summary: bimbo!asssitant!reader hasn't been answering her phone all day, hotch needs her to clarify something about a case report, or at least that's what he tells himself when he shows up at her house
masterlist
pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader
warnings: reader wearing some skimpy pjs, pre-relationship pining, hotch trying to act like he's not madly in love with reader
wc: 3.3k
Hotch wasn't sure why he'd expected your house to be normal. He chalked up his misjudgment on the haze of old injuries, the kind of logic that gets muddled when you've bled out on too many occasions. Because standing on your porch, staring at the pale pink door with a glittering Home Sweet Home sign dangling from the handle, he realized how spectacularly wrong he'd been.
It suited you, he realized. He could almost picture you hanging it there, humming to yourself and adjusting it three times before deciding it was just right.
It wasn't a social call. At least, that's what Hotch told himself repeatedly, as though the words might drown out the irrational knot of worry in his stomach. You hadn't answered your phone all day, and that was strange for you. It was your day off, yes, but normally you were over-communicative to a fault, texting emojis when a simple yes would have sufficed, or leaving voicemail messages that somehow turned into tangents about your neighbor's cat, your favorite polish color, or the iced coffee you'd spilled that morning.
But today? Nothing. No texts. No calls. Nothing.
His rational mind told him you were fine. Phones die, phones get left behind, people turn them off to take a break. But when it came to you, the rational part of him always seemed to lose ground to the side of him he didn't care to admit existed—the side that careful just a little bit more than he should have.
He knocked.
After a second, he heard the unmistakable sound of your voice yelling a muffled coming!
The door opened, and there you stood, wearing something that could only be called pajamas by the loosest of definitions—shorts that left far too much skin exposed and a matching top that hugged your chest like it was afraid to let go. Your hair was loose and slightly messy, framing your face, and your bare feet peeked out from under the door.
"Oh!" You froze and looked at him like he had fallen from the sky. "Hotch! What are you doing here?"
Hotch cleared his throat and he tried, tried, to keep his eyes glued to your face. It was harder than it should have been—his brain wasn't helping, already memorizing every detail of your appearance that he knew he shouldn't have noticed.
"Do you always answer the door like this?"
"Like what?"
"Dressed like..." He hesitated, jaw clenching as he searched his vocabulary for a word that wouldn't sound entirely inappropriate. "Dressing like that. Without knowing who is on the other side."
"Hotch," you said, smiling slightly. "I could tell it wasn't a stranger."
"How?" he asked flatly, raising a brow. "Because if you tell me it was a feeling, I'm going to be very disappointed in you."
"So what are you doing here?"
You ignored him, smiling innocently as though he hadn't spoken at all.
He almost started to lecture you—about answering doors, about caution, about everything—but the words died before they reached his tongue. You were fine. Perfectly fine. Not injured, not in danger, not lying in a hospital bed or worse—just standing there, unharmed, while he tried to shake off the residual tension of imaging all of the worst-case scenarios he'd been wrestling with the past hour.
"You weren't answering your phone." His voice came out sharper than he meant, but he didn't correct it.
You stared at him before letting out an incredulous laugh. "Okay, but like... that's usually not cause for a wellness check."
"It's unusual for you."
His own voice sounded defensive in his ears, and he winced inwardly.
Your lips shot upwards as if you had discovered his game, leaning on the door frame with your arms crossed. "Aw, were you worried about me, bossman?"
His response didn't come as quickly as it usually did, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to decipher something. "I needed to confirm something about the case report."
"Sure, you did." You tilted your head, smile widening as you let the words linger. "Well, since you're already here, might as well come in. I'd hate for you to leave empty-handed."
Hotch hesitated. The professional part of him—the one that lived and breathed protocol—told him to stay outside, finish his excuse, and leave. Normally, he wouldn't have thought twice about saying yes to an invitation like this. He'd done it for Morgan, for Emily, even Spencer without a second thought. But this wasn't them. This was you. But then you gave him that look— raised eyebrows, half a grin, daring him to prove you wrong—and against better judgment, he stepped inside.
