Dropping this and running. This is from my cameo that @snailsinamarchingband @theghostofcosmichorrorpast and @maladaptive-daydreamer-23 / @mals-fic-reblogs got me for my birthday in November!
WHICH THEY ARE SO SWEET AND KIND AND I NEARLY PASSED OUT.
Dropping this and running. This is from my cameo that @snailsinamarchingband @theghostofcosmichorrorpast and @maladaptive-daydreamer-23 / @mals-fic-reblogs got me for my birthday in November!
WHICH THEY ARE SO SWEET AND KIND AND I NEARLY PASSED OUT.
I'm sorry, but I just need to put this out there...
Has anyone ever thought or wrote anything regarding whether Hotch would jerk himself off??
Like... I see this man, so serious and brooding, but maybe every once in a while he's... Needing some release? Like... Do you think he would jerk off to something? Porn? Magazines? His own fantasies? Would he do it slow? Fast because he just wants the release not the caress to himself? Would he really take care or just do it rough?
I NEED to read something about this but idk who would take this request ngl mmmmhhhhh and I'm not that creative 😫😫😫
Quick edit: I also wonder if... Yk, what if he just gets this urge sometimes? Like... Not necessarily at work, but perhaps like when seeing some other women besides the BAU girl or idk?? I mean, he's a man at the end of the day, so what if he fantasizes sometime about someone he saw? Or would he be too prude for that? Would he feel guilty about that??
this is my favorite hotch fic i’ve ever written! husband hotch i love u
“You’re married?” Emily blurts out in disbelief, standing beside your desk in the bullpen. Her brows shoot up as she takes a step closer, eyes locked on your left hand.
She gently grabs it, tilting it toward the light to get a better look at the ring on your finger. Her fingers hover like she’s afraid to touch it. The ring, gorgeous yet very obviously expensive, shines under the office lights.
“How have I never noticed this before?” she asks, laughter spilling into her voice. She glances at your face and back to the ring, thoroughly entertained by her own obliviousness.
You give a small shrug from your chair, leaning back slightly as you glance at the ring yourself. “It’s not really an oversized ring, I guess. Subtle enough to not be flashy— unless you’re actively staring at my hands.”
Emily snorts at that and settles down on the edge of your desk, her curiosity now fully piqued. Her eyes drift from your hand to the desk surface, scanning it for any signs of personal life.
Her smile falters slightly as she takes in the minimalistic setup— neatly stacked files, a couple of pens, your badge, but no photos. No hints of the mysterious spouse she’s only now just discovered.
“No picture of your husband anywhere?” she asks, clearly surprised.
You let out a soft laugh, fingers still tapping away at your keyboard. “Nope. I see him every single day. I don’t exactly need a reminder of what he looks like while I’m working.”
Emily cocks her head, pretending to be shocked, though the sparkle in her eyes gives her away. “Wow. Cold. At least tell me you have a photo of him on your phone. I want to see what this mystery man looks like.” She shifts forward slightly, elbows on her knees like a kid in gossip mode, the grin on her face growing.
Before you can respond, her eyes flick over your shoulder, drawn by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She watches as Hotch makes his way down from the upper level, coffee in hand, moving with his usual composed stride. He crosses the bullpen and stops at your desk, setting a to-go cup next to your keyboard.
“Did you know she’s married?” Emily grins up at him, her tone light and teasing.
Hotch doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah,” he says plainly. “I married her a couple of years ago.”
He glances down at you, his expression unreadable to anyone but you, and casually adds, “They were out of hazelnut creamer, so I got you caramel.”
Emily blinks and there’s a pause— one of those silences where time seems to stutter. Her eyes dart between you and Hotch, her brain clearly trying to process what she just heard. Then she laughs, shaking her head.
“Okay, very funny,” she scoffs. “Good one, Hotch.”
“I’m not joking,” he says, his brow slightly furrowed as he lifts his left hand and shows her the plain gold wedding band resting comfortably on his finger.
Emily’s laughter dies immediately. “Wait. What?”
“There’s no way in hell she would marry you,” she exclaims, half-laughing again, though the disbelief is starting to sound a little forced.
Hotch glances down at you with a look that’s equal parts amused and wounded, eyebrows raised as if to say Did she really just say that? You shake your head, already laughing as you push your chair back and rise to your feet.
“Oh, you poor thing,” you murmur affectionately, stepping toward him and looping your arms around his neck. You pepper kisses across his cheeks, offering exaggerated sympathy. “That was so mean!”
Hotch stands stiffly for a second, sighing as you shower him in affection. But the corners of his mouth twitch with amusement, and his hand comes to rest gently on your lower back, anchoring you to him even as he rolls his eyes.
Emily just stares, jaw hanging open slightly, her expression slowly morphing from incredulity to full on horror as the reality sets in. “Oh my God,” she breathes, shooting to her feet. “I am so sorry, Hotch. I didn’t know— I thought you were kidding! You’re not the kind of person who jokes like that!”
Hotch glances at her, unimpressed but not angry. He doesn’t bother responding— he’s far more preoccupied with your continued affection as you nuzzle his cheek again, giggling softly.
“Poor baby,” you coo, hands coming up to gently squish his face between your palms as you press one last kiss to his lips. “Don’t listen to her. I’m very happy to be married to you.”
Hotch hums in quiet agreement, still avoiding Emily’s wide-eyed stare as she blurts out a stream of apologies, her hands flying in every direction like she’s trying to physically take the words back.
