#hotch x reader

[prettylittleky]

been watching criminal minds all summer, who is in a aaron hotchner c black reader mood😍😍😍😍😍

[alicewritezz]

Stitches - Aaron Hotchner

word count: 1243

summary: after a routine raid goes horribly wrong, you are rushed into emergency surgery. While your physical wounds begin to heal, an old childhood trauma leaves you terrified of having your stitches removed. Determined to help you through it, Aaron stays by your side every step of the way, offering quiet reassurance, unwavering patience, and a hand to hold when you need it most.

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

authors note: It’s so nice to be back and writing for Aaron again! I really hope you enjoy this one and if you have any idea you’d like brought to life, don’t hesitate to comment. Thank you for all the love. Enjoy reading!! 💗💗

The bullpen was unusually quiet.

Everyone was buried in paperwork after a long case, the kind that lingered long after the unsub was in custody. Emily was typing away with a sigh every few minutes, Reid was explaining statistical probabilities to Morgan—who definitely hadn't asked—and JJ was pretending not to laugh.

Aaron Hotchner looked up from his report when he heard your laugh from the hallway.

It was brief.

Warm.

His favorite sound.

You stepped inside with a coffee in one hand and a folder tucked beneath your arm, smiling at him before setting his coffee beside him.

"You've been staring at that same paragraph for five minutes."

"I was thinking."

"You were brooding."

"I don't brood."

You raised an eyebrow.

Emily snorted into her coffee.

"...Frequently," Aaron admitted.

You leaned down and kissed his cheek before returning to your own desk.

-

Three days later, everything changed.

The raid should have been straightforward.

Contain.

Arrest.

Go home.

Instead, the unsub bolted through an abandoned warehouse, knocking over rusted shelving as he ran.

You chased after him with Morgan close behind.

"Y/N!" Morgan shouted.

You turned just in time to see the metal beam swinging free.

There wasn't enough time to move.

The edge slammed into your side, throwing you hard against the concrete.

Everything blurred.

You remembered Aaron yelling your name.

Then...

Nothing.

-

The first thing you felt was warmth.

The second was Aaron's hand wrapped tightly around yours.

Your eyes fluttered open.

Hospital ceiling.

Beeping monitors.

Pain.

Lots of pain.

"There she is."

Aaron's voice was gentle, calmer than you knew he felt.

He brushed a strand of hair away from your face.

"You scared me."

Your lips tugged into the smallest smile.

"I thought we agreed... no paperwork in heaven."

He actually laughed.

Just once.

Quiet.

Relieved.

"You aren't getting out of paperwork that easily."

-

The surgeon explained everything.

Two broken ribs.

A deep laceration across your abdomen.

Internal bleeding.

Emergency surgery had gone well.

You'd need several weeks of recovery.

And...

"...You have two lots of stitches. The external ones will come out in about two weeks."

You stopped listening after that.

Stitches.

Your breathing became uneven.

Aaron noticed immediately.

"Honey?"

You stared at the blanket.

Your hands began shaking.

-

Later that evening, after everyone had visited, Aaron found you sitting in the dim hospital room with tears quietly slipping down your cheeks.

He sat beside you.

"Sweetheart."

You didn't answer.

"You've been quiet ever since the surgeon mentioned the stitches."

Still nothing.

He waited.

Aaron had always been patient.

Eventually you whispered...

"When I was twelve..."

His eyes stayed on yours.

"I had surgery."

You swallowed hard.

"They left the stitches in too long."

Your voice cracked.

"I remember screaming."

You closed your eyes.

"They kept telling me it wouldn't hurt."

Another tear escaped.

"It did."

Aaron's expression softened immediately.

"They had to hold me down."

Silence filled the room.

"I've never been more scared."

Your voice was barely audible now.

"So every time someone says 'We'll remove the stitches,' all I can think about is that."

Aaron reached for your hand.

He didn't interrupt.

Didn't dismiss it.

Didn't tell you you'd be fine.

He simply squeezed your fingers.

"I'm so sorry."

Those three words made you cry harder than anything else had.

Because he believed you.

-

The next two weeks passed slowly.

Aaron insisted on helping with everything.

Changing bandages.

Helping you walk.

Making sure you actually took your pain medication instead of insisting you were "fine."

Jack even helped.

Very seriously.

He'd carry pillows across the house.

Bring you blankets.

Offer you juice boxes because "juice fixes everything."

Aaron never corrected him.

-

The morning your stitches were due to come out...

You threw up from anxiety.

Aaron found you sitting on the bathroom floor.

You looked embarrassed; overwhelmed.

"I can't do this."

He crouched beside you.

"Yes, you can."

"What if it hurts?"

"I'll be there."

"What if I panic?"

"I'll still be there."

"What if I cry?"

He smiled softly.

"Then I'll hold your hand while you cry."

You looked at him with watery eyes.

"What if I can't even walk into the room?"

"Then I'll walk in with you."

He kissed your forehead.

"You don't have to be brave by yourself."

-

The nurse immediately noticed how frightened you looked.

"We can take breaks."

You nodded without really hearing her.

Aaron sat beside the examination table instead of across the room.

He took your hand before anyone even asked.

His thumb slowly rubbed circles across your knuckles.

"Look at me."

You did.

"Not the stitches."

Only him.

"You know what I need you to do?"

"What?"

"Breathe with me."

Slow inhale.

Slow exhale.

Again.

And again.

His voice never changed.

Never rushed.

Never left you.

The first stitch came out.

You flinched.

Aaron squeezed your hand.

"You're doing perfectly."

Another.

Then another.

A few stung.

A few pinched.

None were anything like your childhood memory.

But every tiny pinch still made your heart race.

Aaron kept talking the whole time.

About Jack's latest obsession with dinosaurs.

About Morgan trying to teach Reid—

"No," you laughed weakly.

"Not that story."

Aaron smiled.

"Alright, Rossi trying to teach us all how to grill."

You smiled.

The tension eased.

The nurse quietly continued.

Almost finished.

"You've got five left," she said.

Your breathing hitched.

Aaron leaned closer until your foreheads almost touched.

"I know."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"I've got you."

You closed your eyes.

Focused only on him.

His thumb.

His heartbeat where your hands touched.

His calm breathing.

"Four."

"You've got this, sweetheart."

"Three."

"So proud of you."

"Two."

"Almost home."

"Last one."

A tiny tug.

"...Done."

The nurse smiled.

"That's it."

You blinked.

"Really?"

She laughed.

"Really."

You burst into relieved tears.

Aaron immediately wrapped his arms around you.

You buried your face against his shoulder.

"I did it."

"You did."

"It wasn't..."

"No."

"...like before."

His hand rested gently against the back of your head.

"No, honey."

You stayed there for several minutes.

Just breathing.

-

That evening, the team gathered at your house with takeout and entirely too many desserts.

Emily claimed sugar was medically necessary.

Reid produced an article attempting to prove it.

Morgan declared victory regardless.

Jack proudly announced—

"Mom doesn't have scary stitches anymore!"

Everyone cheered.

You hid your face in Aaron's shoulder, laughing.

He wrapped an arm around your waist.

His lips brushed your temple.

"So..."

"So?"

"You survived."

"Barely."

He smiled.

"You were incredible."

"I cried."

"You were incredible while crying."

"I panicked."

"You were incredible while panicking."

You looked up at him.

"When did you get so good at knowing what I needed?"

Aaron's smile was small.

Quiet.

The kind reserved only for you.

"The day I promised to love you."

He kissed your forehead.

"No matter what."

You leaned into him as laughter echoed through the house, Jack chased Morgan around the living room pretending to be a T-Rex, and Emily loudly insisted that anyone who brought vegetables to a celebration should be arrested.

For the first time in weeks, everything felt normal.

Safe.

Home.

And as Aaron's fingers intertwined with yours, you realized something your frightened twelve-year-old self never could have imagined.

Some scars stayed.

Some fears lingered.

But with the right person beside you—

holding your hand,

whispering that you were safe,

never asking you to be brave alone—

even the hardest memories could begin to heal.

[xxepherr]

Omggg I lovee ur mentalist!reader x Hotch ficsss 🩷🩷 what about something where mentalist!reader pisses a criminal off related to her con artist past, and gets abducted and nearly tortured/injured (like season 3, ep 8 of the mentalist) until Hotch and the BAU team come to the rescue?

Anyways love love love your work 🩷🩷

.ೃ࿐ PAST LIFE

summary — when your past catches up to you, it's good to know that the rest of the team has your back. even if that includes rescuing you from a kidnapping situation because you pissed off someone from your past life.

pairings — aaron hotchner x mentalist!reader

pronouns — she/her

word count — 3.4k

note — yesss i was so excited when i saw i got a req for mentalist!reader i love her to death :) but yes yes yes i absolutely love this and im super glad you're enjoying <333 masterlist here

"WHERE ARE YOU?"

"OH, relax, hotch. i'm on my way back."

it was a rather warm day. sleeves of your blouse rolled up to your elbows, you leant down to sniff the bouquet of tulips sitting delicately in a pot among with other colour tulip variations. they had all opened up in the warm sun beaming down on them, and thus you were caught stuck between choosing the tulips or the assorted daisies.

"you were supposed to be here an hour ago," hotch did not sound pleased, but he also didn't sound necessarily upset about her not being at work.

"yeah, yeah," you hummed absently. "i promised garcia that i'd pick up some flowers for her office. do you want some too? you kinda seem like a tulip guy."

"no, i don't want flowers," you could practically feel hotch roll his eyes.

you shrugged, reaching for the bouquet. the roadside flower popup seemed to be getting busier — a car pulled up not too far behind where you were standing. "i'll get you some anyway."

hotch's sigh was rather deep. you swore he only really ever sighed that deep around you. it was quite the accomplishment.

sharp piercing sounds echoed through your ears like a rattle of death. gunfire rippled, sinking into random targets in front of you quick enough to be a semi-automatic. ducking, you hid behind a flower stand, keeping your head low while trying to catch a glimpse at what exactly was going on.

despite all your time with the FBI, you were not cut out for this sort of field work.

hotch said your name, your first name, with enough urgency that your breath caught in your throat. he repeated it when you didn't respond. "can you hear me? ca—"

"the florist is dead," you managed to get out, trying to crawl out of the line of sight. "send— send whoever you can . . ."

the man waving the gun around was large. he looked like some sort of trigger-happy gun-for-hire with enough muscle to be a professional heavy-weight wrestler. he was walking towards you, his steps hard against the floor and the gun aimed in your direction. one twitch and you'd be riddled with more bullets than you can count.

"trace my location," you said definitely, your voice picking up speed with an urgency you rarely ever displayed. "i think this guy's after me."

hotch said your name a myriad of times, more than you had ever heard from him before, but you hung up the call without speaking again once the man was dangerously close.

"get up," the man growled out like some sort of animal. "you're comin' with me."

you squinted up at him. "i'm just a bystander," you tried to reason, scooting back from him. "i—"

"get up."

you did so that time, unsteady on your feet as his arm reached out to grab yours. his grip was iron. he dragged you unceremoniously through the bullet-ridden flower pop-up until he made it back to his navy blue hatchback. he opened the boot and stared at you like a silent invitation.

with your lips pulled into a tight-line, you glanced between the burly man and the open boot. "fantastic," you mumbled, awkwardly climbing inside. it wasn't awkward because it was small — you fit just fine — but it was awkward because this was the first time you had ever been in the back of the car. that was for groceries, and you were fairly certain you weren't your weekly shopping.

the man didn't say anything more. he grumbled something and slammed the boot shut, locking you in darkness. the car started up, the engine spluttering a little, and all you could do was keep your eyes shut as the car began to move.

