note: if the creator has a masterlist it will be linked, if not, their latest fic will be linked. // there will be a second list if we have more creators submitted. // my masterlist
key: ❤️reader x hotch, ⚓️ships, 📚informational, 🍲 varied
pairing | Aaron Hotchner x female! reader [no mentions of y/n, little to no physical descriptions]
disclaimers | Everything I write is intended as adult content. Please do not read if you are underage or sensitive to such.
Case related violence, suggestive language and explicit content is to be expected. No one is forcing you to read if it makes you uncomfortable. MDNI
summary | Wonderland University has been covering up the murders of female students, and rumor has it the victims have all been associated in one way or another with professors... The Bureau has decided to initiate an undercover operation.
Hotch would be playing your professor, and you would be his student.
Will you be able to fool the other students and faculty at the university?
wc: 2.6k [not proofread]
mission identities | Aaron Hotchner as Professor Edward Thomas Jameson. You as Isabella Evans (rarely used, other than 'Miss Evans')
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chapter three: interpretations and meanings
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Your knee started bouncing as soon as you sat down in the lecture hall. The nerves had evolved into anxiety and mixed with what felt like anticipation.
What you were anticipating though, you were not entirely sure of.
Spencer slid into the seat next to you in the very front row. The tiered seats stretched behind you, every row with one long bench serving as a desk and what looked to be around 15 fold-down seats each.
You glanced over your shoulder again — like you had done at least half a dozen times now — to watch as the students filled up the room. Normally you would sit in the back, preferring the overview rather than the unease of having everyone sit behind you. If anything were to happen, you would not know.
Not to mention escaping meant passing them all.
You were nervous and Spencer could tell. He offered you a tight lipped smile in hopes it could ease whatever was bothering you, even if he had no clue what it could be. You had not spoken much, and he was scared he would slip up if he started speaking now. The fake name he was to call you felt too foreign, he did not like it on his tongue.
It was not right. It was not you. Spencer did not like to think about calling you something other than your name.
Names were special. Names had power.
So, instead, he pulled out his leather-bound notebook from his satchel and started scribbling something, before he tilted the notebook so you could read the page.
Are you okay? You seem nervous.
You gave him a hesitant nod. It was not nerves as much as something — just feeling off. Perhaps it was simply sitting with your back to the sea of unpredictable students. With a serial killer somewhere on the campus. Allegedly.
The air shifted as Hotch strode in through the doors, a folder in one hand and a white to-go cup from the same small cafe on the corner of campus. He made it to the wooden desk placed in the middle of the open space before you noticed Spencer studying you in your peripheral.
He was searching your face when you turned to him. His focus landed on your lips, lingering, until he picked up his pen again.
You're biting your lip. It's going to bleed.
Spencer met your gaze and pointed to his own lips, as if he wanted to make sure you understood what he had literally written out for you.
You clamped your lips together tightly, hoping to suppress the urge to sink your teeth back into the flesh. It was a habit — biting your lip when you were unsure what to make of a situation — when you were lost in the ocean of your own mind. When you were turning every rock of thought until you found one that made sense of whatever was occupying your pretty little brain.
Hotch finally cleared his throat as he scanned the many faces in the room. As they found yours and lingered a little longer than what was appropriate, you found yourself wondering what his teeth would feel like sinking in your lower lip instead of your own.
Wait. You did not take responsibility for that thought.
This was not the time, nor place, to deal with such propaganda.
The lecture on symbolic interactionism felt like it had dragged on forever, yet the row of girls behind you seemed to be awake and suspiciously alert. You were certain there was drool in your hair from the way they were practically bent over the bench — either to offer your professor an eye-full of the cleavage spilling out of their tops — or perhaps they were simply all blind. The lot of them.
Spencer tilted his notebook for you to read. It was so out of character for him to pass notes in lectures rather than pay attention, even though you supposed he did know the material very well.
I never thought I would see anyone look at Hotchhim that way.
He had crossed out 'Hotch' so many times it ripped the page. You tried to bite back the laughter bubbling in your chest as you took his pen and scribbled back.
SameI'm dead serious there IS drool in my hair!!
Spencer huffed a laugh before he could stop himself and both your heads snapped up to look at Hotch. The horror was evident on your faces.
"Miss Evans."
Oops.
You glared at Spencer — who was shaking with the effort of not laughing when he noticed the flush of color on your cheeks. The gleam in Hotch's eyes revealed he noticed it as well.
"Yes, Sir?" The slight shake in your voice could be blamed on shyness and embarrassment, right? It could not be that easy to see the panic rising in your throat from the underlying desperation for praise and validation, right? Right!?
Good. That would be humiliating. And not to mention entirely untrue. Wrong, in fact.
Hotch watched with narrow eyes as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, like you were really trying to sell the illusion, before he cleared his throat. "What is the core idea of symbolic interactionism?"
You froze, chewing on your bottom lip as the girls behind you snickered. What was their deal, anyway? Was he trying to humiliate you as a punishment for not paying attention? If that was not a professor thing to do…
It is an act, you told yourself, it literally does not matter. There is no need to panic, it would not change the fact you have a degree in this.
Wait. You have a degree in this shit.
With a surge of confidence you straightened, combing through what knowledge you had on the subject. "Blumer said, and I quote: The first premise is that human beings act toward things on the basis of the meaning that the things have from them."
You took a steadying breath before continuing, hoping to calm the shake in your voice. "The second is that the meaning of such things is derived from, or arises out of, the social interaction that one has with others around."
The room fell quiet and you bit back a smile. Spencer nodded his approval beside you as he scribbled down what you said word-for-word. One would imagine he had already read the book on Classical and Contemporary Sociological Theory, but still it was nice to get your ego boosted. You could give Spencer a run for his money, by the sound of it.
Hotch kept his stare focused on you as he moved around his desk and leaned against it. His brows had furrowed slightly, like he had not expected you to actually know what you spent years studying, yet you could see the little twitch on his lips. The hint of surprise and — pride? — amusement? — in his eyes. Fuck, he was insufferable. Really.
"Meaning?" He raised his eyebrows with challenge. Who were you to say no to a challenge?
"Actions and interactions are formed by socially constructed meanings and interpretations — because meaning is not inherent in things or actions themselves — and the interpretations of these things or actions is what shapes the meanings."
You held your breath for a moment as you collected your thoughts, "In other words, how we think and how we act is shaped by what we deem appropriate in a situation, and what we deem appropriate is based on the situation itself and how we interpret the situation."