The inside of your house was... well, it was you.
It wasn't messy, but it wasn't neat either. It was softer than he expected. Fluffy throw blankets over the couch with heart shaped pillows. On the coffee table, a collection of framed photos—pictures of you with friends, family, and even what looked to be an embarrassing prom photo.
"So?" You moved across the room, draping yourself onto the arm of the couch like a cat in the sun, one leg swinging lazily. "What's the big emergency, Hotchner?"
"I told you," he replied, squinting his eyes at you as if that would somehow change your attitude. It wouldn't. He knew from experience. "The case report. You stapled the wrong attachment to it. I need to know where the correct file is."
"Uh-huh," you said, squinting your own eyes back as if to mock him. "And this couldn't just wait until the morning? You sure you didn't just miss me?"
His brow furrowed. "Why would I--"
You were on your feet in an instant, wagging a finger at him like he'd crossed a sacred line. "Don't you dare finish that sentence, Hotchner!"
He blinked, staring at you like you'd just started reciting Shakespeare for no reason.
"You'll hurt my feelings," you said matter-of-factly. "And then I'll have no choice to pout. You'll feel guilty, you always do. And to make it up to me, you'll bring coffee tomorrow. So honestly, let's just skip all that and pretend you never wanted to finish that sentence."
He exhaled through his nose. "I was going to say, why would I miss you when I see you nearly every day?"
"Good." The smile was back on your face in a way that, annoyingly, made him feel better. "Because it's my day off, and you're forbidden from being mean to me on my day off."
"Are you implying I'm mean to you on your regular days?"
You tapped your chin as if seriously considering it. "Not mean, exactly... maybe a little grumpy sometimes."
Hotch huffed. "I'm grumpy with you?"
"Sometimes," you said with a shrug. "But it's okay. I like all your sides—even the grumpy one."
"I'm not grumpy with you," he replied, shaking his head. "If anything, I'm nicer to you than I should be."
"You big softie."
Hotch felt his lips twitch, and he hated how much effort it took to keep from smiling. He was not a soft person. He wasn't the type to let people get under his skin, and yet here you were managing to do it with a single sentence. Worse, he didn't exactly dislike it. In fact, it felt... oddly welcome.
It was different from how you were at work—though, in fairness, you weren't exactly buttoned-up in the office, either.
"Did you make those?" He glanced briefly at the tray of cookies in the kitchen.
Your face lit up and you practically bounded over to the counter, grabbing the tray and holding it up like a trophy. "Yep! Chocolate chip. Want one?"
Hotch hesitated for a second, then followed you into the kitchen, his gaze sweeping over the space despite himself. He didn't mean to do it—it wasn't intentional—but the part of him trained to notice every detail, every inconsistency, was already at work. Old habits die hard, or something like that.
The kitchen suited you. Soft pastel hues and floral details everywhere. Pink pots and pans hung along the wall, a lace-trimmed over mitt dangling from a hook shaped like a star. Fresh flowers—peonies or roses—he wasn't sure, sat in a vase on the counter.
He shook his head, trying—and failing—to shut off that instinct to analyze. But it was almost automatic, his mind piecing things together, like the organization of the baking tools and the open cookbook, pages slightly smudged.
"Are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna grab one?"
He looked at you, then at the cookies, and finally took one with a small nod of thanks. "You bake often?"
He didn't really need to ask—you felt far too comfortable in this space for the answer to be anything but yes.
"Oh, all the time," you said, turning to put the tray back down. "It's, like, my stress reliever. Plus, it makes the house smell amazing. Not that I'm, like, stressed or anything--just saying. It's a hobby. A cute hobby."
He bit into the cookie, ignoring the sweetness for a second as he glanced around again. The pink gingham tablecloth on the island, the mugs arranged by color.
"Anything else you need? Or can I get back to my cookies and reality TV?"
