could think about is how lost you were in him. Utterly captivated by a man who kept himself so controlled and formal until the door was closed and the tie loosened.

“I think about you too,” he said. “How pretty your eyes are, and when you smile at me so tired but don’t care because you just want to sit with me. I think about how lucky I am.”

And your heart swelled just as much as the blood pumping and spiraling elsewhere.

“That you’re too good for me but let me do these things to you. You’re so beautiful like this.”

The hand that was clutching onto his forearm moved quickly to the edge of his tee on his bicep and tugged him down. Aaron could feel how close you were getting.

He could see it in your eyes. The clouded over enamored vision that peered back at his appreciative ones.

“I think about how you feel tight around my fingers,” he spoke on your lips. “God, you’re so tight.”

You whined. Aaron picked up his speed.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He rested his forehead against yours as you wrapped a loose arm around his shoulder. Aaron’s body pressed into yours sideways and his erection’s bulge begged for you to take more than just his fingers. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

“Aaron.” Desperate, you squeezed his shoulder.

“You’re holding out on me,” he profiled. “I can feel how badly you want to come, baby. I want to feel it too.”

You nodded and he left a single kiss at the edge of your mouth as he drove his fingers to the end of their own road. A blinding, body-stilling peak hit you like a ton of bricks. Cascading from the place where he remained, a firework exploded into a million colors and sent your the muscles in your body into overdrive. An instant overstimulation; Aaron rode the wave of your orgasm with you.

Face etched in a brilliant awe of what your body could give him without feeling the need of his own release to know it had been a job well done. His fingers brought you down. Slowly stroking out until you were empty of him and all that was left was his thumb on your clit.

Your finish on his fingers found home in the cotton of your pajama bottoms as Aaron’s hand re-emerged and pulled everything back into place.

You closed your eyes at him putting you back together. In minutes, he’d go get a washcloth from the bathroom and grab a new pair of bottoms for you to be comfortable in. Aaron would let you sit with yourself and take from him what comfort you needed to slow the rate of your heart. He’d ignore your incessant asking about going down on him in return because in truth, he may have felt it beneficial but he didn’t need it.

He wanted to please you. He wanted to give you something that you could imagine when he wasn’t there to provide.

So, he’d lay back down and shuffle under the covers before leaning over to turn off the light. His excitement would settle and then he’d turn over to hold you closely with an image of you content and happy replaying in his mind for safe keeping.

This was a version of you he loved. He loved them all, but when you could be honest with him and tell him what you wanted, even passively, Aaron knew that you trusted him—and my, was it all worth it.

a/n: i'm also needy b/c i'm a fanfic writer so... penny for your thoughts? or your likes? or your reblogs?

[infictionalwonderland]

The BAU team meeting Hotch’s younger gf who looks like she walked off the front cover of a magazine & she’s so bubbly and has a really comforting energy! How would they react????

The satisfying little clicks of heels against the marble floor wasn’t enough to gain any of their attention usually, but accompanied by the delicately enchanting chimes of true laughter and sweet smell of baked goods—eyes were immediately lifting to investigate to the scene.

“Thank you so much!” An incredibly sweet, honeyed voice gushed genuinely, “here, all of these are meant for my boyfriend but I’m sure he won’t even notice.”

The team traded immensely interested looks as they surveyed the scene, Anderson (who was uncharacteristically blushing a bright flustered cherry red) was being handed a chocolate chip muffin by—wow—a startlingly gorgeous young women who was dressed in inviting soft colours and had a large sweet smile on her face that served to emphasise her lovely appearance.

“My day just got a hundred times better.” Derek grinned, swivelling his chair sideways to speak to the rest of his team while barely taking his eyes off you.

“You’re telling me.” Emily’s mouth hung open a little as she leaned forwards on her elbows to look at you more closely.

“Behave.” JJ scolded before her brief look of reprimand melted under Emily’s pointed stare, “she’s looks so sweet I just wanna eat her.”

“She has a boyfriend.” Spencer reminded them.

“What—?”

“Pretty boy—you and—“

“Oh—oh, no!” Spencer flustered, sputtering out the gulp of his coffee he had in his mouth (JJ handed him a napkin with a mothers readiness). “Not—I would be absolutely honoured—and—and, for lack of a sensical phrase, over the moon, to have a romantic relationship with a woman such as her but—no, unfortunately. She—she said a few moments ago that has a boyfriend.”

“Ah.” Emily blinked, a slow almost sheepish smirk on his lips, “I wasn’t really listening to what she was saying, just watching her lips move.”

“Preach sister.” Derek leaned forward for a fist-bump which Emily easily gave, both of them nodding in solidarity.

“Hello!” They all startled heavily as your gentle, happy voice chimed now much closer to them and mouths dropped subtly at just how beautiful you looked up close.

“Well hello sweetheart.”

“H-hi.”

“Hi gorgeous.”

“Hello!”

You blinked at them, an adorable giggle leaving you at the onslaught of greetings that came all at once. “Hi! You wouldn’t happen to know where Aaron Hotchner’s office is would you?”

“Hotch?” Emily furrowed her brows at you curiously and then seemed to forgot about, well, any of anything she was thinking as your bubbly smile and sparkling eyes turned her way and you gave a cheerful ‘yep!’ “Um—just, up those stairs, the first door at the top.”

“Thank you very much.” You told her, voice as sweet as the packet of fizzy haribos hidden in her desk. “It was lovely meeting you all, we’ll probably be better acquainted later on.”

With a sparkly mischievous twinkle in your bright eyes and another adorable giggle, you took off in a small spin that sent the enchanting mix of your perfume and the baked goods wafting over to all of them and they all watched, entranced, as you climbed the steps to their boss’ office.

After several seconds of dazed silence, Spencer gasped.

“Boyfriend—“

“Yeah I wouldn’t mind being her boyfriend either.” Derek murmured. “At all—really, no sweat off my back.”