He finally looks from her to you, amusement flickering in his eyes. Then, with a mischievous smirk that’s rare but undeniably real, he leans down and gives your backside a light, playful swat before placing a kiss on your forehead.
“Put a picture of me on your desk by tomorrow,” he murmurs low enough for only you to hear. “Please?”
You smile up at him, eyes warm and full of fondness as you nod. “Promise,” you say softly, reaching up to kiss him once more— quick and sweet— before sitting back down at your desk, already mentally selecting which photo to frame.
yes! i do!! you have jj’s role and an unsub is shot dead infront of you and his blood literally soaks you and you’re shaking and speechless and aaron’s focus is to get to you and keep you safe and bring you back to earth 🥲🥲
stay with me
cw; fem liasion!reader, protective!aaron, multiple blood descriptions, panic attack descriptions, no established relationship but aaron and reader are close, there's also one small mention of aaron's shirt being big on reader, fluff <3 wc; 1k
your ears are ringing. whether it's from the gunshot or the blatant shock, you have no idea.
you're frozen in place; everything's fuzzy, your body is buzzing and your lips, hands, everything is numb.
you're not used to this. this isn't what your job usually entails. you look at pictures like this, you don't live or experience it.
in the haze, someone's approached you. someone's talking to you. someone's embraced you. there's a hand on your back, an arm attempting to shield you away. but your feet don't move. internally, you're screaming at them to move.
why won't they move?
"hey," it's aaron. you don't hear him, or process that it's him, until he shakes you ever so gently and again, he says, "hey."
you don't want to be used to this.
"i..." you rigidly stand there, staring at the unsub laid in front of you, the pool of blood around him growing as the seconds pass. you think you're articulating words, but you're not sure.
aaron follows your eyes - he opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. a swirl of emotions fill him - first and foremost, relief you're safe and unscathed, but also horror at what you just encountered - what you shouldn't have encountered.
"it's on me." you manage to choke out, feeling rather lightheaded as you view your shaky hands, and then your blouse, both spattered with red. it's on your neck, your face, and it's like you can feel every singular dot, singeing into your skin like it's bound to be permanent. a new fear fills you - will you ever be able to not feel it?
"don't look, just look at me." your head whips towards aaron, finding his gentle and concerned brown eyes. the sight allows your chest to loosen, finding the smallest bit of normalcy when it comes to breathing. you're remembering how to breathe.
aaron wants to bring the cuff of his sleeve to your skin, to wipe away the residue but he can't. he fears it would make it worse, and remind you again that it's littered on you - the last thing you needed. he wanted to calm you, not further panic you. "or better yet, just close them, sweetheart."
the term of endearment goes right past you, as you grip onto his vest, the sleeves of his shirt, anything your fingers can hold onto as he's guiding you out of the house. he's talking to the rest of the team, relaying instructions, but you only focus on keeping your eyes shut.
"it's okay, you're going to be just fine." aaron assures you, his voice low and even, soothing. "hear the leaves crunching under your feet? there's a cool breeze tonight, too. can you feel it?"
you nod gingerly. the sound is distant, but it's there. and just as he stated, you feel the cool air hit your cheeks, the wind also tousling your hair. it feels colder than cool, though, due to the stream of tears trailing downwards - have you been crying too? "i can hear it in the trees."
"that's good. how about smell, can you smell anything?"
copper.
aaron realizes his mistake the second the sentence leaves his mouth, your face paling as well as his.
"your aftershave." you blurt out, surprising yourself. despite the sheer panic, it was fairly easy to redirect your mind to him. your fingers clutched onto the fabric of his shirt more forcefully. "it smells spicy, sweet too. it smells like you. familiar. safe."
you resist the urge to tuck your face into him, but after a moment's thought, you do. you need it. you need him.
and to further secure you, aaron holds you to him, his large hand spanning the side of your head and keeping your face buried close to his chest.
your eyes open when you reach the suv; when the two of you come to a stop, when aaron's hold is suddenly absent, the sound of the door opening deeming it safe - far away from the scene.
but at the loss of his contact, involuntarily your eyes fall back to your blouse. it's stuck to your skin, soaked by the... blood.
"stay with me." aaron manages to grab your attention before you begin spiraling again, his hands lifting and hesitating. "may i?"
you nod, frantically and this time, you can feel the tears resurfacing. "please get it off me."
first, aaron unvelcros his vest, and then removes his tie, his dress shirt, leaving him in just his white tee. he drapes it over the passenger seat - at the ready.
aaron ushers you closer to the interior of the car so the open door fully covers you, blocking any view that isn't his. he unbuttons your blouse with gentle fingers, acting rather quickly as well. and respectfully, he averts his eyes - either looking strictly at his hands, the buttons on each shirt, or your face, checking in on you.
he helps you into his shirt, holding it open so you can slide your arms in. it envelopes you, and just as fast as he unbuttoned, he fastens it shut.
it feels as if a small weight is lifted off your shoulders, and aaron tosses your soiled shirt onto the ground in the backseat. he leads you to sit sideways in the passenger seat, facing him.
"i don't want to be alone." you don't know why that's the first thing to exit your mouth, but it is. your eyes lift to his, frightened and pleading.
aaron nods as he gets down on a knee, cupping your cheek with his hand. "you're sleeping in my room tonight."
"with you?"
with a stroke of his thumb, overtop those bloodstains he's desperate to wash and rid you from, he nods again. "with me."