He glanced toward the TV, where some kind of dramatic argument was unfolding on screen, and then back to you. "You should charge your phone."
"Yes, Daddy," you said, before going stiff. "No! I didn’t mean—like—not that Daddy. Just… regular Dad."
His body went rigid, his jaw tightening as he forced himself not to react, shoving the thought out of his mind before it could take hold.
"Right," he said finally, voice rougher than usual. "Charge your phone."
Hotch stepped toward the door, his hand already reaching for the handle when your voice stopped him.
"No, Hotch's don't leave!" you said, your voice dipping into a whine that should've been annoying. "I'm bored!"
Keep word—should.
He turned back, brows lifted. "Bored?"
"Yes, bored," you said, flopping back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. "I've already watched two hours of reality TV, ate like, five cookies, and had an entire conversation with myself while I folded laundry. And now you're here, and I haven't had company in forever, and you're just gonna leave me all alone?"
“Forever,” he repeated dryly. “So the 24 hours since I saw you at work?”
"That doesn't count. Work doesn't count as, like, real social interaction. It's work."
He gave you a look—one of those deadpan, unreadable stares that was meant to shut down further argument. That obviously didn't work.
"You're really going to leave me all alone? In my time of need? I thought you cared about me, Hotch."
"You're not in your time of need."
"Emotionally, I am," you said, crossing your arms and leaning back like you’d just made the world’s most convincing argument. "Please, Aaron? Just hang out with me for a little bit. One show. It'll make my whole day."
The way you said his name—Aaron—hit him in a way that felt decidedly too intimate, too casual, too... something. He clenched his jaw briefly, trying to shake off the sensation as he shot you another look.
"Since when do you call me that?"
"Since now," you replied with a shrug, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It suits you."
His brows furrowed. "It's my name."
"Exactly," you said, leaning forward. "We're not at work. You came into my house. It's all casual here. You're Aaron now. Just go with it."
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” he replied, though his voice lacked conviction.
"It does now," you said, patting the couch beside you. "So, Aaron, are you gonna sit down? Just ten minutes."
With a reluctant sigh, he lowered himself onto the couch, his posture still stiff.
"Wow," you said, scooting so close that your thigh pressed against his. "I didn't think that was actually going to work."
You leaned across the coffee table to grab a blanket, shorts riding up with the motion. Hotch's eyes darted away immediately, landing on the far corner of the room as though it held something deeply fascinating.
His hand clenched into a fist on his thigh, nails pressing into his palm. His knuckles whitened slightly as he tried to force his thoughts back into neutral territory, focusing on his breathing instead of the shape of your ass.
By the time you turned back, oblivious, and tossed the blanket over both of you, he'd managed to school his face into its usual unreadable expression—though he couldn't quite fix the pressure building in his chest.
"So," you began, holding up the remote, "what's it gonna be? Reality TV? A baking show? Or, oh, those ones where they renovate houses, but everything goes horribly wrong."
"You pick." He shifted, trying to put even an inch more space between you, but you didn't seem to notice, too preoccupied with tucking the blanket around you both.
"Okay, but don't blame me if you get hooked. I'm just saying, this stuff is addictive."
He leaned back shaking his, but his focus never really landed on the TV. Instead, it stayed on you—laughing at the wrong moments, gasping dramatically at plot twists, and making snarky commentary under your breath.
"You know," you said suddenly, glancing over at him with a sly smile, "you're kind of cute when you're pretending to relax."
"Do you ever stop talking?" he asked, though the lack of bite in his tone made it sound almost too fond.
"Nope," you said cheerfully, pulling the blanket tighter around you. “Consider it part of the package.”
Hotch didn't respond, his attention shifting back to the screen—or at least, that's what he told himself. But as the minutes stretched into fifteen, then twenty, he realized he wasn't in any hurry to leave.
You fell asleep thirty minutes later.