“Hotch.”

JJ’s mouth dropped open as she realised where Spencer was going with his train of thought, rolling back in her chair as they pointed at him in realisation.

“Oh my God!”

“Hotch—hotch, is her boyfriend..?” Spencer sounded extremely confused, mouth falling open and closing repeatedly.

“Huh?”

“Reid, you are having a giggle.”

“No, he’s right.” JJ confirmed, mouth open and eyebrows raised. “She said she was here to see her boyfriend and she’s gone to see Hotch. . 2 plus 2 equals. .”

“. . An incredibly brokenhearted Derek Morgan.” Derek’s own mouth dropped open, craning his neck to see what was going on in the office of his boss before realising that Hotch had shut the blinds. Derek gasped, that sneak.

“And a flummoxed Emily Prentiss.”

“But she’s so—“

“Yeah.”

“And he’s like—“

“Literally!”

“Well, the last few months Hotch has been incredibly more relaxed, in fact his percentage of smiles given has gone up from a measly 30% to almost 84%, his laugh quota has reached high yet levels than I’ve ever known it to be. I had also noted that every Thursday he never goes home as late as he usually retires for the day and with this new revelation of a relationship—I assume this correlates to their date nights.”

“It does.”

Everyone turned in their chairs quickly to face their boss who now stood outside his office a faintly amused smile curving up his lips, at his side was you and you were wearing an amused and loving smile, eyes practically sparkling after Spencer’s speech on your boyfriend’s behaviour as they flickered up to said boyfriend beside you who looked down at you with soft, fond eyes.

“So you figured out my secret.” You grinned at them all, taking in Spencer’s red cheeks and Emily’s flabbergasted, dazed stare. “I’m Y/N, Aaron’s girlfriend!”

“Doesn’t that just crush a man’s hopes and dreams.” Derek pouted quietly to himself, straightening up in alarm when his boss’ intense eyes zeroed in on him.

“Honey, this is JJ—“ The blonde gave a warm, welcoming smile and a wave, “Spencer,” said genius gave a tight lipped awkward smile, hands flailing awkwardly and cheeks a burning fiery red, feeling this pulse thump when they smiled back directly at him, “Emily and Derek.” Both of the aforementioned gave waves with half flirty-ish smirks and half genuine smiles.

The door to Rossi’s office opened and when he stepped out and saw you beside Aaron he smiled happily, walking towards you both.

“Ah, Y/N!” He took you into an embrace, kissing both of your cheeks. “You get more beautiful every time I see you, is this big brute treating you right?”

“Always, Dave.”

He patted you on the shoulders, smiling, before turning to Aaron who was rolling his eyes at him fondly.

“Let’s keep it that way.”

“Rossi!” Emily’s astounded voice exclaimed, “you—know Y/N—you knew about this—“

It was Dave’s turn to roll his eyes as he continued walking to descend down the stairs, tutting at her disappointedly.

“You thought I wouldn’t?” He countered, “who do you think encouraged him to go for it?”

You laughed at that and your boyfriend smiled down at you fondly, looping an arm around your waist—seemingly forgetting he was in his place of work and needed to keep up the facade of stone cold, emotionless boss.

“What—Rossi—get back here—“ Derek leaped up from his seat and trailed after the older man.

“What, you gonna come watch me take a leak?”

“If it means we get some answers!”

“Shoo parassita.”

All you could do was laugh again, smiling up at your boyfriend as his arm tightened around your waist and he pulled you closer into his side. You were very happy with your decision to come and deliver baked goods to him.

[hotchnerwrites]

we NEED a part 2 to Olive Branch!! it was so so good, I loved the way you wrote it from hotch’s perspective

The Coffee Swap

◁ part one

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x BAU!reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: SFW, mutual crushes, implied age gap if you really squint, no use of (y/n), reader uses (she/her), Rossi appears with sage advice, fluff, flirting, office romance lowkey

A/N: ASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVE 🙏

My requests are open. Send me stuff! Please read the rules before asking, and be advised there is a slight wait time right now. But I will post for sure. :)

Aaron had given you a pen.

That’s all it was supposed to be. A simple gesture. An ice-breaker for the initial tension. Something quality that said ‘you’re appreciated’ without overstepping professional boundaries. Something he knew for sure you’d like.

But your reaction to it had thrown him off. Something had clicked between you two then, something that suddenly made sense.

Aaron hadn’t felt this hopeful in a long, long time. 

So naturally, he’d been trying to act completely normal, which meant he was now spiralling into teenage-boy-with-a-hopeless-crush territory. He watched the door when he heard your voice, waiting for you to enter. Smiled when you walked past his office. Wondered how he could brighten up your day— more pens? No, perhaps you should finish this one first. Coffee refill? But that was your third cup of the day. Maybe the moon. That’d do it.

Getting caught up with how to impress you further was exactly how he found himself accidentally stealing your coffee.

In Aaron’s defence, he was tired. The team had gotten back at 3:00 am, and he was running on autopilot. He must have forgotten his travel mug because it wasn’t on the usual shelf in the break room. So he grabbed the identical one sitting there and took a sip before his brain could catch up. An understandable error.

And then Aaron choked. 

It was sweet. Too sweet. Like someone had emptied three tins of sugar into it. It’d be an affront to even call this coffee. This was… an abomination.

He coughed once, twice, then glared at the cup like it had betrayed him. And then, in dawning horror, he realised it wasn’t his cup at all.

“Damn it.”

He hurried back to the break room and sure enough— there you were, digging through the upper shelves like you were looking for treasure. Aaron froze in the doorway. An unfamiliar sensation took over him— nervousness?

You didn’t hear him at first, so he took a step inside.

“Hey—”

You spun around so fast you nearly knocked into the counter. Your eyes widened, and then you just froze.

Like a sheep spotting a wolf.

Not that he was the wolf. He hoped not. Shepherd? Maybe. Sheepdog? 