"DROP WHAT YOU'RE DOING, i need all hands on deck."

hotch's voice carried enough finality to have morgan's back straightening immediately, his teasing smile at garcia morphing into a thin line.

"was there an update in the case?" reid bundled all his manila folders into his leather briefcase. they were due to leave in just under an hour — hence why hotch was incredibly annoyed that you were late — and it wasn't like their current case was in a fragile enough state that they needed to leave as soon as possible. the unsub hadn't hit the stage where they were devolving just yet; reid was under the assumption that there was even a chance that it wouldn't come to that at all.

"we're not going to arizona," hotch moved through the bullpen, and his stride was enough to tell everyone that it was imperitive they follow. rossi was the first one to follow, then the rest all shared jumbled looks before doing the same.

hotch didn't speak until everyone was situated at the round table. The arizona case's notes were still written on the whiteboard — hotch was quick to erase it so that no one could focus on it. he uttered your last name in a way that had everyone's spine straightening. "local cops are on the scene just out of town for a homicide. she was there when the unsub opened fire . . . i think this may be a potential kidnapping."

"wait," morgan said, holding up his hand. "you're saying that someone was after her?"

"it's a possibility."

"i hate to say it, guys," emily jumped in, "but we are talking about her. she's probably made more enemies than i've got cutlery."

garcia nodded. "i'll make a list of all the people that have written in complaints about her." she then paused. "and i'll extend my list into her life before the FBI."

"thanks, garcia," hotch nodded once, and then she left to her office.

rossi huffed, "between everyone's she's pissed off both here and as a con-artist . . . may as well get comfy." he leaned back in his chair, staring straight through hotch. hotch wasn't giving much away on his face, but rossi had always been able to read him in a way that not many others could.

you could read him, though. and he knew that if you were sitting at this table, you would be making fun of how stupidly easy this probably was to solve by now.

"feels kinda wrong to be looking into her personal life," reid mumbled, his lips pulling into a slight frown. after a rocky start, he'd gotten around to liking you eventually. the two of you had a lot in common, and it had gotten easier to work with that in more recent times.

"yeah," jj agreed, standing up with. a sigh. "i'll go check her desk."

"good," hotch nodded. his eyes turned on reid and morgan. "morgan, take prentiss to the crime scene with you." the two nodded and left. "reid, i want you to start reading through the complaints the second garcia hands them to you."

reid nodded. he figured he wouldn't be out in the field at least until most of the complaints had been read through. he read the quickest, and that meant that he could start stitching together potential people a lot more efficiently than someone else being handed this task. every second counted — and now that emily and morgan were being sent out to confirm it was a kidnapping, time was of the essence.

once everyone much had their respective tasks, rossi stood up from his chair and walked over to where hotch was staring at the blank whiteboard. "what're you gonna do, aaron?"

hotch didn't bat an eye. "whatever i can," he mumbled.

THE BASEMENT WAS COLD. and it had absolutely nothing to do with the dead body laying on the ground within inches of where you were standing. wrists zip-tied to metal pole holding up the supports of the floor above you tried to keep your eyes off the large dead man that had abducted you in the first place.

it had happened so fast — one minute he had been binding your wrists, and the next he was flopping to your feet with a bullet piercing through his thick head. the blood splattered across your face. trying to wipe it off on your shoulder had proven to be futile.

heavy footsteps echoed down the stairs. chunky black heels appeared first, and then a woman with frizzy black curls and smudged makeup appeared. she had a sneer on her face, and you hazily remembered that same sneer from when she pulled the trigger on the large man maybe thirty minutes ago.

you were currently trying to ignore the fact that that same gun was now pointed in your direction. you were the furthest thing from any sort of weapon, you liked words and body language instead of bullets and gunpowder. the second amendment was not something you held dear unlike your colleagues, and so currently staring down the silver barrel of one was less than ideal.

"do you remember me?"

she did look awfully familiar. something about her eyes and her nose mixed with the exact curl pattern i her hair sat so obviously on the tip of your tongue but you just couldn't figure out who.

"i don't know," you said slowly, trying to shield yourself from the gun by scooting back a little more. your wrists screeched, the zip-ties tearing into your skin from the added pressure. "i'd see you better if you moved the gun away—"

bang.

you gasped, ducking your head lower and brandishing your hands as best you could to surrender. the bullet buried itself in the wall a few inches to the right of where you were crouched. "noted," you coughed, trying to keep your face shielded.

"you haven't changed," the woman sneered, waving the gun around in your direction, her trigger-happy finger taunting. "still the same—"

"you're mary," you peered up at her in a way that made yourself look small. you couldn't assert power in this situation, but you also couldn't be too calm. mary thinking that she was all high-and-mighty here would stop any devolving from occurring. "mary whittler."

the gun wavered, so you continued. "your mother was my client . . . i'm sorry for your loss." you ducked your head. the metal of the gun pressed against your skull.

"you're not sorry!" she sneered. "you fucking killed her! killed her!"

you had not murdered mary's mother, but the angry letters you had received from mary for years said otherwise. selene whittler was a woman who had been severely unwell mentally after her husband passed. she spiralled and booked hundreds of appointments with you, so much so that you didn't have the heart to charge her for all of them. all she wanted was to be able to connect with her husband again, and when you eventually couldn't keep telling her you could contact him any longer, she committed suicide. mary had blamed you ever since.

she probably wasn't wrong to blame you. you were the con-artist that had tricked her mother for so long, and then suddenly her mother was gone. you knew that selene would've been dead long before talking to you had she not found you when she did: you had given her hope for just that little bit longer, even if mary couldn't see that.

"okay," was all you said, "and i'm sorry about that . . . but i don't know what you want from me."

mary laughed, pulling her gun away from your head. there was a slight jingle as she waved it, the metal clattering against the metal against her bracelets. "just you wait," she squinted at you with a nod as if telepathically sharing a secret you couldn't hear.

"I'VE GOT SOMETHING," REID leaned across the circle table to pass the letter he found to hotch. the older man grabbed it without a second thought.

hotch read the letter as quick as he could. "wait, i've seen this name somewhere . . ." holding the letter reid found in one hand, hotch sifted through the piles of letters on the table.

there were hundreds. between complaints made against you from victims' families and other police units to letters garcia had tracked down from your previous life, it seemed no one was ever happy with anything you ever did. hotch would be lying if he said he wasn't mildly amused by it all.

once he found it, he picked it up and scanned it over once again. "same name: mary whittler."

reid shot up. "mary whittler wrote death threats," he reached across the table to the death threat pile. there were so many that they couldn't take them super seriously unless they had reasonable belief that they were actually enactable. "sometimes she didn't leave her name, sometimes she just wrote 'mary' at the top . . . but this is the same pattern of her writing. see," he pointed to specific ways she would start and end the letters, and that was more than enough for hotch to quickly dial garcia.

garcia, who was in her office, picked up immediately. "penelope garcia's office of supreme genius."

"i need an address on a mary whittler," hotch was already moving, picking up his car keys and signalling through the glass for emily to follow him. she was up and grabbing her blazer in seconds. "mother's name was selene whittler."

"one moment . . ." garcia trailed off, the sound of tapping keys echoing in hotch's right ear. "got it. i've sent it to you all."

"thanks," hotch said, barely getting the word out before hanging up. "reid, grab morgan and rossi, and alert the local PD."

reid nodded wordlessly, scrambling out of the room to do as he was asked, his phone to his ear calling the police department from the location that garcia sent him. hotch was out of the building as quickly as he could be, emily close behind.

THE DEAD MAN WAS in direct sunlight. the sun passing through the only window in the basement was the root cause of your current issue — he was starting to smell. the basement was so hot with so little ventilation that all your knowledge on dead people taking a few days to properly decompose went out the window. this was so much different than all the dead bodies you had encountered out in the field . . . this man's blood was splattered across your face and your hands and you had watched as it happened. sure, he had killed in front of you and had kidnapped you shortly afterwards, but you didn't want to see him dead. and you certainly did not want to be covered in it.

mary's heels clomped down the stairs once again. this time, she had a slightly less crazed look in her eyes. her gun was tucked in the waistband of her jeans; your shoulders lost a bit of their tension. "i think we got off on the wrong foot," she descended the stairs until she was only a few metres from where you were sat on the floor. wrists aching, you moved them up the pole so that you could stand at her eye-level.

"did we?" it took you a second to get the words out, your throat dry from all the hours without water.

"i just want the truth," she stood too far away from you, still wary, but her head seemed clearer than it had been earlier. whatever meds she had downed in however long it had been since she last came down seemed to be working at least somewhat. "i knew you were a fucking fraud from the beginning."

"all i did was tell your mother what she wanted to hear," you reasoned, not really trying to change her mind on anything, but to prolong a bullet lodging itself in your brain. "she missed your father, mary . . . i'm sorry, but you would've grown up without a mother if i hadn't . . . y'know. i'm not saying what i did was right, but i couldn't get your mother the help she needed. she refused to go see her psychiatrist."

you couldn't tell her that her mother was a ticking timebomb ready to detonate the second she knew her husband was truly gone. you had met mary once a very long time ago, and it wasn't fair that she would have to grow up without a mother. you had even charged selene less per session because you'd felt horrible.

none of that was worth telling mary. it wouldn't change the fact that her mother was still gone.

sometimes things were better left unsaid.

"i don't believe you," mary sighed, her hand inching closer to her gun. you grimaced when you realised that that was where her hand was absentmindedly going. "you could've done better, you should've—"

"mary whittler? FBI!" hotch's voice was loud as the basement door flung open. cautious footsteps moved down the stairs; you saw hotch's gun before you saw his face.

within seconds, mary was hiding behind you, her gun pressed snugly into your neck like a threat. hotch's face was stern when you finally saw him, but there was something in his expression that you couldn't read. emily was by his side to cover.

"not another step," mary flexed her finger on the trigger, the gentle clicking taunting your ears.

"okay, okay, easy," emily called out, slowly holstering her gun. hotch's stance didn't waver, and neither did his own weapon. not even when emily stepped down a step lower than the one he was on. "we're not here to hurt you."

"you should leave," mary said. unknown to her, you were trying to get emily's attention through facial expressions. widening your eyes, you subtly tried to tell her that you had a plan. it took a few moments, but eventually emily gave you a slight nod to signal that she understood.

"i'm afraid we can't, mary," emily kept answering as if hotch wasn't there. it was certainly for the best — hotch could feel that his heartrate had elevated just from the glimpse he'd gotten of you covered in blood with a dead body by your feet. he wasn't level enough to speak free from anger. your hair was a mess and you had bruises and cuts on your left cheek. he couldn't help but feel obliterated by the sight of your eyes, the hollowness drowning in tiredness and horror. you kept it masked so well that it was almost scary how easily it was.

there were times you kept it together so well that he forgot what your life was like before you came to the FBI. he forgot about all the bloodshed and the nightmares of mangled corpses and twisted riddles. it came back to him now that he was staring into those same eyes that greeted him when you had first stumbled into his life all that time ago.

emily went to speak again. mary sat her finger tighter on the trigger.

you sucked in a deep breath, winked at emily, and then slammed your head backwards as hard as you could into mary's face.

a gunshot rang out as mary stumbled backwards, your own body falling forwards from the sharp pain at the back of your skull. your right ear was ringing, and somehow you tumbled straight into hotch's arms.

glancing up through blurred vision, you could see his lips moving but couldn't hear any of the words coming out. his eyes kept drifting from you to emily, who made quick work of restraining mary and wrestling her into a pair of handcuffs while she was stunned. blood dripped down her nose as emily tugged her towards the basement door, half-dragging her up the stairs in the process.

hotch's large hands were warm as he held you by the shoulders, gently lowering you to the ground away from the dead man so that you could catch your breath. you vaguely saw him mouth ambulance and so you assumed you'd be looked over for any sort of injury before heading back to quantico.