Hotch wasn't surprised. Between the pile of blankets, you'd wrapped yourself in and the way you'd curled up on the couch like it was your safe haven, it was a miracle you'd lasted that long. He'd noticed your eyelids drooping about five minutes earlier, your commentary fading into soft hums of acknowledgment as you sank deeper into the cushions.
The room was quiet now except for the sound of the TV. He shifted in his seat, glancing over at you. You were entirely still, your breathing slow. Your hair had fallen across your face, and the blanket had slipped off your shoulder, leaving your tank top askew.
It was weird, seeing you like this. You, who were always moving and talking and saying things he never really knew how to respond to. Now you looked so soft, completely oblivious to how much space you were taking up in his head.
He told himself to leave. Just slip out, lock the door, and let you sleep. That would’ve been the smart thing. The right thing. But he didn’t. Maybe it was the thought of you waking up, groggy and alone, wondering where he’d gone. Or maybe it was the realization that you were still his responsibility, even outside of work.
He leaned forward reluctantly, one hand brushing the blanket back over your shoulder. He told himself it was just a gentlemanly gesture, the kind anyone would do, but the second his fingers grazed you, he froze.
You murmured something under your breath, unintelligible really, your head shifting as you face turned toward him. He snatched his hand back like he'd touched something scalding.
"Come on," he muttered under his breath. He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, lifting you easily.
Your head fell against his shoulder the second he straightened. He swallowed. Your bedroom. Where was it? He glanced down the hall. Left or right? The door slightly ajar felt like the most obvious choice, and sure enough, when he nudged it open with his foot, he found himself standing right where he anticipated.
Pinks, florals, lace-trimmed, well, everything. The bed was covered in more pillows than he could count in every possible shade of pastel. It smelled like you—roses and vanilla, with something sweeter lingering underneath, like sugar from a bakery.
But then his eyes snagged on the rack of nightgowns against the far wall, like it wasn't about to cause an existential crisis.
Lace. Sheer. Satin.
He shouldn't be looking at them. He knew he shouldn't be looking at them, and yet... he couldn't stop. The imagine of you wearing one slipped into his mind before he could stop it. That was a problem—he could see you in them, and now he had to wrestle with that mental image while pretending to be a gentleman.
He bit down on the inside of his check, hard enough to sting, and forced himself to look back at the bed. This wasn’t the time—or the place—for thoughts like that. Hell, there wasn’t ever a time for them.
He eased you onto the mattress, his hands far softer than he thought himself capable of. He straightened, watching as you instinctively curled into the covers, your hair fanning across the pillow like some picture-perfect cliché.
Then you stirred, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his.
"Hotch?" you murmured, your voice thick with sleep.
"It's okay," he said softly. "Go back to sleep."
You blinked slowly, gaze still hazy. "You're still here?"
"I didn't want to leave you on the couch. You looked too uncomfortable."
Your lips curved into a small, sleepy smile as you sank back into the pillows. "That's... sweet. I didn't think you did stuff like that."
He huffed softly, shaking his head. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me."
Your smile widened lazily, your half-lidded eyes sparkling with amusement. "Mysterious and chivalrous. You’re gonna ruin my whole perception of you.”
"Sleep," he said firmly, though there was no real heat behind the command.
Your gaze shifted past him, landing on the rack against the wall.
"Did you see those?" you asked. He hesitated—too long for it to go unnoticed—and your grin turned sly. "You did see them, didn't you?"
"They're hard to miss," he admitted, his voice carefully neutral.
"Bet you weren't expecting that, huh?" you teased, leaning your head against the pillow. “So? Thoughts?”
"I think," he said evenly, "you ask too many questions when you’re supposed to be sleeping.”
You laughed softly, the sound trailing off like a dream. “You’re dodging, Aaron. I didn’t know you could dodge.”
He sighed, stepping back as though the distance might save him. "You're good at this."
"Good at what?"
"Pushing buttons," he replied. “You’re a natural.”
"And yet, you're still here."