What??! 

What was he thinking? He didn’t know. His brain was short-circuiting—tripping over metaphors and good sense alike. Why couldn’t he just say hello like a normal person?

Say something, his brain urged. Something normal. Professional. Not ‘I drank your coffee and now I’m in love with you’.

“Oh,” you said eventually, voice quiet. Your hand was still mid-air, holding onto the cabinet. “Hi.”

You were staring at him. Your eyes were big and uncertain like you hadn’t expected him—like maybe you were just as thrown as he was. He wished that didn’t make his heart stutter.

He cleared his throat. “I, uh.” He held up the mug like it was evidence. “I think I accidentally took your coffee.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

You blinked. And then—to his absolute horror—you looked mortified. “Oh god. You drank it?”

“I did.”

“Was it…terrible?”

He wanted to say no. He wanted to say it was perfect, actually, because it was yours, and he would drink it ten thousand times more if it meant he got to see your nose scrunch like that. But instead, he choked out, “It was…unexpected.”

You pressed your lips together, clearly trying not to laugh, and Aaron could feel heat creeping up his neck. Great, really great. Now he was blushing like a teenager. At work.

“I had one just now and it was black. Bitter. I thought I was dying.”

That startled a laugh out of him. A real one. It slipped out before he could catch it, and your head jerked up at the sound.

You looked at him like he’d just spoken fluent dolphin.

He couldn’t stop watching the way your mouth tilted into something unsure like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to smile at him. Like you were trying to read him in real time. And suddenly, he wished he were easier to read. Easier to talk to. Less of a brick wall with a nice tie.

Why did this feel so difficult? He led a team of elite profilers. He testified in courtrooms. He’d faced down serial killers with nothing but a badge and a sharp tongue.

And yet here he was, overthinking every word that left his mouth. Because it was you. Because your voice went quiet when you talked to him, and your smile came a beat later like you were still figuring out if it was safe.

“I’m sorry,” you said, eyes soft with concern. “I didn’t mean to insult your taste.”

“No, it’s alright,” he said, still smiling. “Your coffee was…memorable.”

You relaxed, a little. He noticed your grip easing on the shelf. But you still looked like you wanted to flee. Aaron really should have left it there. But his mouth moved before his brain could think and he took perhaps the biggest risk of his life.

“I’m—uh—happy you liked the pen,” he said, almost too casually.

You blinked again. “Oh. I—I did. I do. I use it every day. It’s—it’s lovely.”

There was a shy honesty to your voice like you didn’t quite know how to say how much it meant to you. It did something warm and ridiculous to his chest.

“I’m glad,” he said softly. A little too fond.

You nodded, then excused yourself with a flustered smile and disappeared down the hall.

Aaron stayed rooted to the spot, heart hammering like he’d just been asked to prom.

“Well, well.”

Rossi’s voice cut in like a knife and Aaron nearly dropped the mug, fumbling to catch it mid-air.

“I was wondering what all that giggling was about,” Dave said, strolling into the room like he hadn’t just witnessed the most awkward crush exchange known to man.

Aaron gave him a warning look. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Rossi said, reaching for his own coffee. “I’ve seen high schoolers flirt more subtly.”

“It wasn’t flirting,” Aaron muttered, looking anywhere but at him. The wall behind Rossi seemed very compelling. Maybe it held answers. Or an escape hatch.

“Sure,” Rossi said, sipping. “That’s why you’re smiling into a mug of sugar syrup.”

Aaron sighed. “She’s—young.”

“She’s not that young.”

“She works for me.”

“She also smiled like you’d hung the stars for her. Come on, Aaron. You’re not exactly Mr. Spontaneous, but even you can see the way she looks at you.”

Aaron didn’t answer.

Rossi’s voice dipped, just a touch more kind than usual. “She likes you,” he said. “You like her. Ask her out. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Aaron stared at the door you’d just exited from. He could still see the outline of your smile.

He already knew the worst that could happen. He’d lived it before.

But the best?

The best could be good. Something warm. Something new.

He looked down at the too-sweet coffee in his hand and huffed a quiet laugh, barely there, but real.

Maybe tomorrow, he’d bring two cups.

Just in case.

Thank you for reading! I appreciate any likes/comments/reblogs/follows. Constructive criticism is welcome. Do not plagiarise my content and/or post it anywhere without crediting me.

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[writtingrose]

This is a masterpiece

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.”

[sincerelybubbles]

no thoughts just hotch calling you honey

“honey, can you pass me that?” with an open hand, not even looking at you, too focused on the stack of paperwork in front of him.

“it’s okay, honey, i’ll be home soon,” spoken into the microphone of his phone, reassuring, aching at the distance between you two.

“hi, honey,” whispered into your hair, one hand pressed against your head to keep you close, the other pressed against the wall to keep his balance as he slides off his shoes.

“oh, honey,” spoken gently, big hands covering your cheeks as he holds you close, kissing your forehead soothingly.

“honey,” said between a laugh, a shake of his head, as he walks close to you and grabs your hips, so enthralled by you that he can’t help but bend into a kiss.

[lilaccutie44]

Looking for hotchniss x reader fics!!

There was one I lost where the reader falls into a lake chasing an unsub and is rescued by hotchniss, then wakes up to them fucking in bed next to her and I NEED it!!

Please help😢❤️

[chithereader]

two idiots / aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x f!reader , aaron hotchner x shy!reader cw: bau!reader, shy!reader, painfully awkward, a little naive!reader too, more of pining hotch, build up word count: 1.7k genre: fluff a/n: ahh i got so much love for shy!reader thank u all so much, here's one for you <33 i really wanted to show little moments between the two that spoke volumes about how they really felt. hope you like it!!!

You’re deep in thought at the crime scene, carefully taking in the mess caused by the struggle between the victim and the unsub. Playing out possible scenarios in your head to figure it out, arranging and rearranging the order of events– pushed into the table, hit with the lamp on the head, victim runs to the kitchen based on the blood droplets.. 