Jack Hotchner is out there in he world doing the tiktok trend on Hotch being like: “I’m so hungry I could eat Kate Joyner,” and Hotch is just sitting like: 👁️👄👁️
♡ summary: reader wears a sundress. hotch goes insane
pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, reader wears a dress,slight description of readers body
wc: 1.5k
The sun was out, the weather was hot, and the BAU was on vacation. They all had the day off so they were spending it at Rossi's mansion, in his backyard for a barbecue.
The smell of burgers, hot dogs, and summer wafted through the air. Rossi stood at the grill, swatting at anyone who tried to come too close to his precious meat with his spatula. Emily and JJ sat in folding chairs, drinks in hand, sunglasses on as they relaxed. Spencer sat cross legged on the grass, teaching Henry chess while Morgan sat on the porch with Hotch.
You... well you were definitely entertained. You and Jack were playing some made up game, a cross between tag, hide and seek, and the floor is lava. Currently, you were chasing him across the lawn, sandals left on the porch next to Aaron's chair for him to dutifully watch over. Your sundress flowed behind you in the wind, fluttering around your legs when you stopped. You caught up to Jack, wrapping your arms around him and laughing as the both of you tumbled to the ground. Your fingers danced along his sides, tickling him as he squirmed on top of you. You stopped, letting him rest as his giggles became more breathless.
"You've been caught. The tickle monster wins again!" You cheer as he smiled wide. He lets his head drop down to your shoulder, huffing out a breath, tired from all the activity. "You hungry bud?" You asked, rubbing his back gently. He nodded.
"Uh huh."
"I think Rossi's almost done at the grill. What do you want, burger or hot dog?"
"A hot dog!" Jack sits up on your stomach. You glance over, seeing Rossi start serving out burgers.
"Well, go get one before they're all gone." You smile and he climbs off of you, running over to Rossi. You lay on the grass, staring up at the sky and breathing in the fresh air for a few peaceful moments. Soon, a face appears above you. Your lovely boyfriend Aaron Hotchner.
"Having fun?" He asked, smiling down at you.
"Loads of it." You grinned. He holds out a hand to help you up and to take it gratefully. He pulled you to your feet, steadying you with a hand on your waist. "Mm, handsy today, Hotchner." You grinned at him.
"It's hard not to be when you're wearing that." He murmured lowly, leaning close so only you can hear him.
"You like it? I had you in mind when I picked it out."
"I love it. You look gorgeous. Are you hungry?" Sweet, sweet man.
"I could eat."
"Let's get you some food." He says, holding an arm out to guide you towards the grill. Once you pass him, Aaron spares a quick glance to make sure the others aren't watching before he plants a firm smack on your behind.
"Aaron!" You giggle, looking over your shoulder at him. He wears a smug grin as he follows you to the grill.
That fucking dress. He couldn't stand it. He hated it. He loved it. He loved the way it fluttered around your ankles. He loved the way it hugged your curves so well, accentuating your form. He loved the pattern, the length, the cut, everything. It was absolutely perfect. And he despised it.
He watched from the porch, where Morgans chatter was drowned out into nonsense, as you chased his son around the yard. He felt like a perv for staring but he absolutely couldn't help it. When you and Jack toppled to the ground, his jaw clenched at the way the hem off your dress rucked further up your thighs. The wind blew it up high enough that, if he were close enough, he might be able to see your panties.
"Yo, are you listening?" Morgan's voice cut through his thoughts.
"Yes."
"What'd I just say?" Derek asks, but luckily Hotch is saved by Rossi's voice calling out.
"You two! Burgers or hot dogs?"
"Burger for me!"
"I'll have the same." Hotch agrees. He watches Jack get off of you and run towards the grill, faintly hearing him say 'can I have a hot dog please?'. Hotch gets up, making his way over to you. You look angelic, laying on the ground, hair splayed out around your head, your chest rising and falling softly. He helped you up and you went to get burgers from Rossi, the team all sitting down to eat together. A few bites in, you stood up from the table.
"I'm gonna run and get napkins, does anyone need anything?" You asked politely. They all declined so you headed inside. You were searching Rossi's kitchen to find some extra napkins when you heard the door open. You turned to find Aaron entering the house, the door swinging shut behind him, blocking the others from seeing or hearing the two of you. "Hey, what do you need?"
"You." He said huskily, striding over to you, pushing you against the island and capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. His hands grip your waist, yours moving to wrap around his neck. "You look so beautiful." He trails his kisses down your neck, sucking a patch of skin between his teeth and biting down. You let out a small gasp as he leaves a mark on your neck. His lips trail further down to your chest, pressing firm kisses onto the skin of your breasts. He brushes the hair off your other shoulder, moving to that side to press kisses to the other parts neck.
"Aaron," You say breathlessly.
"Shh. Now, turn around and bend over." He murmurs into your ear. You turn, pressing your hips against the counter as you lean onto it. "So pretty." Aaron hums, his hands gathering the fabric of your dress, lifting it up. He rucks it up your body until its collected above the curve of your ass. The hand that's not holding your dress up starts undoing his belt buckle. He unzips his pants, pulling them and his boxers just low enough to free his cock. He pulls down your pretty lacy panties, his eyes landing on the slick between your legs. You're already wet for him. He moves forward, holding his hand under your chin. "Spit." He orders. You comply, spitting into his hand. He moves his hand back down, slowly pumping himself.