It was like you were a mouse in a glass cage, surrounded by researchers deciding your fate. Though, you supposed it was fitting.
Your professor rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked strict, like he was about to sentence you to eternal detention. In a way that could potentially make you almost wish he would. Even despite the anxiety blooming in your chest at the thought of… The thought of what? Academic failure? Disappointing him? Yeah. As if.
"Very good, Miss Evans." His voice deepened and you swore one of the girls behind you shrieked. The color painting your cheeks probably made you look no better than them.
You could tell he was enjoying it. Way too much, in fact.
To your displeasure, Hotch was not yet done with you. He wanted to push you a little further.
Even more, he wanted to find out what caused the pink flush. To his defense he had never seen you like that before. What kind of profiler would he be if he did not even try to figure it out?
"Would you mind giving me an example?" You did not miss the way he said 'me', but you would think about that later.
It was an opening. He was giving you the opportunity to come up with something — something perhaps borderline inappropriate — that would give him a reason to keep you behind after the lecture. Just like you had planned.
Yes, you could come up with something.
"For example, your power as a professor increases in the lecture hall, because the meaning behind your power is knowledge, education and title. It creates a power imbalance, you are above us because that is how we measure power here." You could see Spencer nodding to himself as you spoke.
Hotch watched you with a hint of amusement, waiting for you to continue. "Society could argue that a student pursuing a relationship with her professor would have been taken advantage of, if you only consider this situation and the power imbalance." You licked your lips and took a shaky breath, steadying the increasing heartbeat in your chest.
"However, if you see them as two rational and consenting adults outside the lecture hall, the relationship would not necessarily be wrong. The relationship is in other words deemed appropriate or inappropriate based on factors that coexist, that forms — and therefore changes — the meaning."
A deafening beat of silence. It took all your willpower to not shrink in your seat under the piercing stares of the entire room.
Hotch cleared his throat, "Very well. You are all dismissed." A split second went by without anyone moving, not even the particles in the air seemed to move. It was suffocating. If you were lucky, Hell would be located somewhere underneath your seat, ready to swallow you up.
"Remember to join a group for the presentation next week. Each group will present a news article from the past week and analyze it using a relevant theory from the curriculum." His voice echoed over the sound of grumbles as the room bustled with every student making their way out.
"Miss Evans, a word please." There it was.
You sat, frozen, watching in terror as he scratched the nape of his neck and turned around to gather the papers on his desk. He was embarrassed. Or unsure. Not that it mattered which one, it was certainly not good for you anyway. 'LFF' and all that.
Spencer nudged your shoulder as he got up from his seat beside you. "Split up for the group presentation?" You nodded, although absentmindedly, and he disappeared. It was a good idea to split up, to join different groups, cover more social grounds.
The assignment was also a decent idea, you begrudgingly admitted to yourself. Discussing a news article from the past week created an opportunity to discuss the recent university murders with a group of students attending said university. The only thing left was to find a group to join, and hope they would be willing to gossip.
After 'the word' with Professor Scowls-a-lot, of course. That would be fun, right? Right.
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This was not an optimal situation. It had the potential to be catastrophic, actually.
Your mind went a million miles an hour, yet seemed dead silent at the same time.
Hotch could not help the satisfactory grin plastered on his face as he repeated himself, "As I said, I'm impressed. You did well."
Was he unsure if you had heard him?
You had heard him, very well in fact. His voice was clear as day when he said it the first time. Now, however, it was barely audible over the roaring in your ears. It was like all the blood your brain needed to function properly, to string together coherent thoughts, had rushed elsewhere.
He was studying your reaction with a microscope and every fibre of your being suddenly regretted choosing a field of work that put you with profilers. As if you were not one of them.
You fought to keep your expression neutral. Desperate to shrug with indifference. Intent on not giving him the satisfaction of seeing you react. It was a game and he still did not know just exactly who he was playing with.
The silence felt suffocating as he waited for your response. Was this how he acted when you were not spewing insults or nonsense at him? It was unbearable. Honestly.
He was insufferable, just standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes locked on you, silent. Like a fucking tree.
A deep chuckle captured your wandering attention. Brows raised and eyes wide, you snapped your head up to stare at him. Appalled and perhaps a little concerned.
No way did Aaron Scowls-a-lot Hotchner make that sound.
He did. Was he unwell?
You forced yourself to stand, to step towards him with unhurried steps. The tips of your ears were burning, an exact mirror to the muscles in your thighs, screaming in agony, aching. Yet you refused to let him win. To let him think he won.
It did not matter how much you craved his praise, or how it turned your mind into putty. Not even how much it complicated the process of rational and critical thinking. What mattered was not letting him figure it out by himself and letting him get the upper hand. It was not an option. If you quit, they no longer have the opportunity to fire you, right? Tell your own secrets and no one has leverage?
Hotch studied you making your way closer, like you were a prey pretending to be a predator. The unhurried steps and calculated gleam in your eyes told a different story however. The prey might not have been pretending after all. Perhaps you were a predator, perhaps he was the prey.
You licked your lips slowly. Noticing the way his eyes followed the movement, and the way his fists clenched and unclenched by his sides. Similar to what he did when he was readying for an attack.
His focus lingering on your mouth for a moment too long and you swore he was holding his breath. With a click of your tongue, and an amused hum, his eyes snapped up to meet yours.
"Sir." You purred, savoring the way his jaw ticked as you stopped in front of him. His chest was heaving slightly, like he was suddenly struggling to breathe in the thickening air around you. The wave of warmth from his body burned against yours, almost feverish. You tilted your head to the side, a smirk toying on your lips, "You know I have a praise kink, right?"
His lips parted slightly and his eyes seemed to glaze for the split second of unexpected surprise, before he cooled his expression. Hotch cleared his throat as he glanced away. The muscles in his jaw and the furrowed brows told enough.
Then, as if he could not find it in himself to stop, he glanced back to your lips, before meeting your gaze with his own amusement gleaming in his eyes. Hotch straightened and tilted his head forward, forcing you to look up to him, to see the victorious smirk on his lips.
"It's really obvious."
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if you enjoyed this, please consider liking and reblogging, it fuels my little ego!
sm or moodboard blurb, whichever you’re feeling of celebrity reader x hotchner maybe they exchanged numbers after a case she was involved in and it just snowballs from there 🤭 you write hotch… so well!!! I miss him!