While in the background you can faintly hear Reid and Morgan bickering, also barely registering the conversation between Hotch and the sheriff, as well as Rossi in your peripheral who is looking closely at the picture frames that lined the wall. 

You walk back to the door, quietly working things out in your head. You act out your theories subtly, quickly getting caught up in piecing it together. You fail to notice Hotch taking notice of you, studying you in your element– it’s always been your thing, puzzle pieces. He’s noticed in the first few months since you’ve joined that you view every case like a puzzle, and every clue, every factor, every moment- a piece. 

Hotch, along with the other members of the team, are in awe of you. Even Reid, who is a certified genius, is intrigued at the way you view these cases– often asking you for your thoughts and theories. Sometimes, your input and analogies are actually what helps him solve a case, proving your effectiveness in the team especially given that the team’s clearance rate has only increased since you’ve joined. 

But being too caught up in your own world, you’ve failed to notice Rossi bluntly staring at Hotch– watching him watch you. Morgan, who also noticed, has been smirking into his phone quietly relaying to Garcia that boss man’s in one of his “love haze” trances again, to add to the many that have happened over the course of a few months.

Shaken out of his trance, Hotch straightens himself as if realizing something when he was watching you moving around the kitchen. He walks out the door quietly and disappears into one of your cars. 

While Morgan and Reid continue their investigation upstairs, Rossi stays with you. Partly waiting if you stumble upon a revelation, and partly for Hotch to come back, curious as to why he suddenly went out. 

It’s been a few minutes and the reenactment in your head has taken you upstairs– onto the second victim. 

Just as you were about to envision what could’ve happened, the room made you halt in your steps.  You didn’t know how long you were standing there when you heard Morgan ask, “You okay, kid?” with a barely-concealed look of concern on his face. 

You realized you were probably standing frozen for a while, taking in the gut wrenching sight of the nursery bloodied up. He walks towards you and as he nears you, recognizes the look on your face. You were trying to hold it together, to not let the broken crib and stained sheets break you.

You nodded, “Yeah, it’s just–” you open your mouth but nothing really comes out. Looking around, you realize there are no words to say. You can only offer the four walls your silence for what they’ve witnessed. 

Your shoulders notably drop and that’s when Morgan reaches for you, wrapping his arms around you to ground you. With your head on his chest, you feel the vibrations as he mumbles, “Just another day, kid.” 

With closed eyes, you breathe in his scent deeply– oak and mint, a seemingly weird combination that of course works on him. His comforting touch, rich smell and low voice have all comforted you. It’s brought you back to reality: that this is already done. And that the best you can do is catch the unsub who did this. 

You lift your head from his chest to look at him, to genuinely convey your gratitude through your eyes when you notice Hotch and Rossi out of the corner of your eye, looking at the two of you from the top of the steps. 

-

Deciding to go back to the precinct so you could build a solid profile, you all make your way back to the cars. You went to the crime scene riding with Morgan and Reid but to your surprise, Hotch ushers you out of the house and into the car he’s driving with a gentle but firm hand on your lower back. 

He guides you to the passenger seat- opening the car door for you and closing it as soon as you’re settled. You can only watch Rossi from the window waving you goodbye with a teasing smile, boarding the car Reid and Morgan came in instead of joining you and Hotch. 

As Hotch settles into the passenger seat, he reaches for a water bottle, opens it and hands it to you. You raised it in confusion while looking at him, not really sure why he’s giving you a bottle to drink. But he’s not looking back at you, only buckling his seatbelt getting himself ready for the drive. 

You start to lift it to your lips to drink it when he says, “You haven’t drank water since this morning– you’ve only had coffee.” Eyeing you from the side, as if pointedly saying that’s right, I know. 

The thought of Hotch watching you enough to notice what you have and haven’t been drinking makes all the blood in your face pool in your cheeks. You actually start to feel it getting hotter. 

You turn your head to the window while gulping down water, hoping that the movement and bottle are both masking the smile that’s fighting its way onto your face. 

His concern and ringing silence in the car, despite the radio playing softly in the background, made you feel pressured to talk and fill in the silence. But you really should’ve thought before opening your mouth because making conversation has never been your strongest suit. 

As you’re slowing down for a red light, you blurted “So… ho-how have you been, Hotch?” and as soon as the words awkwardly rolled off your tongue, you grimaced as if bracing for impact. 

You slowly turned to look at Hotch, expecting him to be annoyed or weirded out by your awkward and random question. Your eyes travel from his hand that’s on the wheel, along the length of his arm, to his shoulder and his neck, and finally to his face- sporting a soft but proud smile. 

“I’m okay, thank you for asking. You?” Thank you for asking? What are you- 4? Hotch is mentally kicking himself in his head, he should’ve said something cooler or more casual. He literally just sounded like a kindergarten teacher or the kindergarten himself. 

He bites his lip, stopping himself from looking like an even bigger fool– waiting for you to just bite and answer the question, then maybe he can come up with a better response and recover. 

Not expecting him to entertain your question, let alone return it, you stumble over your words.  “Oh– uhm.. Well, I’m okay. I’m– I’m good.” Your finesse always seems to leave the room the minute Hotch is in the vicinity. 

Nodding slowly, Hotch answers, “That’s good.. Good to hear.” God, can I be any more awkward? He couldn’t think of a better response, not when your reply didn’t leave him much of a choice but to start a new topic– all possible ones instantly fleeing his head when he sees your blushing face in his peripheral. 

You muster up the courage to steal a glance at him. Normally, you’d be in the backseat in cars, or at the back of a room, or to his side in the conference room– you’d just always be in positions and places that are strategically out of his sight. This was intentional because you enjoyed studying him. 