"i . . ." you trailed off, unsure if you were even speaking loud enough over the ringing. hotch didn't mind that you were borderline shouting in his ear. "i didn't get your tulips . . ."

maybe you imagined the smile that rose to his lips. "of course that's what you're worried about," he didn't bother to mumble it considering you couldn't currently hear him. "fuck, you had me worried."

it was the lowest voice he could muster, and he certainly said it too fast for you to be able to read his lips. all you did was stare up at him with wide eyes. "can you get me some tea? my throat's super sore."

hotch snorted out an almost silent chuckle. his chest felt lighter. "the second you get checked over by a doctor," he said, and when he could tell you still couldn't hear him, he just nodded and watched a smile raise to your chapped lips.

[ssa-dado]

AUDENTES FORTUNA IUVAT... INTERDUM

Audentes fortuna iuvat (lat. Aeneid, Book X, Virgil): fortune favors the bold. Success and luck are more likely to come to those who take risks and act decisively rather than to those who hesitate or play it safe... though that's much easier said than done.

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader Genre: middle-aged coming(...)-of-age with painful YEARNING ✴︎ WC: 4,7k Summary: For his 40th birthday, the team (though he only cares that you contributed) gives Hotch a gift card to a hairdresser. What begins as an errand becomes an intervention when two opinionated salon regulars diagnose everything that's gone wrong in his love life #loser! Warnings: Hotch's POV! Workplace power dynamics, emotional constipation so f severe it's a miracle the man is still alive, and enough self inflicted paralysis to make you want to bang his head against a wall! Nothing gets resolved! Dado's Corner: as requested by the lovely @sweetheartsocks I am back! Je suis back! Sorry in advance for the flowery prose and for being suuuuch a bore, but Hotch's inner monologue simply refused to sound any other way in my head (obnoxious piece of-) I hope you enjoy it!

masterlist

Aaron has never been confronted with the shallowness of his friendships at work quite so abruptly - nor taken it as such an unmistakable sign that perhaps, if he isn't comfortable enough to fully let his guard down, he ought to start relinquishing people a little more of himself - as when his so-called work "friends," for his fortieth birthday (one of the big ones… allegedly), present him with a gift card (?) to a hair salon (???).

Is he truly that uninteresting? That monotonous?

Truthfully, he would've been more than delighted had they handed him yet another tie, just like... the other birthdays, and the occasional "since we're all doomed to spend Christmas hundreds of miles from home working a case, we might as well exchange presents and collectively indulge the notion that we're one big family" Christmases (a premise he has yet to find particularly convincing.)

Really, there is no need to reinvent the wheel merely to spare oneself the accusation of repetition if the alternative can only be described as... particular (let's put it that way).

But, of course, it's not as though he can outwardly express himself on the matter - it simply wouldn't do for a gentleman like him. That is his first justification, at any rate.

The second - and, if he's being intellectually honest, the real one - is that it was you who placed in his hands the very same glossy piece of cardstock his fingers now can't help but instinctively return to, idly turning it over and over as his thoughts inevitably drift back to the infectious zest illuminating your face the moment you first handed it to him, and to the almost garrulous advocacy with which you championed its merits.

That, more than anything, leaves him strangely unsettled. What, precisely, had prompted such a remarkably specific idea in the first place? Had he really mentioned, if only in passing, that his fringe was beginning to grow a little too long? Or had he merely seized upon the observation as a convenient excuse to prolong the conversation with you, never quite realizing he was doing so - nor, more importantly, that you had been paying attention all along?

And, as always, guilt proves astonishingly easy to come by. Guilt that, despite every indication suggesting the idea of "switching things up this time" had been yours from the very beginning (he doubts either Jason or Derek would've devoted nearly as much thought to so seemingly inconsequential a detail), he nevertheless remains so... conflicted (let's put it that way, part two) over what, objectively speaking, ought to amount to nothing more than a matter of personal taste.

Nevertheless, he would be lying if he claimed he wouldn't defend to his very last breath the... opinion (let's put it that way, part three) that gift cards are the very epitome of the extinction of the age-old art of gift-giving.

It was, after all, a gift from the French people to the Americans, dedicated in 1886, to celebrate friendship and the ideals of liberty and democracy, that allowed the Statue of Liberty to become the enduring emblem of one of the world's most celebrated metropolises, drawing throngs of people every single day, to this day, simply to behold it. If nothing else, it stands as proof that a gift, at its very core, is an act of interpretation. Through the chosen object, one is afforded a fleeting glimpse into the way another person sees them.

What, then, do people see when they look at Aaron Hotchner? More importantly... what do you see?

That is precisely why the whole affair leaves such a bitter taste in his mouth. A gift card has always struck him as little more than a lazy (there, he said it) escape hatch to evade the responsibility of interpretation altogether, essentially placing the burden of choosing back into the recipient's own hands.

Because if a gift is truly an interpretation of another human being, what does the absence of one imply?

Is there truly nothing about him that lends itself to interpretation? Or is this simply another indication that he isn't worth the effort? That he is, after all, exactly what he has always suspected himself to be.

Just... a boring man. Your boring boss.

Whatever he may be, however, he has come to terms with the unfortunate reality that gift cards, unlike his own existential crises, come with an expiration date. Better to cash it in while the rare alignment of a free afternoon and the schedule of a very busy Unit Chief still permits.

That is...

It has been a while.

The longer the gift card languishes in his wallet, the longer he remains... uncut (his fringe, of course... that is), and the more he finds himself missing the pleasant reassurance that came with the simple ritual of expressing gratitude for the countless ties he has accumulated over the years. All they required was a script.

Lift the box to his chest as though trying it against his suit, in front of everyone.

Offer some suitably appreciative remark about how "the material is very nice" (when, more often than not, the fabric was merely... adequate - or, in particularly desperate circumstances, tactfully redirect the compliment towards the pattern instead).

Wear it to the office the following day. Let everyone see it in use. Allow them to congratulate themselves on a gift well chosen, register his appreciation, and, with any luck, let the entire affair conclude with the least amount of ceremony humanly possible.

Easy, right?

Again, he's never been to therapy, but he is reasonably confident that his experience in a closely related profession entitles him to identify this final stage, in professional terms, as closure - a fundamental step in allowing everyone to move on from a day he'd much rather strike from the face of the earth altogether and, ideally, never acknowledge again.

This time, however, closure proves considerably more demanding.

In order for his colleagues - and, more importantly, you - to see that he has, in fact, made use of the gift, he must first reconcile himself with the altogether more daunting prospect of walking into somewhere that isn't a barber's.

However irrational the thought may be, he cannot quite shake the lingering question of what his late father would've thought had he lived long enough to witness his son willingly crossing the threshold of a place redolent of argan oil and florals instead of the familiar scent of shaving cream.

If further evidence were required, it arrives almost immediately.

Judging by the intermittent glances cast in his direction, the whispered remarks exchanged behind bold manicured hands, and the latest issues of Vogue and Cosmopolitan serving as increasingly unconvincing disguises beneath the drying hoods, it doesn't take a profiler to discern that men like him are hardly the customary clientele of establishments quite so whimsical.

"You can make yourself comfortable over here, honey. I'll be with you in just a minute," offers the woman he quickly identifies as the proprietor - or, at the very least, the senior hairdresser - guiding him towards a chair immediately beside another client.

Fortunately for him, she is already halfway across the salon tending to one of the women beneath the drying hoods before she has the opportunity to witness the rouge creeping across his cheeks, faithfully reflected in the mirror by the wholly unexpected experience of being addressed by an unsolicited pet name.

(Why? His name is quite literally written in the appointment book. They had even asked him to spell it over the phone when he made the reservation. Surely one does not go to such lengths merely to default to honey the moment the customer walks through the-)

"First time here, honey?" interrupts the woman seated beside him.

The odds of escaping this establishment without engaging in small talk have just dropped precipitously.

"Yes, ma'am." (At least he still has his manners.)

She appears to be somewhere in her sixties - not a day younger, by his estimation. (Watch your phrasing, Hotchner.) Not that it's a bad thing. (Hardly a salvageable recovery.) Women of that generation have always seemed to take to him rather quickly. Once they decide he isn't nearly as intimidating as his expression initially suggests, they become remarkably easy (or, perhaps more accurately, easier) to talk to.

"Get a perm. It'll soften your face. You look way too serious," she says. (Easy doesn't necessarily mean untruthful, apparently. Why waste time with pleasantries when you can simply be... brutally frank with a complete stranger?)

"No wonder there's no ring on that finger." She nods knowingly toward his conspicuously bare left hand. "Trust me, sweetheart. Women like a man who looks approachable, at the very least. And you don't want to wait too long, do you?"

(What a remarkable way of reinforcing one's deepest insecurities.)

"I'll think about it," he says, which is about as polite a way as one can communicate that the eighties have, unfortunately, come and gone. "Thank you for the suggestion."

He offers a courteous smile to round off the exchange. Crisis averted. Diplomacy and kindness, he has always found, carry one remarkably far.

His attention returns to the catalogue spread across the vanity. Why anyone should require quite so many options remains entirely beyond him. More remarkable still is the industry's uncanny ability to distinguish - and name - what, to his admittedly untrained eye, appear to be little more than four variations of the same haircut.

"Politician?" the mystery woman asks a moment later, with just enough disdain in her voice for him to notice.

"Not exactly, ma'am. I work for the Department of Justice."

She furrows her brow. "And what exactly does that mean?"

He hadn't realized he'd been particularly elusive. "I'm an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

"A real one, or one of those strippers?"

(No comment...)

What, precisely, about him had suggested the latter? Are there truly enough people in Washington claiming to be FBI agents that stripper emerges as a plausible alternative? Of all the cities in the country, surely the nation's capital ought to be the one place where introducing oneself as an FBI agent is taken at face value.

"I fear I'm just a real one, ma'am."

At least that earns him a laugh. And not just from the woman who, despite eventually introducing herself as Ruth, continues to exist in his mind as Mrs. Brown. Addressing her by her first name after scarcely ten minutes of acquaintance feels... presumptuous. (Whether she'd agree with that assessment is beside the point.)

His initial theory that he possesses some inexplicable gravitational pull for women of a certain age (the phrasing, once again, leaves much to be desired...) is promptly reaffirmed.

Barely a moment later, a woman fresh from the washing station - with damp hair and newly touched-up roots concealing the grey - introduces herself as Mrs. Jones before settling into the empty chair beside him.

He suddenly finds himself feeling... tactically enclosed.

The next twenty minutes are devoted to a generous (and that's putting it kindly) symposium dedicated to the collective shortcomings of their respective husbands, the latest gossip surrounding Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Phillippe apparently calling it quits, and a feisty debate over whether Jennifer Aniston's split had been the greater national tragedy.

(With all due respect - which is to say, none whatsoever - fuck you, Brad Pitt.)

By the time he commits the unforgivable mistake of mentioning that he's been surviving almost exclusively on Thai takeout for the past two months (paperwork has a remarkable talent for multiplying once one becomes Unit Chief), simply to contribute to an otherwise harmless discussion about dinner, Mrs. Jones has already extended a formal invitation to what she repeatedly describes as a private cooking class - an arrangement Mrs. Brown wholeheartedly endorses with a deceptive wink.