Hi lovie!! Thank you so much for sending in a request!! I haven’t written for sweet hotch in so long, I hope I’m not too rusty! Enjoy love 🩷
Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Popstar!Reader
Contains- canon typical cases, stalking, hotch being horrible at picking up cues, kind of subtly flirty text messages
Belle's 3k Event
Life had slowly started to turn back to normal since your stalker had been caught. It had started small, gifts to your P.O. box, spamming your socials.
You'd tried to ignore it, assuming all he'd wanted was a response. Then, it escalated. You'd begun to see the same person at award shows, movie premieres, even when you were just out to get a coffee.
Your manager had been quick in involving the FBI, who'd successfully found and captured the man. You still aren't used to feeling safe again, and you're telling yourself that's all that's led you here- waiting for a response from the lead agent on your case.
Aaron Hotchner handled your case with an authority that'd fluttered your belly. You tried your hardest to not read into the exchange of your phone numbers at the end of the case. For 'safety purposes', he had said.
And it's not that you feel particularly unsafe right now, it's just you'd feel much safer surrounded by an FBI agent with big, beefy arms.
Your heart stops when your phone pings, lighting up with a text message.
Agent Hotchner: Hi. Of course I can help you. Are you okay?
You smile at the professionalism in his tone, even over text. Your manicured nails clack on the screen as you type a response.
You: Hi!! So sorry to bug. I was just wondering if it's normal to still feel uneasy. I can't help but think he's still out there sometimes.
Your text is vulnerable in the midst of your friendliness, and you're worried your stupid excuse to message him is glaringly obvious.
The three gray bubbles pop up, and you drop your phone like it's hot.
Agent Hotchner: That is completely normal, but I can assure you my team and I worked really hard to put that man in jail.
You chew on your bottom lip, waiting to respond at the sight of three more bubbles.
Agent Hotchner: Have you noticed anything strange, lately?
Your heart picks up at the message, delusion twisting the concern in his words into actual care.
You: No, just missing the protection of the FBI, I think
It was flirtier than originally intentioned, but you're not mad about it. The bubbles pop up, then disappear, then pop up again. You hope the subliminal messages get across, but are swiftly let down upon his response.
Agent Hotchner: Understandable. Do you have security?
You're unsure how to read this message, but you decide to commit.
You: Yeah, I do, but it's not the same as when you were here. You're great at your job :)
Every man loves to have his ego stroked, this you know. Your heart thumps against your chest as your eyes burn into your screen, anxiously waiting a response.
Agent Hotchner: Thank you, I try my best.
You: You know, I'm actually stopping in DC for a show in a few weeks. I can set aside a few tickets.
You decide to pick it up a little, a slight shift in subject to mellow out the dry conversation.
Agent Hotchner: I can ask around the office and see if anyone is interested.
You ponder his response, deciding you need to be even more forthcoming.
You: You know, I was more so thinking of setting aside just one ticket. Would you be available?
Butterflies swarm your tummy as you hit send, watching the message whoosh into his data center.
Your leg bounces as you anticipate a response, one that comes way too late, if you say so yourself.
Agent Hotchner: Really? I would love to, but I'm not sure if I would fit into that crowd.
Your heart clutches at his honesty, and you ponder his straight laced, professional demeanor. It's what initially drew you to him, his subtle ability to command a space.
You: After seeing you work, I have no doubt you'll attract the attention of everyone in the room. I know you caught mine
Agent Hotchner: Wow, really? I'm flattered. You're very beautiful. Typically, women as pretty as you will gravitate towards Morgan or Reid. Sorry if I'm not used to the attention.
Your heart clutches at his confession, rapidly typing a response.
You: Trust me, you had me from the start. I'll send a ticket over ASAP ;)
hi!?! could you please write slowburn with hotch.. like working at the bau and being a little oblivious and udhhd until it eventually resolves with smut?? I lack fics without previously established relationship
you're the risk i'm gonna take it
pairing: aaron hotchner x reader, background michael robinavitch x reader
summary: request above
word count: 3.7k
tags: jealous!hotch, possessive!hotch, angst, hotch is lowk toxic but it works out for him, reader is oblivious but also kind of dumb, the pitt mention (helloo hyperfixation) dr robby is down bad, not proofread.
author's note: thank you for this request angel! i hope you like this and ty for being so patient xx
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── ·
The first time you meet Aaron Hotchner, you’re ready to hightail it out of the room. Your transfer to the Behavioural Analysis Unit was something done out of necessity—you’d spent a long time in private practice before deciding to branch out and were lucky enough to score an opening with the FBI.
Hotchner was…a lot. Of what? You weren’t entirely sure. You’d been made aware he had a reputation for being a hardass and somehow also one of the best team leaders in the FBI.
He was calm, confident and at times abrasive, but you wouldn’t have gotten to this point if you were unable to work under pressure. He had been strict and clear in his expectations of your role on the team; you were new and had to fight to prove yourself.
“I look forward to working with you Agent.” He had remarked, barely looking up from his pile of papers as he dismissed you from the meeting. If you were any less professional, you would have scoffed but all you did was offer a tight smile and nod.
“I do too, have a good day further Agent Hotchner.”
And that was that.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
The BAU was a learn as you go workplace and you quickly figured out it was also a seemingly do as I say, not as I do environment. If you had a dollar for every time you witnessed one of your coworkers pull some kind of self-sacrificing bullshit—you’re fairly sure you’d never have to work ever again.
You would be lying if you said it didn’t bring some sort of spark back into your life, despite the dead bodies and sadistic murderers—you had found that missing puzzle peace.
The team sat on the plane back from one of their most recent cases, half-asleep on the red eye whilst you had your laptop out, typing away at your report so you’d be able to sleep as soon as you got back.
“You should sleep.” Hotch’s voice startles you despite being barely above a soft murmur. He’s watching you over a case file whilst sitting across from you.
You snort, “Yeah, no chance.”
Hotch frowns, “You having a hard time sleeping?” His tone is concerned and it brings a stiffness to your shoulders. You shouldn’t have said that. You’re completely capable of doing your job and it’s not like you’re the only one on this plane who has a hard time closing their eyes at night and not picturing every other gruesome thing they’ve encountered.
“No,” you smile tightly, shuffling your laptop closer to you as you squint at the screen. “I’m fine.”
Hotch stares at you for a second, as if he’s deciding whether or not to call you out on the blatant lie but instead heaves a sigh, slumping into his own seat.