He didn't have the words for that. Because you were right, and he didn't know what to do about that.
Your eyes fluttered closed, your body slackening into the bed, and he thought you were asleep.
Then you spoke again, quieter this time, as if testing the words before committing to them. “Why’d you really come here?”
He stilled. "I told you. You weren't answering your phone. The case report."
The explanation felt flimsy, even to him, and he hated how obvious it sounded.
"That's not it," you whispered, your eyes still closed. "You could've just waited until tomorrow. You didn't have to check on me. But you did."
Hotch didn’t move, his breath catching as he studied you. Your face, relaxed and peaceful, gave no indication whether you knew what kind of mess you were making of him in that moment.
“It’s okay,” you mumbled, the faintest hint of a smile brushing your lips. "I think I like it when you worry about me. Feels nice."
You didn’t say anything else, your breathing softening as sleep took over again.
Hotch stayed where he was, rooted to the spot. Your words replayed like a deadly loop in his head.
He finally tore his gaze away, stepping back and slipping out of the room with careful movements. He closed the door behind him as softly as he could, but even then, the sound felt too loud.
For a second, he lingered in the hallway, staring at door like it might offer him some form of an answer. He'd drawn a line with you a thousand times in his head, a boundary he vowed not to cross. And yet, like you said, he was still here, standing in your home.
He shook his head and turned toward the front door. He wouldn't cross the line—but gods help him, staying on the right side of it felt harder every time.
Thinking about how Hotch almost certainly has The best monologues in the entire show. From “my team? Let me tell you about my team.” To “When im home, it’s like im in this silent panic” to “at your core, you’re a coward” to “sometimes the day just… ends” Hotch has some of the most moving monologues in the entire series and i think its so interesting when you think about how quiet he is normally, he’s so reserved and usually his sentences are clipped and direct, more like orders than monologues, and yet on the other side he has an almost theatric delivery to his monologues that makes it so captivating to listen to, makes you hang on every word. He’s so eloquent and concise, every word he says is so intentionally chosen, and it really lands when you’re watching the show. His monologues will always be the ones that stick out to me the most as some of the best line deliveries in the entire series
I loved bakery owner reader x loyal customer hotch SO MUCH 😭😭😭
Can you please make one where the team finally meets her? Maybe on Penelope’s birthday since she is the most excited about the relationship 😅. Maybe he shows up at Dave’s house with reader by surprise
A sweet surprise, a warmer welcome | [A.H]
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x bakery owner fem!reader | WC: 0.8k | CW: it's fluff so none
String lights hung in the backyard, casting a warm glow over the patio, and the smell of grilling steaks, vegetables, and whatever vegetarian dish Penelope had brought along filled the air. Music played softly in the background, and laughter mixed with the hum of conversation.
But despite the cheerful atmosphere, the team couldn’t help but wonder about one thing: Hotch.
Ever since Penelope had found the picture of him with you the team had been curious about the woman who had brought some light into their usually reserved boss’s life. Penelope, in particular, was buzzing with excitement, though she had promised to let Hotch decide when to introduce his partner to the team - and hold her horses on looking into your background.
"Do you think he's coming?" Penelope whispered to Emily as they watched Morgan tend to the grill. “I mean, I don't expect him to bring her, but it would be the best birthday surprise.”
Emily smiled, taking a sip of her wine. “Who knows? He’s full of surprises lately.”
Meanwhile, Hotch parked his car in Rossi’s driveway, your hand resting in his as he turned off the engine. You had been nervous about meeting his team - they sounded like a close-knit group, full of strong personalities - but Hotch had assured you they would welcome you with open arms. Still, the nervous energy in your stomach was undeniable.
“You ready?” Hotch asked, his voice calm and reassuring as he turned to you, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.
You took a breath and smiled softly. “As ready as I probably can be.”
Hotch chuckled. “Don’t worry, they’re excited to meet you, especially Penelope.”