He isn't entirely convinced that's all she means. Still, for everyone's sake - chiefly his own - he chooses to assume her intentions are every bit as wholesome as advertised.

Whether it's the impressive diameter of the rollers balanced atop Mrs. Brown's head, the chemicals developing her perm leaving him just shy of light-headed, or the fact that he has spent months refusing the Bureau's mandatory sessions with the staff psychologist for fear of accidentally letting your name slip under hypnosis-

(Do they even use hypnosis anymore, or did that fin-de-siècle practice die somewhere around the 1920s? Well. He could've answered his own question if only - no. He shall not indulge in such cheap, self-destructive thoughts.)

-he cannot quite tell.

What he can imagine, however, is that this being the first setting in which he doesn't feel threatened (well... comparatively), where being verbose on matters of the heart seems not merely tolerated but warmly encouraged, he realizes far too late that the entire subject has somehow been inexorably enchanted out of him, one conversation at a time.

He really ought to study these ladies' interrogation techniques, because he doesn't realize the damage has already been done until the honeyed sound of your name escaping Mrs. Jones's crimson-lined lips snaps him clean out of the spell.

"So... is she the woman you're hoping to impress with a fresh new haircut?" she asks. Now that is what one calls facing one's worst fears head-on.

"She's just a colleague..." he mumbles, sounding altogether less convincing than he'd intended.

"Nah-uh." (A remarkably concise way of saying, Your lies are terrible, Hotchner.)

"I have a son," Mrs. Jones reprimands. "Don't think you can fool us that easily."

The inevitable "So... how long have you two been together?" follows, much to their disappointment proving to be founded on an entirely incorrect assumption.

"You're not?" Mrs. Brown blurts.

The crestfallen expressions reflected back at him in the salon mirrors speak for themselves. Their visible disappointment only propels the conversation into an even more perilous line of inquiry.

"Well, it's obvious you like her."

"Does she know?"

Never - not in all the countless scenarios his catastrophizing mind has rehearsed over the years - would he have anticipated the reaction his quiet no receives.

"Oh, Aaron," Mrs. Brown groans. "Come on. Don't be such a pussy. Just tell her, stupid!"

He can't, in good conscience, tell her she's wrong. At some point, continuing to deny the obvious begins to feel more insulting to their intelligence than protective of his own pride.

"I'm technically her boss now," he admits, hoping that particular detail might finally put the matter to rest. "Not just a colleague anymore. It wouldn't be appropriate..."

He doesn't even make it to the end of the sentence.

The two women immediately cut him off, visibly outraged by what they evidently consider the flimsiest excuse imaginable, talking over one another with such enthusiasm that distinguishing who said what quickly becomes impossible.

"That's bullshit."

"Life's too short." (An unbearably saccharine sentiment... and, sure, not an entirely untrue one.)

"You'll regret it! Take it from someone who should've fucked Bruce Springsteen at Glastonbury in '69. My life would've turned out very differently." (He has absolutely no idea how to process that confession.)

The cacophony leaves him with no opportunity to mount a defense. Their overlapping voices merge into a relentless chorus of thoroughly deserved scolding, leaving him feeling as though the slimy pulp of an overripe tomato has just burst across his face before a particularly unforgiving Elizabethan audience. Oddly enough, he can't even bring himself to resent their fervor.

There hasn't been a single night in recent memory when he hasn't found himself staring at the ceiling, wondering whether he should have done something to make his feelings for you even marginally more obvious than quietly leaving a cup of coffee on your desk each morning.

Never mind that doing so required crossing the entire bullpen because his desk happened to be on the opposite side. At the time, even those tiny gestures - perhaps too tiny, considering how much more he could have gotten away with then than he ever could now - had felt almost recklessly daring, back when you were simply colleagues and every decision he made wasn't yet burdened by the title that now preceded his name.

Not that he's ungrateful, nor that he hadn't worked toward the position he now holds. Quite the opposite. But he's never been able to shake the conviction that becoming Unit Chief owed more to circumstance than merit. Gideon's departure after Boston had left a vacancy that someone needed to fill, and Fortune, more than anything, had happened to point in his direction. Even now, he isn't entirely convinced he's earned the title.

And so the promotion became yet another subsection in an already exhaustive catalogue of reasons why pursuing you would be irresponsible. And yet...

He had come so close.

He doesn't have long to indulge in the familiar ache before Mrs. Jones, in a far gentler tone than her companion's, asks, "You've at least told her you're finally using the gift, haven't you?"

Mrs. Brown doesn't even allow him the dignity of answering. "CALL HER. NOW."

It's... not entirely a terrible idea. Calling would undoubtedly be too forward, but perhaps... a text?

If nothing else, it would provide him with a perfectly legitimate excuse to contact you, thereby violating - depending on how generously one chose to interpret Section D of the Bureau's Human Resources Manual - the clause discouraging supervisors from fraternizing with their subordinates outside the workplace.

Granted, even a text message could, in theory, be construed as incriminating. But perhaps opportunity itself, if not quite a loophole, could at least serve as an alibi.

Audentes fortuna iuvat, after all.

Good afternoon. I thought you might like to know I'm finally making use of your gift.

(Too formal?)

I could tell it was your idea, so I thought I'd let you know I'm finally using it.

(That rather unhelpfully suggests he's devoted an altogether unreasonable amount of time to determining the provenance of a birthday present. Which, while true, is hardly something one admits voluntarily.)

Do you happen to have a preference for well-groomed men?

(Absolutely not!)

I can't decide between the haircut on page two and the one on page four. Since this was your gift, I thought I'd ask which one you prefer.

(Too indecisive.)

Should I go bald?

And surely, the latter is nothing more than a hyperbolic lapse born of sore thumbs due to the mounting frustration after typing, deleting, retyping, and redeleting one failed morsel combination after another on his T9 keypad. He takes considerably more care deleting it, unwilling to risk you receiving such a text that would do absolutely no favors for his already precarious case (literally, that's the last thing he needs).

He realizes, to his own surprise, that he doesn't mind being spoiled just a little bit by the head massage in the slightest. In fact, he yields to it with such an alarming lack of resistance that he hardly recognizes himself. It lasts far longer than anything his usual barber would ever think to indulge him with, and even as it finally begins to wind down, he catches himself wishing for just one more minute.

(Is this the greed they warn about in the Bible?)

He'd forgotten how... quiet everything feels when the tension finally leaves his forehead. Perhaps Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Jones aren't entirely wrong. A weekly appointment of this sort might genuinely improve his quality of life. There is, after all, nothing inherently frivolous about wanting one's hair professionally styled.

He can already picture himself walking into the Monday morning briefing with a perfectly disciplined slick back - or, better yet, having finally subdued that obstinate cowlick once and for all, so his fringe might learn to remain where it belongs instead of collapsing across his forehead the moment he sits down.

It would certainly make meetings with Strauss marginally less irritating. And, if nothing else, the team would be spared the sight of him absent-mindedly brushing the same lock of hair out of his eyes every five minutes.

Having done the arithmetic, he determines that this particular vice would cost him no more than taking up smoking again - and would be considerably kinder to his lungs, of course.

Surely he can permit himself one small indulgence every now and then.

Do ut des - "I give so that you may give" - is a Latin phrase used to describe a relationship founded on mutual exchange, in which one party offers a good, a service, a favor (anything, really) with the expectation of receiving something of comparable value in return.

More importantly, it is the first law of gossip.

As much as Aaron would prefer to remain a silent beneficiary of the latest feuds and alleged infidelities destabilizing Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Jones’s knitting club - including, regrettably, the resulting minor STI outbreak among elderly patients frequenting emergency rooms across north-west Washington, a detail he could have lived quite comfortably without - there inevitably comes a point at which listening alone is no longer sufficient.

Gossip, after all, is not a spectator sport. Once the ball lands in his court, he is expected to return it with something at least equally scandalous, and he doubts Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Jones would be particularly captivated by any of the very few things currently happening in his life.

Is he truly this much of a bore? Is his domestic life really so uneventful that the only source of intrigue he can summon is the ongoing mystery of the newspaper thief plaguing his apartment building - along with the increasingly elaborate theories he has developed regarding the culprit’s identity?

Perhaps what they would rather hear (or, more likely, what they expect to hear) are the sort of scandals and buried Bureau secrets capable of ending careers and securing a hypothetical whistleblower a very comfortable payday, should they ever find their way into the public domain.

Needless to say, the matter is far too delicate to weigh against whatever trust he may have developed in two women he's known for scarcely an afternoon. Much as the unwritten rules of gossip insist he owes them a suitably juicy contribution, there are simply some stories he refuses to gamble with.

Fortunately, he is granted a few precious moments to consider how best to deflect the conversation when the unmistakable chime of a text message cuts through the women's expectant stares. He has never been so grateful for a distraction, even if that gratitude lasts precisely as long as it takes him to retrieve his phone.

✉︎ How are you enjoying your gift?

He cannot quite suppress the sudden sensation of ice congealing in his veins when he realizes the message is from you. Did one of his previous attempts accidentally send? He does not even want to entertain the possibility, much less begin interrogating himself over which one it might have been if it. And yet, he cannot bring himself to open the conversation and verify it immediately, either. Would replying too quickly make him seem desperate?

There are certain truths one can postpone for another thirty seconds without significantly altering the course of human history.

Not that he is afforded such a luxury.

Your message provides a distraction only in the sense that it immediately becomes the ladies' newest object of fascination. And, judging by the heat he can feel creeping up his neck and spreading across his face, he is hard(ly) in a position to deny it is anything unremarkable.

"Well?" Mrs. Brown prompts.

He refuses every one of the excessively enthusiastic - and increasingly romantic - responses she proposes he send. Still, she has a point about not leaving you waiting when your message has presented him with a rare opportunity to speak to you privately.

Privately being a relative term, considering that, from the corner of his eye, he watches both women slide their glasses down their noses to get a better look at the screen. There is evidently no way to exclude them from the proceedings.

He opens the conversation with some apprehension and is relieved to find no evidence that any of his previous, abandoned attempts at contacting you were accidentally sent. Which means you texted him first, entirely unprompted. The question is why.

With the reluctant approval of his two newly appointed confidantes, he settles on a simple:

How did you know? -A.H.

Nothing overly revealing. Barely anything at all, in fact - just enough to keep the conversation open and surrender control of where it goes next to you. (He elects not to examine that particular thought too closely.)

You type faster than he expects. The moment the first message appears, the answering rush is so immediate that his vision seems to blank for a fraction of a second.

✉︎ Your name disappeared from the Bureau messenger for the first time EVER while Gideon’s still online AND doing overtime??? Idk about you, but that sounds like elite investigative work to me. If I were Unit Chief, I’d reward it with a couple extra days off and maaaaybe a raise… just saying

A second (second?) message follows before he has finished reading the first.

✉︎ How much did you pay him to stay behind and cover 4 you, btw?

Either Mrs. Jones or Mrs. Brown remarks that the length of your reply is supposedly a very good sign. He is too thoroughly absorbed to determine which one of them said it. As far as he is concerned, the fact that you replied at all is a sufficiently good sign.

He reads both messages again, apparently incapable of stopping until the words have fully wound themselves around his mind. Then a third time, as though another pass might grant him some sudden epiphany regarding the significance of the excessive question marks - or the prolonged maaaaybe. Surely there must be some obscure branch of numerology devoted to the repetition of the letter a four times.

"What are you staring at, stupid? Reply," Mrs. Brown orders.

Aaron elects not to address the insult.