“You shouldn’t squint like that—it will hurt your eyes.” He reprimands lightly and this time you can’t help the amused raise of your brow as you meet his dark gaze.
“God, you’re old.” You snort, immediately trying to muffle your laugh when his expression turns perplexed.
“Old?” he mutters in disbelief.
“Sorry,” you giggle, slapping a hand over your mouth as you watch him shake his head in fond amusement.
“You’re trouble for a man’s ego.” He points at you with a wry smile on his face as you flush.
You shrug, “Gotta keep em’ humble.”
Hotch flashes his teeth as he grins softly. Silence grows between the two of you as you continue to work on your own respective tasks.
As you continue to write your report, nibbling on your bottom lip you are seemingly unaware of the soft looks Hotch sends you in between his own reading.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
Your relationship with Hotch is complicated. There are times where you’ll catch him staring at you from his office, small smile on his face or there’s times where he inconspicuously accommodates you more than he would someone else.
He’s just being nice is what you tell yourself, because any other option would be ludicrous to even consider. Though there are moments that make you start to question whether those options might be reality.
You’re on a case in Pittsburgh, somewhere near the hospital you used to work at before transferring to the BAU and it’s just your luck that one of your key witnesses is currently being held in the ED.
You’re more than happy to accompany Hotch to the ED to try and get something useful out of the guy and you really struggle at schooling your face of excitement of seeing any of your past colleagues.
It doesn’t slip passed Hotch’s notice who quirks a curious brow at you from the driver’s seat, “You’re quite eager to be meeting a witness.” He remarks dryly but there’s no hiding the humor in his expression.
You grow shy, nibbling on your bottom lip and drawing his attention to your action. “I used to work in the psychology department at PTMC.” You admit softly, wringing your hands in front of you.
Hotch hums interestedly, it’s not often in their line of work that Agents are transferred into the FBI from outside of the academy. He’s willing to take any chance to know the parts of you he’s been yet to discover and visiting your work is what brings him hope that this might just push you both closer together.
You haven’t been outwardly dismissive of his advancements, but he would be lying if he said it wasn’t killing him inside that you weren’t as forthcoming. Sure, it had been a while since he’d had to whip out his flirting tactics—his first and last relationship being well his late wife.
But you were so enigmatic that he just couldn’t help but want to be near you, he’d been making every effort to impress. Well, at least he thought he had, if your blatant obliviousness to his affection wasn’t sign enough.
Hotch had found himself gritting his teeth one too many times after he’d been blatantly flirting with you only for you to respond in your sweetest smile yet most professional tone.
He knew it wasn’t right, that he had no business crushing on his subordinate but Lord help him if you weren’t the only woman who had made him feel things he didn’t think himself capable of.
When Hotch parks the car, you practically launch yourself out of the vehicle to speedwalk your way into the entrance. You’re fast enough that Hotch has to jog a little to catch up to you with a breathy chuckle before matching your strides.
“So, you can run in those heels,” he teases softly, his arm coming back to rest on the curve of your back to guide you to the entrance.
You lift your hand to swat at his chest half-heartedly with a playful scowl that diminishes the moment you step into the bustling ER, the both of you adopting your composed manner of professionalism despite your simultaneous twitching lips.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
You’re met by a blonde nurse whose smile is as wide as can be when she catches sight of you, her southern drawl echoing as she crosses the room, “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes sunshine? Who knew we’d be seeing your face again!” she remarks happily, wrapping her arms around you in a motherly hug.
“Dana, I missed you.” You say softly, hugging her back before throwing a sheepish expression to Hotch who shrugs.
“And who’s this with you?” Dana sizes up Hotch, staring him down something fierce and he feels himself paling a little.
“Uh—” you chuckle nervously. “This is Agent Hotchner, he’s um—he’s my boss.” You say.
Dana turns to you, quirking a brow that makes you roll your eyes fondly. “We’re here on a case, Pittsburgh PD should have called ahead, we’re here to interview a James Harlow? He was in—”
“MVA, Yeah Robby’s got him down in South 12, you remember where that is don’t you? He’s gonna be real excited to see you.” Dana drawls teasingly.
Hotch expects you to laugh and wave off the statement, but he’s surprised to see you fluster, your shoulders hiking up towards your ears as you shove Dana softly.
“Stop,” you chastise her through a whine and Hotch feels like a rock had lodged itself in between his heart and ribcage. Who the hell is this guy?
He has no right to be jealous, the two of you aren’t…anything. You’re both colleagues, he’s your superior but Hotch feels his gut clenching and palms sweating all the same.
He coughs, clearing his throat which draws your attention back to him. You have the decency to look embarrassed but without further mention of it you say a hasty goodbye to an amused Dana who looks like she’s sizing him up and drag the both of you to what he assumes is South 12.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
When the curtain is drawn away, you both are met with the sight of your witness and what Hotch assumes is “Robby” explaining his blood test results to.
“Uh,” your witness mutters awkwardly, gaze switching between yourself and the man behind you. You suppose you must look quite intimidating in your formal wear and FBI badged plastered to your lapels, but you school your expression into something that you hope resembles comfort.
“Sunshine.” Robby remarks surprise as you muster a shy smile and an awkward wave while Hotch behinds you clenches his jaw.
Fuck. Granted, Hotch could’ve rationalised his jealousy if the guy were your age (no he couldn’t have) but Robby must be his age if not older. He’s all crows’ feet and greying hair that Hotch can’t help but measure himself up against.
He hates this. Never once has something so personal jeopardised his ability to maintain professionalism yet you have a way to test all of his boundaries. He hates how Robby is looking at you—like you’re some kind of miracle that he never thought he’d have the chance to see again.
It’s how Hotch looks at you. He knows that look, he wears that look every day with a feeling of pride because up until now—he had no reason to doubt that it was a matter of when not if you returned his affection.
Now? Now he feels the urge to drag you out of this ED and make you promise to never look at another man ever again. But he can’t, so he doesn’t.
“I uh—we’re here to interview Mr. Harlow. We’re with the BAU—we just have a couple of questions about what you saw today,” you murmur reassuringly to the wary man whilst glancing back at Robby.
Hotch’s firm voice startles you slightly when he moves from behind you to stand next to you, effectively acting as a barrier between you and Robby, “We need you to go over anything you can remember from this morning.”
Robby’s gaze turns amused when he notices Hotch’s posturing, snorting to himself as he shuffles out of the room, “I’ll leave you to it.”