"Aaron, please." You whined, pushing your hips back towards him.
"Be patient, honey." He grabs your hips, slowly inserting himself into you. You let out a moan as he sheaths himself inside you, pausing to let you adjust to his length. "Shh. Don't want to get caught, do you?" Aaron teases. "We have to be quick, sweetheart, or else they'll come looking for us." He starts moving, pulling himself nearly out of you before slamming back in. You moan again and his brings his hand back to your mouth, muffling your moans. He keeps a steady pace, thrusting in and out of you, pressing you against the counter. He lets out a few low groans, stifling the louder ones through clenched teeth. His hand pushes your dress further up your back as he fucks you against the counter.
"So good for me. So, so pretty." Aaron grunts, quickening his pace. You moan out against his hand, yours coming up to pull it away from your mouth.
"I'm close. 'M so close, Aaron." You whined, the symphony of skin slapping against skin, the scent of arousal encasing your words.
"Me too. Almost there, honey." He fucks into you harder and faster, sweat dripping down his brow. He leans down, kissing you sweat slicked spine, his hand trailing down your side, feeling your soft skin under his fingers. His grips your ass harshly.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna-" You cut yourself off, moaning his name as your orgasm washes over you. Aaron follows soon after, his upper body collapsing onto yours with a grunt. He kisses behind your ear before standing, tucking himself back into his pants. He pulls your panties back up, snapping the elastic waistband against your skin teasingly. He pulls your dress back down, fixing it so it sits nicely. He spins you around by your waist, checking you over.
"How do I look?"
"Ravishing. How do you feel?"
"Ravished." You grinned, slipping past him on wobbly legs to find your purse. You pull out your compact concealer, covering up the fresh hickeys on your neck and chest. You meet Hotch's gaze over the top of your compact and notice the smug look on his face. "You are something else Mr. Hotchner." You shake your head smiling. You flick the compact shut and drop it back into your purse, taking his hand. You walk back out of the house together, heading back over to where the team was eating. Derek looks up, his eyebrows furrowing.
"Hey, where are the napkins?"
a/n: this it my first time writing smut, what do we think? I have a lot more planned so stay tuned! let me know if you think I should start a tag list or something :)
summary: it takes you almost kissing someone else for him to realise just how much he cares
pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader
warnings: angst, tension, angry kisses, jealous!hotch, he's so hot, did i mention tension? bcs there's so much tension tension tension, a few swears, her bag sort of disappears.. oops
word count: 5.2k (oops x2)
Aaron doesn’t even look at you anymore.
Okay, that’s not true — he does. When he has to. When there’s a case file in his hands and you’re just another member of the team he needs to brief — another agent he’s in charge of. When there’s a question about geographical profiling or victimology and you’re the one who can answer it. When he’s assigning roles and has to say your name.
But everything outside of that? Nothing. Cold silence. Controlled distance.
And it killed you.
You wouldn’t even know you kissed him. More than once. Wouldn’t know how his hands felt in your hair, or how he’d said your name like it physically hurt him. Wouldn’t know that there was a moment — no, a string of moments — where he looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him to earth.
Because now? Now he’s pretending none of it ever happened.
And the worst part?
You know he still wants you.
Not in the arrogant way. Not in the I’m-so-irresistible kind of way. No — you know it because you see it. In the way his eyes flicker to you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. In the way his jaw ticks when Morgan jokes too casually with you. In the way he goes quiet when your laugh cuts across the room — his lips pressing into a thin line while his body tenses, almost like he’s trying to stop himself from laughing along.
He wants you. And he’s made that clear before.
But he’s also your boss. Older. Emotionally constipated. A man who shuts people out just before they get too close.
So of course, he made the decision for both of you. Of course, he pulled away, said it wasn’t appropriate, said you needed to keep it professional. Of course, he slammed that wall up between you and iced you out like he didn’t miss you the moment he left.
And now? Now you’re in Florida. The local PD is stretched thin, there’s a suspected spree killer hitting tourist-heavy areas along the I-4 corridor, and you’re operating out of some small, humid precinct where the AC rattles and no one knows how to use a case board.
Hotch pairs you with Officer Pretty Smile — an actual cop, around your age, golden tan, charming, full of casual grins and easy compliments. You don’t even hear most of what Hotch says when he assigns you; you’re too busy fuming at the fact that he’s done it again.
Just like the last two cases, he pairs you with some random officer, keeps you away from the scene, away from the precinct, away from anywhere he might be — in a way, he’s not letting you do your job.
Distanced from the rest of the team, you’re not much help.
How is that professional?
You know the game he’s playing. Avoidance. Distance. Control.
You’re sick of it.
But Officer Pretty Smile — his name’s Ryan — doesn’t seem to mind the stormcloud hanging over your head. He makes it easy to forget, just a little. He’s perceptive, actually listens when you talk, knows when to make you laugh and when to stay quiet. It’s a relief.
He flirts — lightly, respectfully — and you flirt back. Why shouldn’t you?
Aaron’s the one who put this wall up. He’s the one not speaking to you.
You don’t owe him your loyalty if he won’t even look at you outside of a damn case briefing.
The case wraps up after a few days of gruelling profiling, false leads and one late-night stakeout that finally caught your UnSub at a rest stop. You’re debriefing the locals, coordinating transport and starting to pack things up when Ryan walks you out to the parking lot.
He offers you his number, and you take it, pocketing it with a smile that widens when he leans in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. It’s innocent, really. Careful and sweet, but when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His face stays close, breath brushing against your skin as his eyes lock onto yours.