I didn't pay him anything. Apparently, several people were unusually invested in getting me out of the office today. -A.H.

"That's it?" Mrs. Brown scoffs. "Come on."

"Tell her to meet you in your office after work to collect her reward," Mrs. Jones proposes, raising her brows.

"That would violate several regulations. I can't simply-"

He cannot bring himself to finish the sentence. Even setting aside the obvious professional and ethical concerns - and there are many - he has no desire to reduce whatever exists between the two of you to something so foolishly stereotypical. He would not approach you that way even if it were permitted. Which it very much is not.

"You have to give her something," Mrs. Brown insists. "How is she supposed to know you feel anything for her when you speak to her like that?"

"I don't-"

"You do!" she cuts in. "And if you want this to go anywhere, you're going to have to take a risk eventually. You can't keep sitting around waiting for something to happen on its own."

Mrs. Jones regards him with an almost maternal softness before asking, with complete sincerity, "Do you want your situation to change or not?"

The question brings him up short. Does he?

He has spent so much time considering everything that could go wrong - what it might cost you both, how easily his authority could render even the most sincere advance coercive - that he has never allowed himself to think beyond it.

He has never asked what he would choose if those obstacles ceased to exist. Never considered that waiting, too, is a choice - and one he has been making every day.

Does he want his situation to change?

He… does not know.

The hairdresser has finished styling his hair now. There is perhaps more gel in it than he would have preferred, but he is hardly going to ask her to wash it all out and begin again when several clients are already waiting. Besides, for all the apparent transformation promised by the gift card, remarkably little has changed.

He still wants you. That much remains uncomplicated.

Why, then, does wanting something to actually happen between you feel like an entirely different matter?

Fortuna fortasse audaces iuvat; eum autem iuvare non potest qui nullam ei occasionem praebet. (Fortune may favor the bold, but it cannot favor a man who never gives it the opportunity.)

taglist: @aria-chikage ; @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @crying-ang3l ; @domitaylorsversion ; @decadentcatcrusade ; @donttrustlove ; @fangirlunknown ; @fox-saturn ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @heartofthebeach ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kiwriteswords ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @msfreedom ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @outofstyles3 ; @pastelpinkflowerlife ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @poseidons-lovechild ; @prettybaby-reid ; @purechaosss ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @thiswildandpreciouslife ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[therealtransquito]

Alpha Female

Part Two - Good Omega ♡

Summary: Omega Aaron Hotchner has it bad for, [Y/N] Chipper, his alpha coworker. Featuring the "There Was Only One Bed" trope

Rating: 18+

Pairing: Omega Aaron Hotchner/Alpha Female Reader

Author Note: I gave the reader a last name because I felt like it read better. Hope you enjoy!

♡♡♡

Hotch had been thinking about [Y/N] nonstop since they shared a room, how she touched him, smelled, and made sure Hotch was safe. He knows there are alphas out there that if they were in [Y/N]'s position they would have immediately took advantage of him. She had been treating him the same as she did before she knew, and it was nice. But it was also eating him alive that she didn't seem to want him like she did when she first smelt him as an omega. 

[Y/N] on the other hand, hadn't stopped thinking about Hotch, his scent, the way it felt to hold him, to tend to him when he was vulnerable, and how he looked at her when she told him that she'd keep his secret and he didn't have to explain himself. She wanted him more than ever, but more importantly she respected Hotch and didn't want him to feel like she was acting different towards him just because she knew he was an omega.

Another mission had come up, they were about to fly out, but Hotch went up to Garcia and spoke to her quietly, "The Beauru wants to cut some budgets, so just book the rooms like you did in South Berwick, it worked for everyone and it gets the beauru off my back." Garcia agreed, knowing that the beauru was always threatening budget cuts, but it was better to share rooms than loose the jet.

When they got to their case in Medford, Oregon they got to the prescient and crime scenes, and got to work. Once again many omegas flocked to flirt with [Y/N], and she entertained them, but she was a bit more dismissive than she had been before. 

On the way to the hotel Garica informed them that they'd be sharing rooms, same as last time, Rossi smiling as he was unaffected. No one minded, but Morgan joked about how there better be more than one bed in these rooms. Garcia hissed at that, "Okay well that's what else I had to tell you. There was also kind of limited lodging here, but not as bad. I have two rooms with two beds and two rooms with one bed, obviously Rossi will take one of the ones with one bed, but that still leaves a set of you that have to share."

Morgan groaned, "It will not be me and Emily, I call dibs on having my own bed." And then Reid chimed in, "JJ kicks in her sleep and I rather not get beat up tonight, if I'm being honest." [Y/N] shrugged at that, "It's not a big deal to me, if Hotch doesn't wanna share I'll sleep on the couch in the room." Garcia seemed relived, "Okay, I'm glad that's solved. Get some rest tonight, guys."

[Y/N] told Hotch she'd meet him up there since she wanted to smoke a cigarette and he went with Rossi up the stairs, since the single beds were on the third floor. The older man looked at Hotch, "You're not gonna make Chipper sleep on the couch are you?" Hotch chuckled and shook his head, "No, sharing a bed with her doesn't bother me. She's a very considerate bedmate." Hotch realized how that sounded as soon as it left his mouth and Rossi laughed, "Oh yeah? [Y/N] real considerate to you in bed?" 

Hotch shook his head, "Well I'm not getting kicked like Reid and we're not battling for a sense of territory, so it's far from a bad time." Rossi nodded, "Oh I'm sure it's far from a bad time. Did you know I overheard a conversation with JJ and Emily the other day?" Hotch raised his eyebrows, "Yeah?" Rossi nodded, "They're convinced [Y/N] totally has a thing for you." Hotch scoffed, "Yeah, well there's nothing going on between us if that's what you're asking." Rossi nodded as he reached his door, unlocking it, "Yet." And with that he walked into his room.

Hotch walked a few doors down to what would be his and [Y/N]'s room. He felt a bit guilty knowing he had kind of set this up, but he couldn't lie he was satisfied by how much it was playing out in his favor. He decided to hop in the shower before [Y/N] got up there so she'd have more time to shower herself once she got up here.

He wanted to test something though, when he showered he didn't use his scent blocking shampoo and bodywash, instead using the hotel's scent less soaps. He wondered if [Y/N] would instantly notice. After his shower he put on his pajamas and headed back out into the room.

[Y/N] was there, sitting on the bed, watching the television while she waited for Hotch to come out. Instantly her nostrils flared and she raised her eyebrows, "You smell... like Cedarwood, amber, and musk... but there's more isn't there?" Hotch blushed, "I forgot my scent blocker soap, but my pills are strong until I shower usually, thats why I use the soaps, just in case. Over the next couple hours my scents gonna come out more. I hope that doesn't bother you?"

[Y/N] looked him over, grabbing her shower bag, and walking past him to get to the bathroom, "It doesn't bother me, as long as you're comfortable." Hotch felt hot under the collar as she disappeared.

Once [Y/N] was in the bathroom with the shower turned on she was hit with more of Hotch's scent, hints of civet and moss, she was a little overwhelmed, but she showered like she needed to and made her way quickly back out to the room with Hotch. 

Once again Hotch was lying in bed, same side as before, leaving the side closest to the door available for [Y/N]. She slid into her spot in the bed and immediately all she could think about was how strong Hotch's scent was right here. She wanted to reach out for Hotch, but she knew that would be wildly inappropriate, so instead she laid there, stiff as a board. 

It didn't take long for Aaron to realize that [Y/N] was laying there, basically holding her breath and he turned over, "Is there something wrong? Am I making you uncomfortable?" [Y/N] blushed a little and sighed, "No, sorry... it's just that your scent is the best thing I've ever smelt, and I just want to be respectful and not make you uncomfortable."

Hotch blushed at that, he was worried his surpressants might have soured his scent over the years, "No need to be sorry, relax, you're not gonna make me uncomfortable. I understand, I know it must be hard sharing a bed with an omega." [Y/N] shook her head at that, "I'm more than confident that I could share a bed with Reid or JJ no problem, but you... I'm almost frustrated with how hard it is to keep my hands to myself."

Aaron swallowed at that, he looked at [Y/N], who still had her hands by her side, and was laying straight up to the ceiling, "Y'know, you don't have to keep your hands to yourself... you wouldn't be making me uncomfortable. If I'm being honest, it kinda felt nice to be held, the last time it happened..."

[Y/N] turned to look at Hotch for the first time, "You really wouldn't mind?" Hotch gave her a warm smile before turning over, "Come here," and [Y/N] didn't hesitate, pulling Hotch into her arms and burying her face between his shoulder and neck, "Goodnight, Hotch, and thank you." Hotch smiled, to himself mainly, "No need to thank me, [Y/N], this feels nice for me too. Goodnight." And it was like that they drifted off to sleep. 

Hotch woke in the middle of the night to [Y/N]'s hard on pressed against his ass and his shoulder placed between her teeth. He was a little shocked, but more so he was extremely turned on, with [Y/N] right against him and her teeth and tongue so close to his scent gland. He let out a shuttered breath and before he can properly think he presses back against [Y/N].

The alpha let out a moan, resulting in both her dropping his shoulder and waking up from whatever dream she was having. She looked at Hotch and was flushed with embarasment, "Hotch, I'm sorry, I-" She was cut off by a whimper from the omega man, "Please, don't stop, don't be sorry."

[Y/N] looked at Hotch for any signs of doubt, but he just looked like a needy wreck, and she could smell how much he wanted her. With his permission she couldn't stop herself from twisting him around to face her, grabbing his hips and pulling him in tight, before kissing him passionately.

She had wanted this for so long, even when she thought Hotch was a beta, she was enamored with him; but now she was one of the few people who knew he was an omega. She knew what his scent smelt like. She wanted him to be hers. But she pushed away all her possessive thoughts, and focused on him. Growls and moans leaving her throat as she fucked into Aaron's mouth with her tongue.

Aaron, on the other hand, could barely keep himself together. He had never given an alpha a second look or even cared for their scent, that was until [Y/N]. Her scent drove him mad, he wanted her, wanted her to be his alpha. The smell of [Y/N]'s scent when she's full of want for him, that was a whole new head rush. He couldn't help how he whimpered and moaned into [Y/N]'s mouth, but he couldn't be embarrassed since it seemed to only encourage her to touch him more.

One of [Y/N]'s hands moved to Hotch's hair, giving a little pull, exposing the omega's throat as he moaned, and she licked a possessive swipe up his neck, nipping at his jaw, "You're so gorgeous, Aaron, you have no idea what you do to me. Such a good omega," and all Hotch could do was moaned in return.

She nipped at another part on his jaw, "God, you make the sweetest little sounds for me, Aaron. I'm going to ruin you, baby." With that she moved to take off the omega's shirt, kissing, licking, and nipping her way down his chest, "I'm going to take off the rest of your clothes so you're naked, is that alright, baby?" 

Hotch whimpered and nodded in response, but [Y/N] shook her head, "Use your words for me, doll face." Hotch blushed at that, "P-please, get me naked,al-alpha." His voice was already rough from all the whimpering and moaning he had been doing, but he was rewarded for listening and [Y/N] took his pants and boxers off all in one go, "Anything for you, sugar."

She looked down at Aaron in all his naked, omega glory, he had a decent sized dick for an omega, 5in rock hard, most omegas didn't break 3in. Right under his cock was his soaking pussy that was now leaking all over his balls and asshole. [Y/N] licked her lips, she was like a starving predator looking at a feast of prey, "You look so fucking delicious, baby, I need to know what you taste like," she leaned up over his body and into his ear, "Please, let me taste you, baby. I'll make you feel so good, dollface, I swear," she nipped at his ear, "Let me eat your pussy, sugar."