You nod meekly, opening your mouth to start the cognitive interview before Robby’s voice interrupts you, “Dinner later Sunshine? Would be good to catch up.” He offers, an easy smile in his place.
Your heart warms, as much as you’ve enjoyed your time at the BAU, the day shift were the first people who made you feel like you were part of a community.
“Yeah,” you offer easily. “I’m working a case right now, but I’d like that. Maybe you could invite the rest—”
“Agent, we’re in the middle of something.” Hotch spits out, his eyes ablaze as he stares you down.
You shrink into yourself, not noticing Robby’s frown at your demeanour though he leaves after you give him a reassuring smile. You give your full attention back to your witness and proceed with the interview.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
You somehow feel like you’ve done something wrong despite the interview being a complete success. You walk out of the room with the feeling that Hotch is…mad at you? Frustrated?
You’re not entirely sure, only that he speaks to you in one word responses if he’s not supplied a grunt of some kind. It gets worse when you confirm your plans with Robby as you walk out, offering for Hotch to go on without you when you notice other Pittsburgh PD officers also in the ED.
“It’ll give me some time to ask him a couple more questions and you can go over what we already know with the rest of the team, I’m sure the officers won’t mind.” You reassure him.
Hotch fights the growl that wants to burst out of his throat. He minds. He minds that Robby’s been waiting not so patiently to get you wrapped around his dirty little fingers, for you to decide that maybe you don’t want Hotch and instead want to trade up to some fucking ER Doctor.
“No, we came together. I’ll drive you back.” His answer is curt and your confusion doubles. What is his problem?
“But I—”
“Sunshine, my truck’s sitting outside if you’d rather drive that. I don’t mind coming and getting’ it from you later before dinner.” Robby offers, interrupting your conversation Hotch thinks bitterly.
Of course he drives a truck, and of course he’d offer for you to take it. Any excuse in the book to get to see you again huh? Well Hotch can deal with that.
“That won’t be necessary, we have everything that we need to form a working profile and time is really of the essence here. We need to go. Now.” He orders, leaving no room for misinterpretation as he grabs your arm despite the gasp you let out, sparks shooting up your arm as your dragged out the parking lot.
“What? Hotch—” you squeak out, trying to tug your arm from his hold as he pulls you into the car, lifting you by your hips and plopping you into the passenger seat. You squawk in protest squirming as he adjusts your legs slightly and closes the door, jogging to the driver’s seat and getting in with a scowl still planted on his face.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
You’ve been silent and matching Hotch’s scowl the entire drive back to the precinct, “This is kidnapping you know.” You remark sarcastically, folding your arms over your chest..
Hotch blows out a frustrated breath, “We had to leave, we didn’t have time for you be chummy with your friends.” He growls out, hands tightening on the wheel until he’s white knuckling it.
“Yeah sure, blame me when you’re the one with a stick up your ass.” He hears you mutter to yourself, forcing his resolve to break.
“That’s it.” He snarls, pulling off onto the shoulder of the road. There are barely any cars on this stretch of road, but it still brings a gasp to your lips at the jerky movement.
“What is wrong with you!” you hiss out, clutching at your seatbelt and the handle of the door as your eyes grow wide in panic.
“You’re being a brat.” Hotch growls out, his gaze dark and heavy as his chest heaves up and down in frustration. Your gaze drops to his chest, your mouth growing parched as you shake yourself out of your stupor.
“I’m a brat?” You say incredulously, “I’m a brat when you’re the one who nearly got us into an accident because you were too busy having a temper tantrum over what the fuck ever?”
Hotch’s jaw clicks from how hard he’s clenching it, his glare focused on you, “Well I wouldn’t have been so on edge if you weren’t distracted while on the job.”
If it’s even possible, your scowl deepens, as you unbuckle your seatbelt thrusting your pointer finger into Hotch’s chest with vehemence, “Don’t you dare insinuate that I can’t do my job, I told you I could’ve gotten a ride with a different officer. Hell, even Robby offered—”
“Don’t fucking say him name.” Hotch threatens.
You falter, expression turning into bewilderment, “You’ve got a problem with Robby? You just met him how—”
“Because he was hitting on you!” Hotch bursts out, running his hand over his jaw as he blows out a frustrated breath as he chuckles without humor.
“Huh? Robby? He wouldn’t—”
“Oh, trust me,” Hotch taunts, “He would and he did. I had a front row seat to that entire segment.”
You frown looking as puzzled as ever, “That’s why you were angry? Why does it matter what Robby thinks, it doesn’t impact the case—”
“Fuck, you’re irritating.” Hotch grounds out, launching himself over the counsel and swallowing your annoyed sound with his lips. He kisses you fiercely, his chapped lips borderline bruising your own as he prods at your lips with his tongue, seeking entrance.
He muffles your whimpers with his drawn out groan as he licks into your mouth, his hand coming up to cup your face, angling you to deepen the kiss as he threads his fingers through your hair.
Your hands come up shakily to clench around his t-shirt as you whine into his mouth, lazily licking into his mouth like you’re trying to play catch up with him.
When he draws himself away, you follow his lips unconsciously—your own puckered with a whine as he takes in your dazed expression. He licks his lips watching you, already half hard in his pants from the taste of you.
“I was jealous.” He admits, his voice low. He’s still looking at you, watching for any change in your expression.
Your eyes widen, “Why?” you mumble aloud.
Hotch scoffs a laugh, “Because I like you? Because I wished that I had worked up the nerve to ask you out before that hotshot doctor did? Because I was too much of a wuss because I was scared you’d say no? you take your pick.” He says, smiling without humour.
You frown, your hand hesitantly lifting to cup Hotch’s cheek. You nibble on your bottom lip, drawing a groan from Hotch’s chest.
“I—I like you too.” You admit shyly, your expression growing abashed as you avoid eye contact with him.
“Look at me.” He demands firmly, his hand cupping your chin to force you to meet his gaze.
“I’m sorry I lashed out at you, that was unfair of me.” He says softly. You shrug, rubbing your thumb up and down his cheek.
“S’okay, I know you didn’t mean it.” You mumble.
Hotch shakes his head, “No.” he states firmly, “I didn’t mean it but that doesn’t make it right, you don’t deserve to be treated like that. I’m sorry.” He insists.
You smile softly, “Forgiven, you can be so emotional sometimes.” You tease softly.
Hotch can’t help but roll his eyes, “You mean it though? you—you like me?” he asks hoarsely.
You grow shy, nodding softly. “Say it again.” He demands petulantly.