One would argue that Hotch is the hardest to read out of all the team members, but for some reason it has never been hard for you. You see the clenching of his jaw when he’s angry or irritated. The fiddling thumb thing he does when he’s deep in thought or drowning in worry.

You know his voice gets louder when he’s pushed past his limits, you know the pace of his breaths when he’s trying to calm himself. You know when he’s asleep because his brows twitch, as if the muscles in that part of his face aren’t used to being relaxed after a whole day of being scrunched in seriousness. 

Little did you know that the only reason why you know and notice all these things about him is because he lets you. His guard is alarmingly down ever since you’ve been around. Perhaps because there’s something about you that comforts him. Your presence relaxes him enough that he no longer feels the need to mask how he feels, to make himself unreadable. 

But maybe it’s also because he wants you to know him. The real him. Maybe he worries that you’d think he was emotionless. Hardened by the job and damned by the things he has seen. 

“You’re staring.” The deep voice pulls you out of your thoughts. Oh god, how long have I been staring at him? 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I- I didn’t mean to. I was just– I was thinking and I got wrapped up in my– I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable.” You rambled, fully panicking because not only have you made yourself look like an awkward idiot but you’ve now successfully added creep to the list.  

While the embarrassment is sinking in, you’re trying to look anywhere but at him, but your stomach drops even more when you realize you’re about to pull into the precinct– How long was I actually staring at him??!? 

Hotch easily puts the car in park as you’re now just staring at your lap in embarrassment and regret, and shame and– “I like it.” 

Lifting your head in surprise, “Wha-” in the split second that your eyes met you processed that he didn’t look uncomfortable or annoyed or weirded out– he actually looked.. Is he blushing? His neck is turning red, and you notice he swallows as if to clear his throat. 

“I like it when you stare at me.” Then he unbuckles his seatbelt, wears his sunglasses, and gets out of the car, in the cool hot way he always does while you’re left with your mouth slightly open, your stare following him as he rounds the car and talks to Rossi who just got out of the car parked across you. 

a/n: i think hotch definitely redeemed himself at the end!! i also thought maybe i should try the jealous!hotch route next time- what do you guys think? ◡̈

[honeypiehotchner]

The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part eighteen

This chapter has one of the most diabolical lines (to me) that I've ever written 😭 I won't say what it is right now but eventually I will 🤭 Anyways, things are progressing!! The ice is melting!! (Also also, I update the word count on the masterlist as I write, if you ever want to snoop on that 😉)

Warnings: Hotch's pov (yes the angst makes it a warning), he's so worried honestly bless him, Rossi being such a dad (to both of them /hj) that it's kind of (affectionately) annoying

Hotch has never felt this helpless in his life.

When he heard your voice on the phone, he nearly caused a wreck on the highway. Before you even told him what was going on, he had turned around and started booking it in the direction of your apartment, knowing you had left the BAU before him to head home.

His mind thought the worst. That the unsub had gotten to you, that you were kidnapped, that you were on death’s door. He didn’t feel right again until he laid eyes on you, but whatever peace he had was quickly washed away when he saw how panicked you looked.

He could sense your panic on the phone — hence why he tried the grounding method on the phone, despite your insistence that you were fine and were not panicking. But he could see it on your face, in the ridges of your shoulders, but if he dared to say anything about it, he knew you’d just be angry with him.

So, he tried to focus on the note, which then only made you assume that he was bothered — of all things — that you called him and that he didn’t want to be there.

He didn’t want to be anywhere else. He didn’t want to leave your side until he knew you were okay, no matter how long it took.

Then the police, of course, were useless, and he lost his patience. If it weren’t for needing to go through the official channels to have documentation of this unsub stalking you for the sake of the larger investigation, then Hotch wouldn’t have called the police at all. He got there quicker than they did, anyway.

And then, as you returned from packing a few things, you looked worse. Hotch’s heart twisted painfully and he couldn’t help himself from asking if you were crying.

You didn’t want to talk about it and he couldn’t blame you, but the thought of you crying silently with him just in the other room made him want to wrap you in his arms. But you don’t want that, and you’d both probably start arguing before you got far, anyway.

Now, you’re sitting quietly in his passenger seat, legs and hands all neatly tucked. But you’re breathing normally and you aren’t shaking, so he takes it as a win. For now.

“You’re welcome to take tomorrow off,” Hotch says gently. “You’ve been through a lot, and there’s nothing on our radar—”

“Hotch, please,” you sigh, propping your elbow on the door to put your head in your palm. “I’ll go crazy if I can’t go into the office and work.”

He nods. He understands. “I just want to help.”

“I know you do,” you say, voice sounding softer than he’s ever heard it when you’re directing your words at him. “I’m sorry I don’t want to let you.”

He tries to keep his emotions from showing on his face. “That’s nothing you need to apologize for.”

You don’t say anything else for the rest of the ride.

But when Aaron parks at Dave’s house, you let him carry your suitcase into the house. Dave offers a hug and says dinner is on the stove, and you happily scurry off to the kitchen, clearly desperate to escape.

Dave steps outside the front door for a moment to speak with Aaron.

“What’s going on?” he asks immediately. “You didn’t exactly explain.”

Aaron shakes his head. “I couldn’t over text. The unsub left a note in her apartment door.”

Dave’s eyes widen. “You’re sure it was him?”

Regretfully, Hotch nods with confidence. “It’s the same handwriting. I saw the word gambit. It has to be.” He pauses to heave a sigh. “I had it sent off to the lab at Quantico for prints and anything else. But I’m certain.”

Rossi curses under his breath. “Now I see why you were so insistent on her staying with me.”

“It’s the safest place I can think of,” Aaron says desperately. “I’m scared, Dave.”

“I know. I can tell,” Rossi says quietly. “She is too.”

“She won’t admit it,” Aaron says, hating the way that some anger seeps into his words. He’s not angry with you. He knows that. He pulls himself back. “She’s terrified.”