Aaron moaned and arched his back, pushing his chest against the alpha's chest, "Yes, please, [Y/N], please eat my pussy!" He had never wanted anyone or anything more in his life. He needed [Y/N] to eat him out or he was going to explode. Luckily for him the alpha quickly made her way back down him to keep her word.

[Y/N] started off by kissing his pussy lips and a single, gentle lick, "Has anyone ever eaten you out before?" Aaron shook his head, "I've gotten blowjobs, but never..." [Y/N] smirked before giving another lick over the plush folds of the omega's pussy. Aaron whimpered and [Y/N] massaged his thighs, "I'm going to make you addicted to my mouth, baby, just relax and enjoy the ride," with that she really went in and started to eat Aaron out like she meant it. Going in circles before sucking on Aaron's clit, and lapping long and deep at his dripping slit.

Aaron was an absolute mess, hands in [Y/N]'s hair and pulling but also keeping her in place so he could writhe against her face, moaning and whimpering like a whore. [Y/N] herself was moaning into the omega's cunt as she drank up everything he had to give her, and all but purred when she heard him call out, "I'm gonna cum, but I feel so empty, I- I-" She knew what he was trying to say and what he needed, lining up two of her fingers to his cunt before sliding them in, instantly feeling the tight vice grip.

One, two, three thrusts of her fingers while sucking on his clit sent Aaron's head flying back, as he let out his loudest moan yet, "Alpha, fuck me! I need your cock so bad!" [Y/N] pulled her fingers out and lifted her head finally, taking a deep breath, "You sure, sugar? We don't have to-" Hotch cut her off, "I know and I'm not in heat, I have a clear head. Please, [Y/N], I've never wanted an alpha before you, I need you."

That was it for [Y/N], she knew Aaron had never been with an alpha obviously, but the fact he never wanted one. Never wanted an alpha to fill him up before her. Never even had his pussy eaten before her. It only made her want to ruin him more, make sure she'd be the only alpha he ever wanted, wanted to be the only alpha to ever have him. She let out a growl and pulled the omega into a kiss, making him taste his own juices that covered every part of [Y/N]'s mouth and lower face.

Aaron whimpered, and [Y/N] grabbed his hips, leaning to whisper in his ear, "Flip over, baby, it'll be easier that way. I promise I won't knot or mark you." Aaron hadn't thought about [Y/N] even trying to mark him, didn't think she'd be the type of alpha to do so without properly courting and talking with an omega; but now he thought of [Y/N] flipping him over, taking him and absolutely ravishing him, all before knotting him and biting into his neck to mark her claim on him. He whimpered before flipping over.

[Y/N] hummed as she took in the omega before her, he was gorgeous, pussy dripping wet all for her, she couldn't help but give it another little lick, which made Aaron whimper again, which was a sound she could get used to. "I'm going to finger you, baby, stretch you out nice and adjusted for my cock, alright? If it's too much at any point or you want to stop for any reason, even if you think it's silly, let me know and I will. I just want you to feel good and enjoy yourself."

Aaron nodded and [Y/N] proceeded to finger him, by the time she had her third finger in there he was begging again, "[Y/N], alpha, please, I need your cock so bad! Fuck my pussy, please! I'm ready, my pussy's ready!" [Y/N] groaned at his words, pulling out her fingers, just to line her cock up to the entrance of his cunt, rubbing it in his wetness, "God, you've made such a big mess, all before I can even get my cock in you," Then she thrusted into the tight hole until she bottomed out as Aaron could only let out a deep moan, "Aaaaallphhaaa!"

[Y/N] started fucking Aaron slowly, letting him adjust to her size, given that she was the first cock he'd ever taken in his pussy and she had an alpha cock at that, being 8in in length and thick. After a minute Aaron was mewling for more, "Come on, [Y/N], I'm not going to break, you don't have treat me like glass." 

That made the alpha smirk, "You're right," her grip on one of Aaron's hips tighten and her other hand moved to his hair, pulling it tightly and using it to pull him up, while snapping her hips up, thrusting her cock deep into him. She nipped at his ear, "You won't break," and with that she shoved his head back down, face into the sheets, and began fucking him, using the leverage.

Aaron's muffled moans filled [Y/N]'s ears like music, she had never seen the stern faced, ever the professional, Agent Aaron Hotchner so utterly undone. God, some people out here really thought Aaron was an alpha pretending to be a beta when really he was an omega, a beautiful omega who was laid out on [Y/N]'s alpha cock begging her for more and faster, completely all encompassed by pleasure, by his want and need for [Y/N]. Only [Y/N], he said himself he had never wanted an alpha until her. 

A loud and deep growl ripped out from [Y/N], she wanted nothing more than to knot Aaron then bite down and make him hers, but she had promised not to do exactly that. Even if she hadn't promised she was stronger than her primal urges, "You're such the perfect omega, so sweet and amazing. If I had any right to I would mark you and make you mine for everyone to see. You're such a good omega."

Aaron whimpered and mewled at her words, "Alpha," He couldn't even think coherently enough to say much else. [Y/N] smirked down at the omega, seeing how he had let himself be lost to the pleasure, overwhelmed with the pleasure she was giving him, "You smell so good, baby, it's intoxicating. I wish I could eat your delicious pussy and fuck you at the exact same same." Hotch moaned at that and [Y/N] felt him clench tightly around her, he was about to cum.

[Y/N] started fucking Aaron with a renewed vigor, wanting to feel him cum around her cock before she had to pullout for her own release. It definitely got it's desired results as the omega started gasping and moaning, grabbing for the sheet and then [Y/N] felt it, as the omega man moaned out, "Alpha! Yes, alpha, yes!" Another growled ripped through [Y/N] as she pulled her cock free from Aaron's now dripping cunt, cumming all over his back, and collapsed next to him, looking for something to clean him up with, within her reach.

She found her sleep shorts and wiped Aaron down, before throwing them somewhere near her bag, "You okay, Aaron?" The omega man simply turned to curl up and cuddle into the alpha, all but purring at her, "I've never been better," he said smiling up at [Y/N]. [Y/N] grinned back down at him, "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself as much as I did. I hope this isn't a one time thing, I meant it when you said you were perfect omega." 

Aaron looked up at her from where he laid, tucked upin her neck, "It would absolutely crush me if this was a one time thing, if I'm being honest, [Y/N]. I've never felt this way about anyone really." The alpha smiled down at him, "Then when we're done with this mission and get home, I want to talk to you about courting you. For now get to sleep, my dear omega." She kissed his forehead and they both drifted to sleep. Aaron had a warm feeling in his heart, having never felt so desired and like such a... good omega.

[kittytehe]

Aaron hotchner fluff please 🙏🏼

Night In

aaron hotchner x reader

sfw

summary: aaron comes home after a long case, and you make sure he feels loved

warnings: none!

a/n: I've never written for him before so I hope this is okay!

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards as you paced. It had been a long case — three days of barely any sleep and terse phone calls from Aaron that always ended with the same exhausted “I’ll be home soon, sweetheart.”

You’d already set the table for two, lit the candle you knew he secretly liked (even if he’d never admit it), and had his favorite pasta sauce simmering. Jack was at a sleepover, which meant tonight was just yours.

The sound of keys in the door made your heart lift. You turned just as Aaron stepped inside, shoulders heavy under his suit jacket, tie already loosened. His eyes found you immediately, and the sharp lines of his face softened in that way they only did for you.

“You’re still up,” he said, voice rough with fatigue. He closed the door behind him and set his go-bag down.

You crossed the room and reached up to help him shrug off his jacket. He let you, watching you with those dark, steady eyes that always made you feel seen.

Aaron caught your hands before you could step away, pulling you gently against his chest. He smelled like coffee and the faint trace of jet fuel, but underneath it was just him — warm and solid. His arms wrapped around you like he’d been waiting for this exact moment since he left.

“You didn’t have to wait,” he murmured into your hair, but the way his grip tightened told you he was glad you had.

“I wanted to.” You tilted your head back to look at him.

Your fingers found the knot of his tie and worked it loose, sliding it free. “Let’s get you out of this suit, Agent Hotchner. Dinner’s almost ready, and I’m not accepting ‘I’m too tired’ as an answer.”

A rare, small smile tugged at his lips — the one that still made your stomach flutter even after all this time. “Bossy tonight.”

“Only when you need it.”

He left for the bedroom, where he changed into soft gray sweatpants and one of his old FBI Academy shirts while you finished plating the pasta. When he reappeared, hair slightly tousled, he wrapped his arms around you from behind as you stood at the stove.

“Smells incredible,” he said, pressing a kiss just below your ear.

“You’re just saying that because you haven’t eaten real food in days.”

“Mm. Still true.”

Dinner was slow and easy. He told you the parts of the case he could share, and you told him about the ridiculous office drama at your job and how Jack had scored another goal in soccer. Aaron listened like every word mattered, his hand occasionally reaching across the table to brush his thumb over your knuckles.

After the dishes were cleared, he pulled you to the couch. You curled into his side, legs tangled, his arm draped heavy and protective around your shoulders. The TV played some old black-and-white movie neither of you were really watching.

“You know,” he said quietly after a while, fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm, “every time I walk through that door, the weight of the day gets lighter. Because you’re here.”

Your heart squeezed. You turned your face into his chest, breathing him in. “I love you, Aaron. Even on the hard days. Especially on the hard days.”

He tilted your chin up with two fingers and kissed you — slow, reverent, the kind of kiss that said more than words ever could. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he whispered.

“You showed up,” you answered simply.

Aaron’s eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened, they were softer than you’d ever seen them. He shifted so you were half-lying on his chest, one of his hands gently carding through your hair.

The movie kept playing in the background as his breathing evened out. You listened to the steady beat of his heart under your cheek, feeling safe and warm and loved in the arms of the man who carried the weight of the world and still made space for you every single night.

[changeling-ethereal]

- Criminal Minds fanfic -

Aaron Hotchner x female! professional caregiver!reader

____________________________________________

Genre: lighthearted, domestic fluff, cozy, playful, slow paced, heart-to-heart

Plot: You had a long day at your caregiving job and Aaron takes care of you. He hears you out about what went wrong that day and shoos away your self doubt

Wordcount: approximately 5 000 give or take

Content Warning: Reader playfully threatens Aaron, brief mentions of things every caregiver has to handle (e.g. stool) but like it's mentioned like once throughout the entire fic, massaging, a little bit of self doubt in reader, swear words, mentions of sweat, typos, a little insecurity in reader, hotch being a therapist to reader , English is not my first language

Just a silly little idea. Hope I can find at least one fellow caregiver who loves criminal minds

Also disclaimer: I did not watch the whole show and don't plan to because I'm hypersensitive and the show's themes leave me in a poor mental state. I watched a good portion of episodes but eventually decided the show is too much for me to handle. But I still really like the characters and I'd like to write for them

____________________________________________

Self care was the most satisfying thing known to mankind. There was nothing better than coming home post a tiring, scorching hot summer day spent at your caregiving job, and just stripping down to just your underwear before coating your body from head to toe in cooling body lotion and plopping down onto the L shaped couch in your living room.

And adding some cucumber slices on your eyelids while you hit the snooze button and bathed in the feeling of cool summer breeze caressing your moisturized skin - nothing could ever top that, really.

Well... nothing, unless there was another person doing the caring while you could just turn off your brain and just be.

Clink

You felt the sound of a porcelain bowl being placed on your wooden coffee table tug at your ears. With your dominant hand going up to your face and peeling one cucumber slice off your closed eye, you took a peek at the disruption.