Then his gaze drops — not just to your lips, but the space between you — like he’s weighing the distance and what to do about it. It takes a breath or two before he meets your eyes again.
He leans in, slower this time, and his lips just barely graze yours. A featherlight touch that barely classifies as a kiss. It’s more of a hesitation. A silent question — do you want this too?
Yes, you do.
You answer by lifting a hand and placing it gently on his jaw, your touch light but certain.
He exhales softly, and his hands move to your waist, holding you like he’s been wanting to all day.
Your lips are so close, a breath away, and just as you’re about to close the gap—
“Agent!”
Aaron’s voice cuts through the humid Florida air like a gunshot, sharp enough to turn heads. It’s not just a call — it’s a warning. A demand. His tone carries weight, and everyone nearby instinctively pauses, glancing over to where he stands near the SUV, his jaw tight, posture coiled like he’s seconds away from snapping.
You freeze.
Where the fuck did he spawn from?
Ryan pulls back, but not completely. His hands stay on your waist, holding you close, as his eyes look over your shoulder.
You, however, don’t turn around — stubbornly refusing to give Hotch the satisfaction of ruining this moment.
He can wait.
He can watch.
You keep your gaze locked on Ryan. On his lips that are a bit further away than before, parted in confusion as he stares at your boss.
Your fingers shift slightly against his jaw — a gentle nudge meant to draw his attention back to you. And it works. His eyes flicker away from whatever intensity Hotch is radiating behind you and settle back on yours.
You lean in, slow and deliberate, and the moment you do, he seems to forget everything else as he leans in too.
And, just like before, just as your lips graze—
“Agent!”
Somehow, his voice is harsher than before — each syllable laced with barely contained fury.
Your hands fall from Ryan’s face and drop to your sides as you sigh, letting your head dip forward slightly.
“What’s his problem?” Ryan murmurs, his frustration mirroring yours as he shoots Aaron a brief, irritated glance before turning his attention back to you.
You lift your head, just enough to meet his eyes again, and mutter, “I don’t know. He’s just—” You wave a hand vaguely behind you. “A hardass.” You pause. “Or an ass. A normal ass. Whichever floats your boat.”
Ryan snorts, nodding as he looks back at Aaron. “Yeah. That tracks.”
You smile, wide and genuine. “Well then,” you say, looking up at him, “duty calls.”
He nods, looking a bit reluctant as he returns your smile and asks, “Will I see you again before you go?”
You hesitate, just for a second, before finally glancing over your shoulder.
Hotch stands by the entrance of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office — arms crossed, back stiff, jaw tight. His eyes are locked on you like he’s trying to dissect every inch of the moment he just interrupted. He looks furious. Controlled, as always, but furious nonetheless.
You look back at Ryan. “Probably not.”
There’s a brief pause — just a breath of silence — before he nods. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for anything more. Instead, he steps in and kisses your cheek again, soft and quick, like a quiet goodbye. When he pulls back, he lets his hand brush down your arm before stepping away.
You turn without another word, lowering your head as you approach Aaron. With each step, the feeling of his stare on you burns hotter, sharper.
You stop in front of him, standing there for a moment before you glance up.
His blazer is off, his blue button-up clinging slightly to his skin. His sunglasses perched on his nose and his jaw is tight.
You hate yourself for thinking that he looks hot.
You cross your arms, exhaling sharply before saying, “You called?”
He doesn’t waste a second. “Get the scene logs from the officers inside. I want them scanned and uploaded before we leave for the jet.”
His tone is dry, detached. The words hang in the air like a weight that doesn’t match the way he’s looking at you. His expression is stone-cold, all business, and it only fuels the frustration coursing through you.
You blink, your chest tightening. That’s it? That’s the urgent reason he called you out of a kiss like the sky was falling?
It’s a bullshit task. You both know it.
But he’s your Unit Chief. And right now, he’s pulling rank — not for the case. The case is over. Solved.
He’s doing it for himself, and it makes you want to scream.
You bite back the thousand things you want to say, give a tight nod, and walk past him without a glance.
—
On the jet, the tension is unbearable.
Aaron is sitting near the front, a stack of case files spread in front of him that he hasn’t touched since takeoff. He just stares at them, unmoving, like he’s willing them to make him forget.
You’re in the back, headphones on, glaring out the window as your forehead rests against the glass of it.
The others feel it — the tightrope tension stretching across the cabin. No one says a word.
After a while, you can’t help but glance his way, your eyes rolling when you see how he’s glaring at the files in front of him.
He’s clearly seething. The image of you, about to kiss someone else, seemed to be carved into his memory.
If he’d been closer, he might’ve punched the guy. Hell, if he wasn’t so goddamn professional, he might’ve dragged you away himself.
But he didn’t. He waited. He watched.
He hates that he waited.
And now he’s stewing in it.
When the jet lands, everyone moves quickly — eager to escape the static pressure in the air. You stand, grabbing your go-bag before heading for the stairs.
And then — low, sharp, right in front of you:
“Stay.”
He’s still seated, leaning forward slightly, elbow propped on the table. His hand is pressed to his face, fingers buried in his hair while his palm digs into his temple like he’s desperately trying to hold his thoughts together.
His eyes are closed — not from sleep, but something heavier — and despite the jet landing, his papers are still out, strewn in front of him. Clearly, he’d given up trying to read them — or pretending to read them.