“We’re not going to let anything happen to her,” Dave says, attempting to reassure Aaron. “We’ll get him.”

“I know.” Aaron does know it. Because he knows he has no choice, and he knows he won’t be able to live with himself if he lets the unsub get his hands on you. Not before Hotch gets his hands on the unsub first. 

“Go home,” Rossi says. “Get some sleep. I’ll make sure she does too.”

Hotch nods. “She wants to come to work tomorrow, so.” He laughs a little, “Prepare for that.”

Rossi shrugs. “Then we’ll come to the office. But I’ll make sure she sleeps, we’ll get breakfast, we’ll come in late.” He smiles his usual mischievous smile, and Aaron knows his friend has a plan already brewing to keep you occupied.

+++

Rossi tries and fails miserably at his attempts to subtly take care of you.

You’re sitting at the counter on one of the stools, watching him as he walks into the kitchen after Hotch leaves. You know exactly what he’s doing when he asks if you’d like a glass of wine.

You look up from your bowl of pasta. “Sure.” 

He nods and turns to grab two glasses and a bottle of red, pouring silently.

“I’m fine,” you say before he can even ask.

Dave nods slowly but says nothing. He slides a glass over to you. 

“Thank you,” you say, hoping it’ll get him to reply with something, but it doesn’t. You swirl your wine. “I just feel like this is getting blown out of proportion.”

That makes Dave’s eyes snap toward you. “Riiight.”

Okay, so not the best thing you could’ve said, clearly. “I don’t know why I called Hotch,” you admit. “I should’ve just. Called the police to report it, I guess, and went on with my life.”

Dave stares at you with raised eyebrows.

You sigh. “Will you say something?”

“Well, I was going to begin with asking if you’re okay, but you said you’re fine,” he shrugs, swirling his glass. “Unless you’re not really, then I’ll actually ask.” He pauses. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m just.” You cut yourself off with a shake of your head. “I don’t know.”

“You’re not used to letting people in.”

You scoff out a laugh. “How’d you profile that one?”

Dave smiles softly. “Does anyone else know about your father? Anyone at all that you can talk to?”

You shake your head slowly. “No. It was something only my mom and I held onto. The few friends I did have, I didn’t want to scare away. I ended up doing that anyway without telling them about my dad.”

It’s true. Even though your mom hardly ever talked about your dad, it was something only the two of you ever discussed. You never wanted to bring it up to any of your friends because, well, how do you even go about bringing up something like that? The friendships all fizzled out on their own, anyway. Some got married and moved away to start families in hometowns, some moved where their careers took them, some simply stopped putting effort in. You’re no less guilty, always busy with work and then moving away to join the FBI, then the BAU, now never in one place for long with the cases you get. It’s no one’s fault that you don’t have close friends anymore. 

You have the team, sure. You get along with everyone, but even this feels like they’re only friendly with you and as close as they are because of proximity. Because there is no choice but to try to be friends when you work as many hours as you all do at the BAU. If you guys didn’t get along, it’d be hell.

You’re used to being alone, dealing with everything alone. And you’re terrified to admit that this might be the first situation in your life where you can’t handle it alone, not entirely. You’re so terrified that you refuse to admit it. But Rossi can see right through you.

Dave pulls up a stool on the opposite side of the counter, facing you with those gentle eyes. Ever since you connected the dots about meeting him when you were younger, you have been reminded of that day. How kind he is, how wise. How he was maybe the only person to show you genuine care that day, your mom too distant and emotionally zapped from dealing with your father. How Dave might just be the closest thing to a father figure that you’ll get.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” he begins quietly, “but you did the right thing by calling Hotch— You did the right thing just by calling for help.”

You pick at your dinner that has mostly gone cold. “I’m not overreacting?”

In your peripherals, you see Dave shaking his head. “No. You needed to call someone safe, and to get yourself to safety, and that’s what you did. That was the correct reaction.”

You nod slowly, smiling a little as you look up. “And you’re not upset that I’ll be sleeping over for…the foreseeable future?”

Dave shakes his head again, smiling at you. “Not at all, kiddo. I have five guest bedrooms for a reason, you know.”

“Five?” Your eyes widen. “That’s ridiculous.”

He laughs. “It’s a big house, but I love hosting. And being able to offer a safe haven when needed.”

“Thanks,” you whisper. “And I can pay rent if I’m here for too long, or—”

Dave holds up his hand to shut you up. “Don’t ever suggest that again.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine.” You pause, sipping the wine. “I’m buying my own groceries, though.”

Dave looks even more offended than he did a second ago.

+++

Given the circumstances, you slept…surprisingly well. You’re awake before your alarm, feeling rarely well-rested. You’re showered and dressed and putting water in Rossi’s fancy coffee maker by the time he comes wandering into the kitchen.

Wordlessly, he walks over and turns the coffee maker off. To his credit, he’s already dressed as well. “We’re going out for breakfast. My treat.”

You furrow your eyebrows, glancing at the time on the stove. “We literally have to be at work in an hour.”

He waves his hand, scoffing. “When have I ever gone into the office on time?”

He makes an unfortunate point. And since you have no car, you’re at his mercy. “Fine. A drive-thru, though, Rossi, I have shit I need to get done.”

Once again, he waves you off, swiping his car keys off the counter. You grab your work bag and follow him to the car, rolling your eyes when you see he has nothing with him. He probably leaves everything work related at work. If only you had such boundaries.

Rossi, as expected, ignores your request for a drive-thru breakfast, instead taking you to one of his favorite cafes in a town too far from the BAU for your liking.

Grumbling, you follow him to the door. “Just because Hotch thinks I need a break doesn’t mean I do.”

“We’re not taking a break,” Rossi shrugs. “We’re getting breakfast.”

You glare at him, but you indulge him all the same. Because you have no choice.