And there he stood, tall and proud, still wearing his work clothes minus the ever present red tie - Aaron Hotchner, your absolute dream of a man.

The mere sight of Hotch made your heart swell with great affection, and you felt overwhelming sense of pleasure coursing through your veins. Though he was always so serious, his presence was like balm on your brain that made you feel worn down in that satisfying way where all worries and care sizzled out of you.

You smiled gently, and taking off the other slice of cucumber, your eyes trailing over Aaron's appearance - despite having pulled a 12 hour shift, he was still perfectly put together, although there were traces of sweat on his forehead that made his black, short hair cling to his skin like icing to a cake.

Then, your eyes drifted slightly, and your gaze met a fresh bowl filled to the brim with frozen strawberries that still had that cold mist rising from it and twirling in the air like a ballerina on a stage.

The thing was: you didn't buy any frozen strawberries recently, and there weren't any in the freezer the last time you checked, which meant that Hotch must've stopped by the store right after he got off work, despite how tired he must've felt and despite how obnoxiously hot the weather was. Your smile widened til your front teeth peeked out from under your lips.

Aaron usually looked so serious and cold, yet, his actions always spoke of great and deep affection that words could hardly even begin to describe - after all, who could say that their man, after coming home from emotionally and physically exhausting job that messed with his psyche on the daily, only really undoes his work tie and then jumps straight into and head first, into taking care of them?

"Aw, Aaron," you cooed, touched by the thoughtful gesture, "you just know how to please a woman," and saying that, you eyed the bowl of strawberries once more. The strawberries, under the influence of the hot temperature, were already forming little beads of melted ice. And that mere sight made your mouth water so much that you had to immediately swallow.

Of course, Hotch noticed your desire for the frozen berries immediately, and he nodded his head with a worn yet gentle smile, saying: "Help yourself,".

"Don't mind if I do," you practically sang in response, overcome with cravings so strong your breath hitched in excitement, your tongue already buzzing at the promise of the incoming juicy coolness.

And you didn't waste any time, while Aaron went ahead to take off his blazer and set it onto the kitchen stool nearby, you shifted your weight a little on the leather couch, making it squeak so loud it was like hearing nails on chalkboard.

Your upper body ended up propped up on your right arm while you reached your left hand out, your thumb and pointer finger diving in for one of the strawberries like a pair of meaty tongs.

However, you underestimated the distance between you and the icy treat greatly. Because, despite the fact that you quickly found your entire body so stretched out it hurt, your fingers didn't even graze the bowl.

Your face fell. "Well, I did not anticipate that," you muttered to yourself. But, the distance didn't rid you of your determination to have a taste. It only fueled it.

Of course, normal people would simply get up to get to the strawberries. But you weren't people. No, at the very moment you were one truly tired caregiver that refused to do any more movement above what you already did during your shift that day.

And so, instead of getting up, you chose the harder - yet somehow more appealing - way: you scooted your damp body closer to the edge of the couch and stretched out further.

"You're gonna fall," Aaron, who was skimming through the fridge for a cool drink, stated. He wasn't even looking at you, his back was fully turned your way.

And yet he still knew exactly just what you were attempting to do. "Wrong-" you huffed, all your energy being put into the pursue of the bowl of strawberries, leaving no energy for excessive talking.

You sucked in a sharp breath, then groaned: "ughhhhh!!!" as you tilted your entire body fully to the side with such effort that you nearly did fall just like your man warned.

And your body trembled hard due to how much work and willpower you were putting in you put in, sweat beads dripping down your skin like little pears, fingers desperately reaching out to the point you could've sworn your bones separated.

Much to your thrill, all of it was eventually paying off, because soon enough, your pointer finger touched the rim of the bowl and lightly managed to tug the bowl forward.

"There we go-" You grinned to yourself whilst breathing as hard as if you'd run a marathon, your chest beginning to swell with the sense of major victory.

But just when you were about to fully hook your finger to the bowl's rim, another finger - not belonging to you - hooked over the other edge of the bowl and dragged the bowl out of your reach.

"Wh- Aaron!!!" you squealed dramatically. And before you could even think of doing anything more, Hotch used his left hand's pointer finger to press into your forehead, sending you falling back on the couch like a sack of potatoes being tossed on a truck.

"Aw," Aaron clicked his tongue, "you almost had it," and he smirked lightly, his canine slightly peeking out from where his lip lifted. "You-" you breathed, your hair glued to your forehead from excessive sweat and heart still racing, all from the amount of high intensity workout you just did.

"You!" you called, pointing a shaky finger at Aaron - who was now in just his work pants - and making him tilt his head, humming: "Me?". "You're an absolute-" you sputtered, then paused to catch your breath.

Once you were fully back to your senses, you ran a hand through your hair to push it out of your face and then you pushed to finish that thought: "You're an absolutely-" you weakly forced your aching hands to push you up into a sitting position, but because they were damp, and the couch was made of leather, your hand slipped a little, sending you back down with a: "-fuck-".

Then you quickly repeated your movement, propping yourself up into a sitting position once more, yet with more success this time, as you finished your sentence:"-absolutely horrible person!".

But Aaron took no offense - one, your fight against the couch was way too funny to take you seriously, and two, he knew you and your antics too well.

And so, he just smiled in that way that made you want to bite into his lips rather than those strawberries, and openly mocked you: "A horrible person that, after his shift, stopped by the store to buy his sweaty, stinky girlfriend fresh, frozen strawberries,".

"Oh shut up-" you rolled your eyes playfully, but then his words fully registered in your brain. "and hey! I'm not sweaty or stinky! You jerk!" you scolded him and delivered a light kick to his side. Aaron, in response bounced slightly on the couch, but that was all the impact your action had on the man.

"Ouch," Aaron mocked as he casually took ahold of your sweaty legs and moved them so that he could sit on the couch right by your side. Then he smiled and chuckled: "But really, your legs are dripping wet so much we could fill a whole pool with it.".

"Great business idea, actually," he hummed, pretending to be seriously considering such an investment. "Really, shut up - or I will hit you," you threatened while biting into your lower lip to fight off a smile.

"I don't doubt that," Aaron stated with a serious look, "after all, you've always displayed the tendency to resolve matters with violence,". A dramatic gasp from you at that: "Who?? Me??" you questioned with a hand pressed against your chest in faux disbelief.

Then you puckered up your lips, made an unimpressed face, and plopping back onto the couch fully, you sang: "Naaah, I'm pretty sure you're mistaking me for someone else,".

And Aaron smirked once more, shaking his head at your antics. "So it wasn't you who literally knocked her cousin's teeth out with her own fist just because he made grandma petsit his dog despite grandma being allergic?" he teased.

"In my defense-" your hand shot out, pointing your finger at him, "grandma had stuffed nose and itchy eyes! And I don't play when it comes to my 'ma!".

"Oh, I know," Aaron confirmed with a nod of his head before his hand reached out and took ahold of the bowl of strawberries, "I've seen it firsthand last year during Thanksgiving with your family,".

"A-ah-" you quickly shushed him, shaking your finger as your eyes went wide as dinner plates. "We do not speak of last year's Thanksgiving with my family!".

"Aw, but why?" Hotch asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief, " I think it was rather funny how your great aunt Edeltruda-". "Aaron!" you shot at him, lifting yourself up once more as you glared daggers into him.

"I. Swear. To. God. Aaron." you shook your finger at him at every word you uttered, "I'll kill you, bury you, and they'll never find the body".

But Aaron was not intimidated in the slightest. No, he only tilted his head, expression unimpressed as he shot right back with a jab: "I think they will. You half-ass everything". Your eyes went wide at that, mouth falling agape with a gasp.

"Oh you did not. You did not!" You shook your head in disbelief, a hand pressed against your chest in utter offense. Your second hand joined in, both hands pressed hard into your chest: "I " you stated, then made crossing motion with your arms, "do not half-ass anything!".

"And," you lifted your finger in the air in that way that suggested you were about to make a truly valid, intelligent point. "as a matter of fact-" but no point was able to leave your lips, for Aaron couldn't listen to your sputtering anymore, and he took one of the strawberries from the bowl he was holding and stuffed it into your open mouth with: "Shut the gates".

"Hhhh!" you breathed out so hard that thick ice fog, caused by the frozen berry, flew out of your mouth and made you look like an adorable little fire-breathing dragon.

Then, closing your mouth and your tongue wrapping around the strawberry, satisfying coolness spread through your body and you closed your eyes, humming in pure bliss.

"You're welcome," Aaron stated, the smugness so obvious in his voice tone even if you couldn't see him.

In response, you pouted your lips and shook your head at his attitude before you lifted your hand, stretched your fingers and slid them quickly along your chin towards him. The message was clear: fuck you. And Aaron clicked his tongue: "That's mean.".

"Serves you right," you sassed whilst chewing on the juicy strawberry. Then you swallowed, and opening your eyes, you looked sharply at Hotch and stuck out your tongue at him.

But then - pain, the coldness of the strawberry hit your brain, sending you falling backwards onto the couch to writhe in absolute agony.

"AH! MY BRAIN!" you cried, your hands gripping your head harshly in hopes of easing the way your brain pressed against the inside of your head, trying to crack your skull open and burst out.

But Aaron wasn't concerned at all, he just watched as you rolled around the couch, groaning and whining until you eventually settled and breathed in relief once the pain was soothed.

Only then did he speak: "Serves you right,". Those words had you grabbing a cushion and tossing it at him, but your aim was rather miserable even if you were just a couple of inches away from each other - and so, the cushion flew past Aaron.

"Horrible aim," he smiled at you in a boyish way, his eyes warm and full of affection - he looked flawless, even if his skin was glimmering with sweat. "didn't I teach you better?".

And you, now remaining laying on the couch, smiled back: "Might need some additional lessons," and you winked at him playfully. After that, you sighed deeply and fully melted into the couch.

"I'm tired," you muttered. "You say that every day," Hotch replied with a light chuckle before he took another one of the strawberries and held it towards your lips.

"But this time I really meeean it," was what you answered to that prior to biting into the frozen treat. You bit only a half off, and Aaron, knowing exactly what that meant, slid the remains of the strawberry into his mouth.

A wet pop was heard then, Aaron's fingers slipping past his lips. And as he chewed and savoured the coolness, he set the bowl aside, back onto the coffee table.

"Tough shift?" he asked with care, his eyes finding yours and inviting you in to share whatever was on your mind. You nodded in response: "Yeah... Those eight hours never felt longer,".

Aaron's hand found your bare, sweaty knee and rested on it: "And did anything in particular happen?".

"Just that Miss Hilda was scared of going into the bathtub with me." you confessed, your eyebrows furrowing in distress as your eyes focused on the ceiling, thinking of the event.

A brief sigh left your lips, then followed: "She was... afraid I wouldn't be able to support her weight and she'd fall... even if I showered her multiple times already.".

You paused, running a hand through your damp hair. Afterwards, you added in: "Talking her into letting me help her shower took me fifteen minutes at minimum, and we had a forty-five minute session together...".

Aaron hummed softly in response, nodding his head as he took in the information, his brain immediately analyzing every little detail.

"That situation... It made you feel like she suddenly didn't trust you..." He noted softly, "Despite the fact that a month ago she said you're strong and wanted no other caregiver helping her getting into the shower,".

"Yeah..." you agreed lowly, voice dropping to a tired rasp. You swallowed, feeling the uncomfortable sensation of your mouth being dry from the too warm air before continuing: "I don't take it personally, of course.".