His face is taut, shadowed — caught in a quiet storm of exhaustion or thought. Maybe both.
He looks really hot.
Swallowing, you will that thought away.
‘Stay.’ He had said, in a tone that made you freeze — one that left no room for argument.
You hesitate, your grip on your bag tightening a bit as you stare before deciding.
No.
With your lips set in a frown, you start walking again.
Just as you’re about to move past him, though, his hand reaches out to wrap around your wrist.
You tense, his touch making you feel warm and a bit breathless despite your anger.
“I said stay.” His voice cuts through the quiet — steady with an edge that sends a jolt through you.
Shit.
You look down at him, jaw set. “Let go.”
He doesn’t move at first — just lifts his eyes to meet yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. Then he exhales before rising to his feet in a fluid motion. His grip on your wrist doesn’t loosen as he stands over you, shoulders squared.
You falter, thrown by the sudden nearness. “Hotch—”
“Aaron.” He interrupts you, his eyes narrowing as he stares down at you. His tone is sharp, stern like hearing his last name offended him.
“Hotch.” You repeat it, just to piss him off.
If distance is what he wants, distance is what he’ll get.
He stares at you for a second before exhaling, a tired look in his eyes as he says, “We need to talk.”
“Oh, now you want to talk?” Your voice rises a bit and you barely manage to hold back a laugh. “You ignore me for weeks, send me off like I’m a problem you can delegate, and now — suddenly — you want to talk?”
His jaw clenches. “You don’t understand—”
“No. You don’t get to—“
Before you can finish what you’re saying, he uses his grip on your wrist to pull you into him. Fuelled by everything he hasn’t said, it’s not a gentle gesture.
You gasp as you stumble forward, crashing into his chest. Your cheek brushes the soft fabric of his shirt and your hand splayed instinctively against him for balance. When your eyes finally meet his, he’s already looking down at you — jaw tense, eyes dark, your faces now inches apart.
“You were going to kiss him.” His voice is quiet, but the words hit harder than if he’d shouted them.
His grip on your wrist tightens slightly, and for a moment, he closes his eyes. The sight of you both leaning in replays in his mind — the tension in his jaw is visible as his lips press into a line. His expression looks as if the image physically hurt him.
When he opens them again, his eyes lock onto yours, searching, checking to see if you understand the severity of it.
Your lips are parted as you stare at him.
You’re not surprised that he brought it up. You knew it was coming, but the way he says it — the weight in his voice — wasn’t something you were expecting.
His words carried an undertone of pain that make you falter. It’s not just about the kiss, you realise. It’s about everything he’s been holding in.
“You were about to kiss him.” He repeats, slower than before, his eyes still boring into yours.
Hearing the word ‘kiss’ a second time, along with the sudden proximity, had your gaze falling to his lips.
You couldn’t help it.
You looked back up quickly to find his eyes still on you.
A flicker of guilt creeps into your chest — something small, unwanted. Maybe it’s the way his voice quietened when he said it. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, like he wasn’t prepared for how much it hurt him — you almost kissing someone else.
For a split second, you start to feel bad.
But it doesn’t last.
Not when you remember the last few weeks — how he’s iced you out, kept his distance like you didn’t matter, like the moments you shared never happened.
Your jaw tightens and your brows furrow in the way they always do when you’re annoyed.
“Stop.” You say, the word sharper than you intended. Shaking your head, your voice comes out quieter the second time. “Just… stop.”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you — eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to read you.
Like he’s trying to profile you.
What happened to never profiling each other? Probably the same thing that happened to being ‘professional’.
“You’re being unfair, Aaron.”
You avert your gaze, unable to hold his anymore. It drops to his chest — the fabric of his shirt stretched a bit beneath your hands that are still resting there. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, slightly faster than it should be.
He has no right to be upset, you think, and it takes everything in you not to say it out loud first. But when you look back up at him, your anger catches fire again, sharp and unforgiving.
“You’re the one who pushed me away.” You bite out, voice low. “You iced me out. For weeks, Aaron.”
Your words land heavy in the space between you, but you don’t stop.
“You told me we couldn’t—” You falter slightly, pain catching in your throat, “—that we had to keep things professional. And then you avoided me. You acted like I didn’t matter.”
His jaw flexes again, but he says nothing.
“And now what?” you continue. “Now you’re upset because I almost kissed someone else? You don’t get to pull me in two different directions like this. You can’t tell me to stay away, and then look at me like that when someone else gets close.”
His hand is still on your waist, his grip on your wrist still firm. He hasn’t let go, hasn’t backed off, and that makes it worse — the contradiction of it. The ache of being wanted but not claimed.
“It’s confusing. You’re confusing.” My voice goes back to being quiet as I lower my gaze again, missing the way his expression softens a bit.
It softens because he knows you’re right.
He can’t argue with you, not really. Not when you’re looking at him like that. Or rather, not looking at him at all. Your eyes are fixed on his chest now, lips pressed together in that tight little frown that always means you’re trying not to show how hurt you are.
He can’t argue with you because you’re right.
He’s being unfair, and the guilt of that realization hits him instantly, swallowing him whole. The weight of his own selfishness also sinks in, making him feel stupid for not realizing how much he’s hurt you.
When the silence stretches for too long, you look up, and your frown deepens when you see how he’s watching you.
“Stop profiling me.” Your voice shakes a bit as you try to yank yourself free of his grip. But Aaron doesn’t let go. His hands stay firm on your waist, like letting go would mean losing something he’s not ready to give up.