Rossi knows the waitress by name, even giving her a kiss on the cheek that she returns. She leads you both to a table by the window in a quiet corner, saying she’ll return with coffee as soon as the fresh pot finishes. You open the menu to glare at it instead.

You’re just beginning to determine what type of eggs are better to glare at when Rossi tips the menu down from your eye line, giving you an expectant look.

“I’m fine,” you say immediately, knowing that’s what he wants to ask.

“How’d you sleep?” He continues pressing on the menu until you rest it on the table, removing the proverbial wall you had put up. “There’s four other guest bedrooms to choose from if you don’t like that one,” he jokes.

“I slept fine,” you concede slightly. “Maybe I’ll move around each night and try a new room. Give you a rating for each one.” You pause. “Four stars for the one I stayed in last night.”

“Four? Why not five?”

“You snore,” you deadpan. He does. And the guest room you chose was just down the hall from his.

“I do not snore.”

“Sure, grandpa.”

The lighthearted banter brings a smile to both of your faces, and Rossi is glad to see it. You haven’t smiled much since this all began. Granted, prior to the car chase, you didn’t smile as often as you glared at Hotch, but you still smiled. After visiting Richard Monroe in prison, you’ve had somewhat of a permanent frown. Understandably, but Rossi still doesn’t like it.

The smile falls slowly, and the frown returns. You look down at the table. “What do you think this unsub wants with me?”

Rossi sighs, shaking his head regretfully. “I don’t know, kiddo.” He pauses. “I wish I did.”

“Me too,” you murmur.

Coffee reaches the table and you both order your breakfasts, letting the sounds of adding sugar and cream to your mug fill the silence instead.

“Do you think I’m in any actual danger?” you ask, your voice so quiet that Rossi almost didn’t hear you. 

He sighs, watching you stir your coffee. “I think… It’s dangerous that the unsub knows where you live, and that he was able to walk right to your door and leave a note, or have someone else do that for him. I think he’s closer than any of us would like, and he’s targeting you.”

“Because of my dad.”

Rossi nods slowly. “It seems that way.”

You sigh this time, setting your spoon down to prop your head up in one hand. “I didn’t even speak to my dad after he was arrested. I never sent him letters in prison, I never even replied to his—”

“He sent you letters?” Rossi interrupts.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I thought I mentioned that.”

“Not that I remember, but you might’ve,” Rossi says. “You never read them?”

“I read some,” you grimace. “I wasn’t quite strong enough to ignore them outright like my mom did.”

“Did he send her any letters?”

“A few,” you reply. “But mostly me.”

Rossi thinks for a moment. “Do you have any of them?”

You scoff out a laugh. You knew he was going to ask that. “I do, actually. I don’t have all of them — my mom got rid of some before I ever saw them or sometimes I’d ask her to just get rid of them — but I’ve kept some.”

“We might need to look at those,” Rossi says, which you know means you need to look at them. “There could be clues in there.”

“I mean, I guess,” you shrug. From what you remember from the letters, though, it was a lot of nothing. A lot of a father wanting to connect with his daughter who wanted nothing to do with him. “Maybe.”

“Where are they?” Rossi asks. “I know none of this is ideal, reliving it all, but—”

“No, you’re right,” you say. “There could be something in there that I didn’t see at the time because I was a kid, or— Yeah. They’re in my apartment, I can get them.”

“Would you mind if we went there after we eat?” he asks. “We can grab the letters and head to the BAU.”

It shouldn’t be such a relief to hear that you will be heading into work today, but it is. It’ll give you something to do. “Yeah, that’s a good plan. Maybe forensics will have an update on the note he left, too.”

“Exactly,” Rossi nods. “I’ll let Aaron know.”

“I’ll do it,” you blurt, averting your eyes when you see Rossi’s raised eyebrows. “I can text him.”

“Okay…” Rossi doesn’t question it, but his expression of disbelief is enough on its own.

[kiwriteswords]

Florally Inappropriate [Aaron Hotchner x Florist!Reader]

Masterlist [I need to update this, sorry!]|| Ao3||Word Count: 1.3k|| AN: Florist!Reader is making me miss my days as a florist! Tags/Warnings: Female!Reader, Florist!Reader, Non-BAU!Reader, established relationship, secret relationship, flirty!reader, bold!reader, sassy!reader, reader kinda has acts of service/gift-giving love language, sexual theme (if you squint), teasing BAU members, The BAU giving Hotch SHIT. Summary: Aaron Hotchner is not a man who treats himself, but when he begins dating a florist, you make sure he knows what it's like to be doted on...and the team slowly catches on.

Dating Aaron Hotchner had always been quiet by necessity.

Subtle glances. Brushed fingertips. A softness only shared in private.

He didn’t like attention. Didn’t like being fussed over.

But you liked taking care of people. 

And he’d accidentally made the mistake of falling for someone who loved to dote.

So, naturally, you made it your mission to turn him into something he never asked to be:

A flower guy.

Not for others—

He’d already mastered that.

You’d heard all the stories by now: the bouquet traditions with Haley, the subtle elegance he insisted on for gifts, the ways he used flowers like quiet punctuation in the lives of the people he cared about.

But when it came to himself? His own space? His own peace?

Not once.

“A vase of fresh flowers,” you’d said once, teasing him as he stirred sugar into your coffee at your shop. “Just for you. No occasion. No apology. Nothing to prove. Imagine that.”

He had rolled his eyes, but not unkindly.

“Not really my thing.”

You smiled. “That’s what you think.”

So you took it as a challenge.

It started the first time he called you late one night from the tarmac, exhaustion in his voice and a subtle softness you now recognized as I miss you.

“I’ll be home tomorrow,” he said, voice low over the hum of the jet engines. “Can’t wait to see you.”

You hummed a quiet, “I can’t wait to see you too,” already flipping open your planner to jot down the return date.