You snort, “What will I get if I do?” you taunt.
Hotch’s expression grows devilish, “Anything you want.” He mutters darkly, gazing at you with heat in his eyes. His dick twitches inside of his pants as he has to fight the urge to thrust up into empty space.
Your pupils dilate, “I like you.” You say breathily and Aaron’s smirk grows wider.
“That right?” He taunts softly, his hand dropping to your thigh and slowly moving upwards.
You shudder softly, your thighs slipping open as you gaze grows heavier. “Is this okay?” Aaron checks in with you.
You nod softly, your own hand coming to rest of his shoulder as you feel him run his index finger over the inseam of your tailored pants.
A sharp gasp escapes you, “Fuck.” Aaron mutters as he watches you squirm.
“Take off your pants.” He orders and you scramble to pull your pants and underwear off in quick succession.
Aaron’s breathing grows heavier as he catches sight of your wet cunt, glistening from its moisture as you spread your legs shyly.
His groan is loud in the car as he runs his thumb over your sticky entrance, pausing to press indecently over your hole softly before running it back up and down through your wetness.
You whimper, grabbing hold of his bicep as you make half-hearted thrusts against his thumb, clenching down emptily on the tip of his thumb each time he teasingly enters your cunt.
“I—oh.” You gasp, feeling Hotch’s thumb start to rub circles on your clit mixed with your wetness. You feel yourself start to leak between your thighs, grinding your hips up into Hotch’s thumb.
“Does that feel good?” he grunts, using his other hand to circle your entrance with his index finger, slipping it in as he rubs your clit and watching in fascination as your pussy swallows his finger whole, clenching down so tightly on him that he can’t help but imagine how tight you’d be on his dick.
“Hotch, I—" you whine as he thrusts his finger in and out, curling it slowly to brush against that soft spongy area inside of you that turns your legs into jelly.
“Aaron,” he orders you. “You call me Aaron while I make you feel good.”
You nod nonsensically, barely even listening as your focus is on the feeling of Hotch’s fingers in you. “Another—want, oh my god, another.” You beg him, leaking all over his fingers as you thrust harder, seeking more friction.
Hotch adds his middle finger easily enough, drawing out a guttural moan from you as you feel yourself climbing closer to the edge. You can feel every callous and groove on Hotch’s fingers and it makes you even wetter.
God you want his fingers inside of you forever, stretching you out and making you cum. “I can’t, close—” you mumble softly, throwing your head back as you clench your hand down on Aaron’s shoulder—you expression scrunching in pleasure.
“Yeah?” Aaron coos, “Cum on my fingers baby—that’s a good girl, cum for me.” He growls, fucking his fingers into your harder as you hurtle towards the finish line.
Your cunt clenching down harshly as you walls spasm around his fingers, your vision whiting out from pure pleasure as Hotch milks you for your orgasm until you’re left twitching and spent on the seat.
“Good girl.” He mumbles softly, laying a soft kiss on your forehead before taking his fingers out of you, bringing them to his own mouth, and sucking as his own eyes roll back into his head.
You’re about to offer to suck him off when you’ve recovered when you notice the wet patch that blooms over his crotch.
summary: working alongside Aaron Hotchner at the BAU means most people have no idea you’re married. But when a local detective starts taking a little too much interest in you during an out-of-state case, Aaron’s patience begins to wear thin— until he finally decides to make your relationship impossible for anyone to misunderstand
Aaron Hotchner x Reader
authors note: I hope you enjoy. Your support for my writing is very much appreciated 🥰💗💗
The thing about working at the BAU with your husband is that people rarely realize you’re married.
Part of it is Aaron.
Aaron Hotchner isn’t exactly the type to wear his heart on his sleeve. He doesn’t hover around you, doesn’t sneak kisses in hallways, doesn’t drape an arm around your shoulders during briefings. To everyone else, he’s Unit Chief first and husband second.
To you, though?
He’s the man who brings you coffee exactly how you like it before every flight. The man who always notices when you’re tired. The man who calls you sweetheart in a voice so soft nobody would ever believe it came from the same person who can stare down serial killers without blinking.
The other part is you.
You keep things professional. You don’t want your marriage becoming office gossip, and honestly, the team respects that.
Morgan knows.
Garcia definitely knows.
Reid figured it out three years ago because he noticed Aaron unconsciously turns toward you whenever someone raises their voice.
The rest of the world?
Not so much.
Which is exactly how you find yourself in the middle of a homicide investigation in Colorado with a problem neither of you expected.
His name is Detective Ryan Walker.
And Detective Ryan Walker has decided he likes you.
A lot.
The first time Aaron notices it, he says nothing.
You’re standing at the local precinct reviewing victim files when Walker appears beside your desk.
“Need anything?” he asks.
You smile politely. “Just the autopsy reports.”
“I can get those.”
Aaron looks up from across the room.
Walker stays.
For twenty minutes.
Talking.
Laughing.
Asking questions.
Aaron tells himself he’s imagining things.
Then Walker starts finding excuses to be around you.
Every briefing.
Every crime scene.
Every witness interview.
If you’re there, somehow Detective Walker is there too.
You notice it eventually.
Mostly because Morgan notices it.
“Oh, he’s got it bad,” Morgan says while the two of you wait for coffee.
You nearly choke.
“What?”
Morgan grins.
“The detective.”
“He does not.”
“He absolutely does.”
“No.”
“Baby girl, yes.”
You roll your eyes.
But then Walker appears from nowhere holding your coffee.
Your coffee.
The exact one you’d ordered.
Morgan doesn’t even try to hide his laughter.
“See?”
You groan.
Unfortunately, Aaron sees it too.
And Aaron is handling it… poorly.
Well.
Poorly for Aaron.
Which means nobody else notices.
Except you.
You notice the slight tightening of his jaw whenever Walker stands too close.
You notice the way Aaron’s answers become shorter whenever the detective directs questions toward you.
You notice the glare.
God.
The glare.
Walker seems completely oblivious to the fact that your husband is staring at him like he’s considering several felony-level solutions.
One night, after fourteen straight hours on the case, you finally find Aaron alone in the conference room.
He’s reviewing geographical profiles.
You close the door behind you.
His eyes lift immediately.
The tension in his face softens.
Just a little.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
You walk over and sit beside him.
For a moment neither of you speaks.
Then you reach for his hand under the table.
His fingers immediately lace with yours.
“You’re jealous.”
Aaron stares at the case file.
“No.”
You laugh.