You paused, as if subconsciously doubting your own statement. "I mean," you started anew, eyes trailing around the ceiling, seemingly searching for how to rationalize the incident.

"clients who can barely walk can never be quite sure that that day won't be the day they fall despite being assisted. So, I get why she was scared..." you insisted softly.

"But it's just..." your voice died down and your hand went up to cover your eyes as you sighed deeply. "I honestly even don't know what I'm saying,".

"You're saying that it troubles you," Hotch didn't hesitate to point out the truth. As he did, he reached across the coffee table and took ahold of the cooling body lotion that you've put on the moment you stripped down to just your underwear.

"Yeah... sounds about right..." you nodded, your hand leaving your face and curling on top of your chest, "I just don't know why... It's not a big deal, stuff like that's just a part of the job".

Aaron opened up the lotion bottle, murmuring gently: "It's because even if you know it's nothing personal, you still care. You genuinely want your clients to feel secure with you,".

Then he put the lotion on his hands and took ahold of your ankle. "you know that their world is full of things to be afraid of, whether that'd be falling, dropping something valuable, being alone...".

You nodded softly, but didn't say anything more. You remained quiet, thinking about everything at once.

Hotch sensed that that wasn't all you wanted to share, he didn't push you, of course, but as his fingers started to put pressure on your foot, massaging it, you couldn't help but spill out more.

"I didn't know how to handle that situation," you admitted with a sense of shame, but the feeling lasted only a couple of seconds because the feeling of your foot - aching from a whole day of running back and forth - being so pleasantly taken care of worked wonders.

"during my training they always told me to never force a client into anything they don't wanna do," you explained, "but her daughter would throw a fit if I didn't shower Miss Hilda. Her daughter is easily provoked and all the other caregivers already have bad experience with her,".

"And- ah! " your foot twitched when Aaron hit the part that ached the most. "Sorry," he apologized with genuine remorse crossing his face, and you felt his fingers easing up, now pressing less and instead just spreading the lotion in gentle circling motions of his thumbs, "go on,".

"okay..." was your reply before you swallowed a lump in your throat and shared some more: "So far, I didn't have any problems with Miss Hilda's daughter, and I'd like for it to stay that way... She can be really unpleasant, my coworker said that she yelled at her and called her a dirty whore,".

Hotch frowned at that information, appearing to not be pleased to hear about such unpleasant work environment you had to deal with: "You must feel like you're walking on eggshells when you're there,".

Then, began to give your other foot the same kind of attention, making your eyes roll back for a moment. "Yeah... tell me about it," you agreed while you laid your arm over your eyes, striking a pose of an ill victorian maiden from old paintings.

"But, that wasn't all that happened today," you lamented. "Anything worse happen?" Aaron asked with care, his hands leaving your foot and going up your leg. You clicked your tongue in response: "Not worse exactly... just inconvenient,".

"I was changing Mister Davidson's protective underwear," you began, " and I accidentally got his stool on the bedsheets, and so I had to change those - all during a thirty minute session,".

"Stressful," Aaron validated, his fingers riding up and down your leg, undoing the tangles in your muscles. "Totally. And his wife was there to witness it," you groaned and shifted a little on the couch, "I felt like such a klutz at that moment,".

Aaron began to work on your other leg as he said: "But you're not,".

You uncovered your eyes, lifting your head a little to look at Aaron. "I'm not what?" You questioned, a little confused and disoriented because the tension leaving your feet and legs had you slowly spacing out.

"A klutz," Aaron elaborated calmly as his moist fingers pressed into your muscles, bringing up a little bit of pain and then overwhelming relief, "you're not a klutz.".

A pause followed. Your brows furrowed just a little as you muttered, facing away from your lover: "you think...?". Aaron's hands halted at your question.

He let go of your leg, and instead, the man used his hands to scoot a little on the couch. The couch squeaked under his weight, but he paid it no mind.

"No, I don't think," Hotch murmured gently before his moist hands cupped your face, one hand from each side. He tilted your chin back, making you look into his eyes.

"I know," he whispered, his thumbs rubbing the remaining lotion into your warm skin. You blinked fast at that, your lower lip beginning to tremble as you started to tear up.

You forced out a dry chuckle, bringing a hand up to wipe at your tears: "now you're making me emotional... How nasty of you...".

But Aaron didn't laugh, instead he delivered a light squeeze to your face to ground you in the present moment.

"Hey, hey," the man called for your attention gently and yet firmly, "don't deflect. Stay in the moment and experience how you're feeling fully. Sit with the feeling,".

He didn't let you run from your emotions. But he also didn't leave you drowning in them all by yourself.

"Close your eyes, Y/N," he guided you, his hands trailing from your face to your arms. "Close your eyes, deep inhales and deep exhales. Go ahead, I'm right here with you,".

And although you'd rather push back and just escape the moment altogether, you fought against your instincts and did as told. You closed your eyes and breathed in deeply, then exhaled.

"Good, good," Aaron praised, voice pleased, "now, name what you're feeling.". "I don't know," you answered immediately, without even taking a moment to think.

But Hotch was having none of it, commanding you strictly with a squeeze of your arms: "Try and figure it out. Just focus,".

You sighed, unhappy at having to actually proceed instead of just half assing the exercise as you'd like: "okay... fine...".

You followed through with another deep inhale and then deep exhale. You tried to think of the emotion you were feeling.

Another deep inhale and exhale. You furrowed your brows, the emotion felt unclear, you couldn't name it.

"I..." you muttered, "I don't know, Aaron... I can't figure it out,". You weren't lying or hoping to just call it a day, you genuinely didn't know.

But Aaron wasn't discouraged by that. "Then tell me where you feel the emotion," he encouraged, his left thumb beginning to rub soft circles into your damp skin. "which body part?".

You opened your mouth to argue and repeat your "I don't know" mantra. But you quickly closed your mouth, forcing yourself to cooperate. You paused and thought, paying attention to your body.

"Take your time," Aaron whispered with the patience of a saint, "I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere. Take as long as you need,".

"My... chest..." you answered after a moment, "I feel it in my chest.". A pause, you took another moment to think before adding: "I feel heaviness in my chest,".

"Good job," Hotch praised once more, "you're doing great, we're a good team,". "We? Yeah, cuz you're doing feck all," another deflection fell out of your lips, making Aaron squeeze you and give you a soft shake, scolding you with a: "Y/N." in that no nonsense, warning tone.

"I know, I know, sorry," you rolled your eyes at him despite your eyes still being closed. You exhaled sharply then: "Hhhh, now you're gonna ask me to tell you why I started deflecting, aren't you?".

"Trained you like a dog, didn't I?" Aaron joked briefly before clearing his throat and stating seriously: "yes. So, go on,".

"You're horrible," you whined but obeyed, "fine... The trigger was... you saying you know that... I'm not a klutz..." your voice dropped and you bit your lower lip to not have it quiver.

Hotch's hands trailed down and took ahold of your hands, giving them an affectionate and supportive squeeze. "Good..." He murmured.

"And can you tell me why?" he added in. You took a moment to compose yourself, breathing in and out.

Then, you whispered: "because... even if I'm still green in my job, I doubt whether or not I'm doing a good job... so you affirming that I, in fact, am...". you went quiet.

You swallowed, fighting back tears once more. Hotch didn't say anything this time, he just held your warm hands, letting you have the moment to yourself and continue when you're ready.

"It just... hit an unhealed wound..." you finally muttered, voice shaky. "and it made me feel vulnerable... and when I feel vulnerable... I- I... I deflect...".

"That's right, you do..." Aaron stated tenderly before his hands moved back up and took ahold of your face, pulling it in to plant a sweet kiss to your forehead.

"You can open your eyes now and just be. I won't torture you anymore tonight," the man said, making you respond by opening your eyes and looking at him with fragility.

"You're really mean, you know...?" you spoke up, slowly regaining your carefree spirit and smiling again, yet the vulnerable air Hotch created around you two still remained intact.

"I mean, making me resolve my issues? Red flag," you joked, but there was no real bite to your words, just deep and genuine appreciation and love for the man whose patience with you was endless.

And Aaron smiled back, and keeping true to his word, didn't scold you for lightening the atmosphere again. "The reddest of them all," he chuckled and gave your hair a rough ruffle that made you playfully slap away his hand.

Then a silent moment was exchanged between the two of you and you, taking all your courage, shared one last vulnerability for the evening: "but... thanks. You helping me heal... it means so much, Aaron,".

"Don't mention it," Hotch murmured after a moment of you uttering the gratitude, shaking his head softly, gently dismissing the idea that his support was something you needed to thank him for.

Then he leaned in - slowly, as if approaching a scared little animal that he did not want to startle - and planted a care-filled kiss to your temple, muttering into your ear: "you just rest,".

A kiss to your second temple followed, making you close your eyes and lean into the warmth of his skin despite how hot the air was in the room. Afterwards, Aaron ran his thumb under your eye, giving the spot a tender caress.

"I'll take care of dinner tonight, yeah?" he inquired, voice a low, honey-sweet purr massaging your exhausted brain. You breathed a long, deep exhale through your mouth, letting go of the excessive emotions that built up in the last few moments.

"Pizza." the reply fell from your lips then making Aaron click his tongue and speak with am obvious smile: "Pizza... Why am I not surprised in the slightest?".

"Mhm..." you hummed in agreement to Aaron's offer "I'd like that...". After those words Hotch gently ran a hand through your hair, brushing the loose strands out of your face as he added another softly spoken question: "And what would your tired little heart desire?".

You paused, biting into your lower lip as your brain flashed all kinds of meals that you'd kill to dig into right now. Your brain felt like a menu in a fancy restaurant, making your mouth water even if you've drank very little and the dry air made the inside of your mouth feel like a sandy desert.

You opend you eyes at that, puckering up your lips, making an unimpressed, isn't it obvious? face. "Uhhh, cuz you're a profiler?" you sassed him, attitude as biting as grandma's knitted sweaters.

But Aaron only rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, smiling affectionately at how ridiculous you were being. He was not affected by the attitude at all. "No," he murmured, tracing your cheek with his fingers, "because I listen,".

"aaaand you're a profiler on top of that," you shot right back at him, still insisting that you were the one who was right. And Aaron chuckled, his pointer and middle finger trapping your nose and giving it a playful tug from side to side: "Stubborn as a mule," making you stick your tongue out at him in defiance.

Then he let go, his movements careful and precise as to not accidentally hurt you. And, his warm eyes finding yours, he asked tenderly: "I'm gonna go grab my phone and order now, yeah?". That question made your face relax and you nodded: "Yeah...".

"Good... Rest a little in the meantime," the man commanded you softly, planting one more loving kiss on your temple before getting off the leather couch and heading to the kitchen area where his phone laid inside his blazer.

And you quietly melted into the couch, closing your eyes once more to let the feeling of being absolutely and unconditionally loved lull you to sweet slumber...

____________________________________________

[travelinblues]

would give you my whole heart and soul for a aaron-hotchner-gets-protective-of-reader-on-a-case fic 🙏 🙏

maybe the unsub of the case they’re on is targeting people who look like reader???

AHHH thank you so much anon ❤ here you go !!

𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘗𝘗𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘖𝘜𝘛 𝘖𝘍 𝘓𝘐𝘕𝘌. 𝑨𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝑯𝒐𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒏𝒆𝒓 · 3.5𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 · 𝑜𝑛𝑒-𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑡

This is my first ever request so I really hope I’ve done it justice !! I was originally going to make this a short burst, but it turned into a more detailed one-shot with some extra tension between Hotch & the reader. I hope that’s okay ??