It only makes you angrier.
You shove at his chest, hard, but he barely budges. “Let go.” you snap, glaring up at him, but his expression doesn’t shift. He just watches you, jaw tight, eyes unreadable behind the shield of his silence.
That silence cuts deeper than anything.
“You ignored me for weeks!” you shout, your voice rising, cracking with something raw. “You didn’t even look at me. You shut me out like I meant nothing!”
You try again to pull away, like his touch burns. Like the heat of his hands is searing through your skin, cracking you open.
And it hurts him — more than he thought it would. Watching you try to escape him like he’s done something unforgivable — which he has — makes something twist in his chest. He wants to fix it, but he doesn’t know how. Every word you throw at him lands like a blow, and still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go.
He just hurts.
“Let go!” you yell, louder now, fists balled as you push at him again. “I said fuck off, Aaron!”
You look up at him then — eyes blazing, cheeks flushed with anger, your frown etched deep into your face. The fury in your expression is undeniable, and it hits him like a punch.
And before he even realizes what he’s doing — he kisses you.
It comes out of nowhere. Like something snaps inside him, like instinct. It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s angry and desperate and messy—like he’s trying to shut you up and apologize all at once. Like everything he’s been holding back has just erupted, too big to contain.
You freeze at first, tensing against it, breath caught in your throat.
But then you break.
Your hands fist in the lapels of his blazer, gripping hard like you need something to hold you upright. Your lips move against his with the same kind of fury you’d just thrown at him — like this is a fight, too. But somewhere in that chaos, your shoulders slump, and so do his.
Like you’re both exhaling for the first time in weeks.
Like this is the first breath either of you has taken since everything fell apart.
His hands move — one, then both — rising to cradle your face, fingers splayed across your cheeks like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.
You pull back first, breaking the kiss with a gasp, your breath catching somewhere between his mouth and your own. His grip loosens, and for a second, something like a whine escapes him — soft and involuntary — like he can’t believe you’re already pulling away.
You’re breathless. Lips swollen. Heart racing.
“You’re such an asshole.” you hiss, voice low, hoarse, but still furious.
His eyes darken. “You were gonna kiss him.”
“Stop repeating that!” you snap, but there’s no bite behind it now — just exhaustion and heat and emotion so tangled you can’t separate any of it.
You don’t even think about it — you just lean in again, drawn like a magnet. And this time, he meets you halfway. Your lips part just before they touch, and when they do, it feels like the ground shifts beneath you. Like the jet could be spinning or crashing and you wouldn’t even notice.
It’s slower, deeper — but just as intense. His hands are still on your face, and yours are clinging to him like you don’t trust gravity anymore.
But then he pulls away.
His forehead drops to yours — close, so close — and for a moment you almost let him stay there. But something in you twists, and you turn your head just slightly, breaking the contact. You keep your eyes shut, breathing shallow, your face turned toward the wall of the jet like if you don’t look at him, you can hold onto the last piece of your anger.
His heart sinks.
“I’m sorry.” he says, his voice quieter now. Cracked open. “I’m sorry for all of it.”
You don’t move. Don’t look.
“I— I thought it was the right thing.” he says, and now it’s all unraveling, everything he’s shoved down clawing its way out. “I didn’t know how to handle what I felt for you. I didn’t know if I should. So I convinced myself the best thing — the most responsible thing — was to shut it down. To shut you out.”
He lets out a breath, sharp and rough. “I told myself you’d be better off. That you didn’t need someone like me — someone older, someone who barely knows how to process his own shit, let alone drag you into it. My hours are a nightmare, I’m exhausted all the time, and I have nothing to give you except… this mess.”
His voice softens but doesn’t steady. “And if Strauss found out, she wouldn’t hesitate to pull you off the team. To punish you for something that was always my fault.”
You still don’t speak. Your eyes remain closed.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says again, quieter now, like it physically hurts to say. “But it felt like cutting off my own oxygen. Seeing you every day, hearing your voice, pretending you were just another agent — it fucking destroyed me. Every moment I stayed away, I felt like I was unraveling. But I thought… if I could just hold the line a little longer, maybe I could let you go.”
His voice cracks then, barely above a whisper. “But I couldn’t. I can’t.”
You don’t say anything, and the silence eats at him. He shifts slightly, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to read anything — any flicker of emotion, of softness, of something.
“Please say something.” he murmurs.
There’s no anger in him anymore. Just regret. Just longing.
“I haven’t slept,” he says, after a second. “Not really. Not since I let you go. You’ve been in my head every day. Every night. You walk into the room and I can’t think straight. I hear your voice down the hall and I forget what I’m doing. It’s pathetic.”
Then gently — cautiously — he reaches out, fingers brushing against your chin. He turns your face to him, coaxing your eyes to his.
And when you look at him, he looks wrecked.
There’s exhaustion in his features, shadows beneath his eyes, but it’s the look in them that breaks you: raw, sincere, desperate. Like you’re the only thing anchoring him to earth right now.
“I’m sorry.” he says again, like it’s the only thing he has left to give. Like he means it with everything he’s got.
And he does.
It’s silent for a second.
His eyes search yours, unsure and a little frantic, like he’s trying to profile you again — trying to get an understanding of whatever’s going on in your mind.
He gives up quickly, wanting to find out whatever it is your thinking from you yourself. But just as he’s about to ask, you kiss him.