“Aaron.”
“No.”
“Aaron.”
His expression remains perfectly serious.
“He’s a local detective.”
“Who flirts with me.”
“He hasn’t actually said anything inappropriate.”
“He’s flirting.”
Aaron finally looks at you.
“He is.”
“There it is.”
His jaw clenches.
You smile despite yourself.
“Aaron.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
His expression softens immediately.
Like magic.
Like it always does.
You squeeze his hand.
“I married you.”
“I know.”
“You’re the only person I want.”
A long silence follows.
Then:
“I know.”
You lean over and kiss his cheek.
The faintest hint of pink appears on the tips of his ears.
It’s adorable.
You never tell him that.
The case drags on for another four days.
Four very long days.
Four days of Walker appearing beside you every chance he gets.
Four days of Aaron pretending he isn’t bothered.
Four days of Morgan looking increasingly entertained.
Then everything goes sideways.
The unsub takes a hostage.
A chase follows.
Hours pass.
Nobody sleeps.
Everyone’s exhausted.
And by the time the case finally ends, every nerve in Aaron’s body is stretched dangerously thin.
The arrest happens just before midnight.
The team gathers outside the precinct while paperwork gets finalized.
Everyone’s tired.
Everyone’s relieved.
You lean against a patrol car while waiting for Aaron.
Walker approaches.
Again.
At this point you’re almost impressed by his dedication.
“Looks like we’re done here.”
“Looks like it.”
He smiles.
“I was thinking maybe before you leave town—”
You already know where this is going.
“Oh.”
“Maybe dinner?”
Your heart sinks.
Not because you’re interested.
Quite the opposite.
You actually feel bad for him.
Because standing twenty feet away is Aaron Hotchner.
And Aaron has definitely heard that.
Every.
Single.
Word.
You open your mouth.
“Aaron and I—”
Before you can finish, a familiar voice cuts through the night.
“Detective.”
Walker turns.
Aaron walks toward you.
Slowly.
Calmly.
Looking every bit like the Unit Chief everyone fears.
Except his eyes are fixed entirely on you.
The detective straightens.
“Aaron.”
Aaron doesn’t answer him.
Instead he stops directly in front of you.
Close enough that your heart immediately starts racing.
His gaze drops to yours.
For a second, the world seems to disappear.
Then Aaron reaches up and gently brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.
The gesture is unexpectedly intimate.
Your breath catches.
The detective looks confused.
Morgan, somewhere in the background, starts grinning.
Aaron never takes his eyes off you.
“You ready to go home, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
Oh.
Oh, no.
The detective freezes.
You feel your lips twitch.
Aaron’s hand settles against your waist.
Possessive.
Certain.
Completely unbothered by the audience.
And suddenly Walker understands.
His eyes widen.
“Oh.”
You almost laugh.
Aaron finally glances at him.
The look he gives the detective is perfectly polite.
Which somehow makes it worse.
“My wife and I have an early flight.”
The silence that follows is spectacular.
Walker blinks.
“Wife?”
“Yes.”
Aaron’s arm tightens slightly around your waist.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to remind everyone exactly where he stands.
And where you stand too.
The detective immediately looks horrified.
“Oh my God.”
Morgan actually snorts.
“I didn’t know.”
“So I’ve gathered.”
You bury your face against Aaron’s shoulder to hide your smile.
Walker mutters several apologies before practically fleeing the scene.
The second he’s gone, the team loses it.
Morgan is laughing.
Garcia is cackling over speakerphone.
Even Emily looks amused.
Aaron ignores all of them.
“Let’s go.”
You look up at him.
“Feel better?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“No.”
You raise an eyebrow.
Aaron’s mouth twitches.
Just slightly.
Then he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your forehead.
Right in front of everyone.
A collective chorus of shocked noises erupts from the team.
Aaron doesn’t care.
For once, he genuinely doesn’t care.
His hand finds yours.
And when he looks at you, all the jealousy and frustration from the last week has vanished.
Replaced by something much softer.
Something that belongs only to the two of you.
“Come on, sweetheart.”
You smile.
“Home?”
His expression finally breaks into a rare, genuine smile.
summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detached—while quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchner—so here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (i’m so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. “You’re wearing a skirt.”
You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”
“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”
You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”
“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”
You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”
Your stomach flips. “Spence.”
He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”
You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.
“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”
Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”
“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”
“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.
She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”
“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”
Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”
“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”
“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You swipe through dating apps, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.
He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:
Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”
Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”
“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”
Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”
“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”
Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”
“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.
Not the team. You.
Your stomach twists.
That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.
His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—
“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.
You blink hard. “What?”
He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”
You frown. “I’m not—”
He gives you a look.
“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.
Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.
You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.
Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”
You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”
He hums. “Sure.”
“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”
“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.
The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.
You sigh. “Reid.”
“Hm?”
“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.
“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”
You frown slightly.
“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”
Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”
“What’s she right about?”
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”
He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.
He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.
“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.
Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.
“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”
You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”
“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
“Good girl,” he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.
Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”
You finally blink. “What?”
“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”
You frown. “What are you—”
“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”
Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”
“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”
“Reid.”
“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”
You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”
“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”
He pauses, tilting his head.
“Very obviously your type.”
You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.
Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.
Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”
Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”
“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”
Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.
You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.
Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.
You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. That’s pathetic.
You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.
The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.
Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.
“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”
Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”
You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”
“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”
You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”
“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.
You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.
With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.
You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.
And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.
Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.
You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.
There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.
It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.
You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.
No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.
Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.
That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.
The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.
Twelve notifications.
You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.
Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.
You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”
You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.
Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.
DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given.
DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.
That answer comes a little too easily.
You: Workaholic. You?
DCRunner00: I get bored easily.
DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment.
You: Sounds like a public safety issue.
DCRunner00: Depends who you ask.
DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.
You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.
You shake your head, typing quickly.
You: Yeah, I should.
You: Night, Running Man.
Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.
TUESDAY 9:50AM
“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”
He’s wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”
Hotch ignores him completely.
“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”
He glances once around the table.
“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”
Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.
The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.
“You should probably blink.”
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.
Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.
You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.
You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.
Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”
“How late were you here last night?” he asks.
You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”
“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”
“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”
You blink. “Oh.”
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
“Anytime, sir,” you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.
By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.
You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.
Two new messages from DCRunner00.
DCRunner00: Running Man?
DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.
You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than ‘Workaholic’.
You: You read Stephen King?
“Hey, you busy?”