And then the next morning, with a smirk and a plan, you pulled one of your smaller house arrangements—crisp white anemones, soft lavender sprigs, dusty miller—and walked it over to Quantico. You didn’t even try to get upstairs. You already knew the drill.

Security didn’t question you. 

You were the flower shop girl with the kind eyes and security clearance just shy of trustworthy. They took the vase from you, promised it would be placed on his desk.

The next time, it was something different. Warmer. Whimsical. Ranunculus and chamomile. You tucked in a note that said:  

“Fresh blooms for your fresh start (aka post-case paperwork hell). You’ve got this, Mister Tall-Dark-and-Tired.”

Just your handwriting, which he’d definitely memorized by now.

And it became a ritual.

Every time he let you know he was coming home, you delivered a new arrangement to his office. Always tasteful, always different. Sometimes elegant—simple roses and clean lines. 

Sometimes soft and romantic—pale blush peonies, trailing jasmine, a note that read: 

“For when you miss holding me in your arms. These won’t talk back, but they also don’t smell as good as I do.”

And sometimes just… you.

“Here’s something cheerful in case the world is being insufferable again.”

He’d show up at your door later, late and exhausted, but with that rare smile—

That real one. The one that crackedthrough his armor and made you feel like something inside him had bloomed just for you.

He’d step inside, slide his arms around you, press his mouth to your neck, and murmur, “You really don’t have to keep doing that.”

And you’d say, every time, “I know.”

And then do it again anyway.

Because if anyone deserved a small piece of peace—of beauty—it was Aaron Hotchner.

Even if he’d never pick flowers for himself.

And it started innocently enough.

A vase of flowers on Hotch’s desk wasn’t exactly out of place. He was a thoughtful guy. The team had seen him organize flower deliveries for others before—

Memorials, birthdays, even that one time when Penelope had a “bad vibe” week and he sent her peonies from Gideon.

So when they first noticed a small vase on his desk—a clean arrangement of white tulips and baby’s breath—no one thought much of it.

Until it happened again.

And again.

And again.

Always different flowers. Always perfectly arranged. Always with a small card tucked into the side.

The first time, Emily made a passing comment while grabbing a file. “Nice centerpiece, Hotch. Didn’t peg you for a soft bloom guy.”

He didn’t even look up. “Gift.”

From who? she wanted to ask. But he was already mid-profile, and she figured maybe Jack’s teacher or Jess sent something. Whatever.

But by week four, when another bouquet—this time sunflowers and eucalyptus—appeared in his office with a small envelope and zero explanation, the curiosity officially became a thing.

Morgan was the first one bold enough to poke the bear.

He leaned in Hotch’s doorway, arms crossed. “You, uh…got a secret admirer, or is this part of your new mindfulness routine?”

Hotch didn’t even flinch. “Flowers improve workplace morale.”

Reid, walking past, chimed in without looking up from his tablet: “That’s actually true. Studies show that the presence of plants and flowers can reduce stress and increase productivity in office environments.”

Morgan raised a brow. “So you’re saying Hotch here is just…a flower guy now?”

Hotch flipped a page in his report. “Apparently.”

But it was Penelope who finally cracked the code.

Or, at least, peeked into the vault.

She was walking past his office on her way to the breakroom when the newest delivery caught her eye—

Velvety purple calla lilies and dark greenery. 

Very moody romance vibes. 

She stopped, admired it, and then saw the card tucked in.

And, of course, she read it.

She gasped so dramatically, it startled Reid halfway out of his chair.

“Oh. My. God.”

Morgan leaned over the back of JJ’s desk. “What?”

“Hotch has a lover. A secret lover. A saucy secret lover.”

Reid blinked. “How do you know it’s…saucy?”

Penelope held up the small card like it was evidence in court. “‘If you’re reading this before taking your tie off, just know I’m already thinking about undoing it with my teeth.’”

JJ choked on her coffee.

Morgan barked out a laugh so loud, Hotch’s office door creaked open.

He stepped out, perfectly stoic. “Something wrong?”

Penelope froze, the card still dangling from her fingers like a loaded weapon.

“Nothing!” she squeaked. “Just… admiring your very professional workplace foliage.”

Hotch walked calmly to her, plucked the note from her hands with two fingers, and returned to his office without a word.

Door shut.

Silence.

Then:

“Oh my god,” JJ whispered. “Who is she?”

“She’s bold, that’s for sure,” Emily said, now seated at her desk, clearly invested. “I like her.”

Reid blinked. “He has a…romantic partner?”

“Clearly,” Penelope said, fanning herself. “And clearly, she knows what she’s doing.”

“I bet it’s the cute florist,” Morgan said suddenly. “That case I stayed back for, I saw her delivering something at the receptionist downstairs.”

Everyone turned.

JJ narrowed her eyes. “What florist?” The gears began turning in her head. She’d almost forgotten. 

He shrugged. “You remember a few months ago? You said you set Hotch up with someone to help with a flower arrangement?”

JJ paused. Blinked. “No way.”

Emily’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god, JJ. Did you set him up with a flower shop femme fatale?”

Penelope nodded slowly. “Makes sense. She’s got the access, the handwriting, the aesthetic.”

Reid, slightly concerned: “Should we be… teasing him about this?”

JJ smiled, sipping her coffee. “Only if you want to die.”

Morgan laughed. “You’re just mad you didn’t call it.”

Emily leaned back in her chair. “I’m not saying we stake out the next flower delivery. But I am saying if she starts sending him candles, I need to meet this woman.”

“I knew she’d be good for him,” JJ said with a sigh, wishing she pushed the two of you together sooner. 

Meanwhile, inside his office, Hotch sat at his desk, reading the note again.

His lips twitched just slightly at the corner.

 He didn’t even care they’d seen it.

Because later, when he got home, you would pretend not to know what they were talking about, wrap your arms around him, and ask, “Did my flowers brighten up your scary little office today?”

And he’d murmur against your skin, “They did. But I think your note is what caused the real chaos.”

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