When you pull back, your hands stay on him, sliding down to his chest where you can feel the rapid, uneven rhythm of his heart.
“I don’t expect you to be perfect, Aaron.” you murmur, voice soft but steady. “I’m not. I barely have my own shit together half the time. And I’m not looking for some ideal version of you — just you. The version that cares too much and thinks too hard and carries everything on his back like it’s his job to keep the world spinning.”
You pause, your eyes searching his, and he doesn’t look away.
“I don’t want anyone else.” you say, more firmly now. “I can’t want anyone else. My heart’s already decided. It’s you. It’s always been you. These past few weeks without you—feeling you pull away, watching you pretend like nothing mattered—that was hell. And if you think I just brushed it off and moved on, you really don’t know me at all.”
You don’t stop there, because you can see it — how he’s still doubting, still not sure what you see in him. So you tell him.
“You don’t even realize how much I see you.” you whisper. “How good you are. You’re strong, yeah, but you’re also… unbelievably kind. You’re the one who makes me feel stable when everything else is a mess. You make me feel safe without trying to control me. You make me feel… things I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling.”
His brow creases like he doesn’t know what to do with that, like it’s too much, too pure.
“And I don’t give a damn about your age. If anything, it makes you hotter.” you add with a breath of a laugh. “It means you’ve lived, you’ve learned, and you listen. You make me feel taken care of in a way no one ever has.”
He’s blinking at you like his brain short-circuited somewhere along the way.
“As for Strauss…” You shrug a little. “She’s not a profiler. We barely even see her. If we keep things professional at work, we’ll be fine. We’re good at this — at keeping calm under pressure. This isn’t gonna change that.”
Then you take one of his hands and hold it tightly, pressing your fingers to his palm.
“All I want,” you say, voice low, “is for you to let me love you.”
Something in him breaks. Or maybe it mends. You can’t quite tell.
His eyes widen just a little, and for a second he just stares at you — like his brain is still catching up. Like the word punched the breath right out of him.
“What?” he asks, the word so soft it’s barely audible.
“I just want to love you, Aaron.” you repeat, quieter this time, like it’s a promise.
His breath shudders out of him, and he leans forward again — not kissing you yet, just resting his forehead against yours, like he needs the grounding.
“I love you.” he says, the words raw and unfiltered. “And I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you next time — really talk. I won’t shut you out again. I won’t let myself forget what this feels like.”
“You better not.” you murmur.
And then he kisses you again.
It’s steadier now. Certain. Like he’s finally, finally giving in to the truth he’s been denying. Like he knows what he wants — and it’s you.
As your lips move together, the world outside the jet fades into the background. His hand moves slowly, purposefully, down your side, and then it shifts, lowering until he reaches into your pocket.
You pull away a little, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Before you can fully process it, he pulls out the small piece of paper — the one with Ryan’s number scrawled on it.
Your heart skips a beat. He saw that?
The thought stings for a second — had he seen everything? You’d assumed he’d stepped outside for some reason and had just happened to catch a glimpse of you two — coincidentally, when you were about to kiss.
But Aaron’s mind works in a different way. He had seen you leave with Ryan, noticed the way you two were talking, the smiles on your faces. And something in him tensed. He didn’t like it. The way you were walking so close, how easy it seemed between you. So he followed, curiosity gnawing at him. He hadn’t meant to — but it felt like he had to know.
You break the silence with a quiet question, still trying to make sense of it all. “You saw that?”
Aaron’s jaw tightens, his face flickering with a flash of frustration, then quickly hardening as he remembers it.
“I saw all of it.” he says, his voice colder than you expected. A wince pulls at his expression as he scrunches the paper up in his hand, turning to toss it in the small bin beside the exit of the jet, the movement sharp and final.
You can’t help but let out a small, amused laugh despite the tension. His reaction, his possessiveness — it’s almost too much to ignore. But then, before he can get too far in his thoughts, you soften and murmur an apology. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
He cuts you off with a question of his own, his gaze still intense as he watches you, his tone now a little guarded. “Were you actually going to kiss him?”
You blink, surprised by the bluntness, but you can’t help the smirk that slips onto your face. “Hey, you’re the one who paired me with him.”
Aaron rolls his eyes, the hint of frustration fading a little, but you can still see the sharp edge to his expression. “From now on, you’re with me for every case.”
You laugh at the thought, shaking your head, but the joke settles in as you reply, “I don’t think that’d help with keeping Strauss off our trail.”
Aaron chuckles, his eyes softening just a fraction, but he doesn’t back down. “I’ll risk it. It’s fine.”
Your laughter fills the space between you, and it warms Aaron’s heart more than he’d care to admit. He’s missed hearing it, hearing you so carefree, even when things feel a little chaotic.
He pulls you a little closer then, wrapping an arm around your waist as if he can’t let you go now that he’s got you. He starts guiding you off the jet with that same quiet confidence he always carries, but there’s something different now — a sense of peace between you both, even if the world outside still feels a little unsettled.
“You’re coming to my place.” he says, his voice low and steady. “I’m making you dinner.”
Secret relationship with Hotch where you’re so damn scared of people knowing because it can end up with you losing your job so you’re always trying to stay away from him as much as possible and when he almost instinctively walks near, searching for your touch you freak out so you take him somewhere no one can see you just to tell him “you can’t just do that”
But then he replies
“I can’t just leave my love for you at home. And even if I could, I wouldn’t.”