You laughed at that. “Penelope, your tech guru who figured out we were dating just from a picture? That Penelope?” You tried to recall the information he had told you about each member of the team.
He smiled. “That’s the one. She’s been asking about you ever since.”
The thought of the team being so eager to meet you made you feel more at ease. With a final glance at each other, Hotch led you to the front door, the faint sound of laughter and music drifting from the backyard. As he opened the door, you could hear what you assumed was Penelope’s voice, based on the information Hotch had told you, and the reality of the moment settled in.
Before stepping outside, Hotch paused, turning to you with a soft smile. “I’m happy that you wanted to come.”
Your heart fluttered at the sincerity in his words. “Me too.”
Together, you walked into the backyard, hand in hand. The conversation started to quiet as people noticed you arriving. It was JJ who spotted you first, her eyes widening as she nudged Will. “Guys, look.”
All heads turned in your direction, and for a moment, the team was silent, taking in the sight of Hotch with his arm around you. Penelope, however, couldn’t hold back her excitement for long.
“Oh. My. Gosh!” she squealed, practically bouncing with joy. “You brought her!”
Hotch smiled at her enthusiasm. “Surprise.”
She rushed forward, arms open as she enveloped you in a warm hug before you even had a chance to introduce yourself. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! We’ve all been waiting for this day!”
You returned the hug, smiling. “It’s nice to meet you too, Penelope. I’ve heard so much about everyone.”
Penelope pulled back, beaming, and gestured to the rest of the team. “This is Emily, Derek, JJ, and of course, you already know Rossi.”
Rossi walked over with a grin, wiping his hands on a towel. “Welcome. Hotch hasn’t said much, but we’ve been looking forward to this.”
You chuckled. “I’m just glad to finally meet all of you.”
The rest of the team gathered around, offering greetings and introductions. Morgan shook your hand with a grin. “So you’re the one who’s been making our boss a little less strict lately. Nice to meet you.”
You blushed slightly. “I just make the coffee and bread, really. He did the rest himself.”
Hotch smiled softly. “You do a lot more than that.”
Emily leaned in toward Penelope with a teasing smile. “Okay, you were right. Best birthday surprise ever.”
Penelope practically glowed with happiness. “I knew it! Hotch, you’ve been holding out on us, but I forgive you because she’s perfect.”
You laughed along with the group, feeling the warmth and acceptance from each of them. Hotch stayed close by, his hand still gently holding yours. He seemed more at ease, surrounded by his friends and with you by his side.
Rossi raised his glass, signaling for everyone to do the same. “To Penelope’s and to meeting the woman who’s made Hotch happier than we’ve seen him in a long time.”
The group cheered, glasses clinking together in celebration. As the night went on, you found yourself fitting seamlessly into their dynamic, sharing stories and laughter. Hotch remained close, always attentive, and though it was Penelope’s special day, it was clear that you were the true surprise that made the evening unforgettable.
there's something so fascinating about the physicality of Hotch. he's tall, strongly built, and he uses that, he's commanding. he's loud, his voice carries well, but he's rarely violent. he's a clean shot, he's steady. that drops when he's not in charge of a situation. his voice gets the softest of anyone on the team. he moves stiltedly. stands awkwardly, like he's trying to shrink - he makes himself look smaller. he fidgets but it's isolated to areas of his body, the rest of him freezes. when he loses control he tears down to bone. screaming in the face of fire, beating Foyet to death. inherent violence tamped down and down. and you know it's there, when he's physically commanding, but it's not far away even when he's not.
oh no he's seducing me by sitting in his little unit chief office and doing paperwork and closing cases and wearing suits and tie to work everyday to his activity-heavy job and being kind and considerate like a dad to all members of his team while telling everyone who gets in his or his team way to shut up and sit down oh no he's seducing me
time will see us realign. @hotchsdoormat - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
dailybridgerton
izzy806
prguitarman
kianamaiart
baratheonpilled
ellievsbear
discoholicmusic