You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”
He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”
“I could be working.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”
“I could use your help.”
“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.
He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
“Where do you want to start?”
“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”
You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?
“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”
You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”
“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”
He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
“No, listen to me carefully.”
Both you and Reid glance up automatically.
Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.
“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”
He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.
“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”
Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.
You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”
“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”
You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.
“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”
Your face heats.
“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”
Oh my God.
“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”
He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.
You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—
Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.
You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.
When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.
DCRunner00: I’ve read a few.
DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?
You type your reply as you step out of the building.
You: Work, mostly.
You: And sleep.
By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like?
DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person.
You: Nah. That’s my boss.
You: My schedule is chaos, though.
“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.
You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”
You set the cup down in front of him.
“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”
Your face heats instantly.
“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.
You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.
Which is also when you finally check your messages again.
DCRunner00: Chaos how?
You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.
You: Long hours.
You: Weird hours.
You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.
Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.
Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.
You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.
DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people.
You: Rude.
He replies almost immediately.
DCRunner00: Accurate, though?
You: Unfortunately.
You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.
Ping!
DCRunner00: What do you actually do?
You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.
You: Mostly admin.
You: Governmental stuff.
You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.
You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
DCRunner00: Sounds boring.
DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?
You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.
You: Sort of.
You: But if my boss calls, I answer.
He replies instantly again.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked.
You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.
You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.
DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy.
You: Probably.
What about you? What do you do?
You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
He’s already replied by the time you log in.
DCRunner00: Run.
DCRunner00: Read.
DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally.
You: That sounds made up.
You open your protein bar.
DCRunner00: It mostly is.
DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?
You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.
You type out a vague response.
You: Sometimes.
You: Occupational hazard, I guess.
DCRunner00: And you always answer?
You: Pretty much.
You: He’d only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
That’s... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.
You: Jealous already, Running Man?
DCRunner00: Should I be?
You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.
You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”
You: I’m going to sleep.
You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
“Is Garcia in yet?”
He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
“I just—I need her.”
You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—
“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”
His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”
His brows pull together slightly.
“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.
It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”
“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”
“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”
She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”
You grimace. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”
She nods.
“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”
You wince.
“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”
You hesitate.
“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”
You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
“Have you told Hotch?”
“Nope.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”
“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.
“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”
Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”
Garcia gives you a long look.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”
“Garcia.”
“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”
You point at the screen. “Focus.”
“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”
You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”
“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”
You frown. “In English?”
She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”
“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”
“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”
Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.
You: I thought I told you not to spiral.
He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.
DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke.
DCRunner00: Mostly.
She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”
Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”
“No.”
She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”
You nod.
“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
“You’re the best, Pen.”
“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”
By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.
Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.
“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”
You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.
You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.
You glance at him. “Why?”
“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”
You roll your eyes. “Spence—”
“Something must be seriously wrong.”
You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.
“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”
His brows shoot up. “A guy—”
“Online,” you add quickly.
He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”
You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”
“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”
You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”
“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”
“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”
His forehead creases. “Have you told—”
“No.”
“Maybe you should—”
“I said no.”
“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”
You stare at him.
“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”
He pauses, frowning faintly.
“That was supposed to be reassuring.”
“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”
When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: You’re weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot.
You: Workaholic, remember.
You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, that’s not the reason.
Garcia: So there IS a reason?
You: Shh. I’m working.
Garcia: Boo!
You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.
It doesn’t work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.
If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.
An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.
One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.
DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me?
DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.
Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”
You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”
“No.”
“Are you insane?”
“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”
“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”
“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”
You press your free hand against your forehead.
“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”
Garcia scoffs loudly.
“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”
The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.
“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”
“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”
She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”
Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”
“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”
You nearly choke. “What?”
“Non-negotiable.”
“Penelope, that’s insane.”
“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”
“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.
“Mm-hm.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”
You frown. “…Morally complicit?”
“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”
You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”
She hums, satisfied.
“I need to reply to him again.”
“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”
“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”
“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”
“Absolutely not.”
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”
“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.
You: Lucky guess.
The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.
At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.
When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.
By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.
At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”
You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”
You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.
“See who soon?” Reid asks.
You glance at him. “Garcia.”
He tilts his head.
“She’s staying over tonight.”
His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”
“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”
His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”
You scoff. “About me? Never.”
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”
You pause mid-motion.
“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”
“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”
He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—
“Agent.”
You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.
You force a small smile. “Sir.”
His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”
You nod once. “Of course.”
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”
Your breath catches.
He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.
“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.
You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.
“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”
You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”
You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then—
“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”
You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”
You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.
And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.
The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.
“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.
“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.
Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.
“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”
You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”
“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”
Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”
You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.
DCRunner00: Refreshing
DCRunner00: Most people hide too much.
You: Depends what they’re trying to hide.
DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide?
You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing.
DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight.
You: Long day.
DCRunner00: I noticed.
You: How was yours?
You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.
Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.
“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”
“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.
Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.
The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.
“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”
You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”
“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”
“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”
Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”
“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”
You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”
“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”
Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”
“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”
Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”
Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.
“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.
Very slowly, you turn in your chair.
Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.
Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.
You want to die.
The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.
“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”
You drop your head into your hands.
“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.
“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.
You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.
Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.
But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.
“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”
He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”
You glance up at him hopefully.
“Morgan definitely is, though.”
You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.
The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner
Subject: Wallace Interview
You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”
You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”
“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.
You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.
Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.
You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment]
DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.
Ice floods your bloodstream.
You stop breathing.
“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You don’t answer him. You can’t.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Until—
“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”
She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”
Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”
“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”
You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.
Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.
“What’s going on?”
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.
Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.
Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.
Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
“Who sent this?”
Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.
It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.
“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.
“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”
You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”
“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”
Could this day get any worse?
Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.
“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”
“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”
You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”
There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.
“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”
Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”
You grimace. “Fantastic.”
“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”
“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”
You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”
The room goes still for half a second.
“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”
Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”
“Or angry,” Morgan adds.
“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”
You sink lower in your chair.
“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”
“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
“Ow.”
Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”
Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”
Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.
“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”
“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.
“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”
Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”
“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”
“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
You open your mouth to argue.
“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.
“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.
“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
“I’m taking her home.”
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.
Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.
Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.
“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.
He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.
He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.
Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.
Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.
“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”
Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.
Your eyes go wide.
Traitor.
Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.
Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?
He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.
You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.
Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.
If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.
Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.
But this?
This feels dangerously close to being found out.
The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.
Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.
Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.
By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.
Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.
“I’m fine.”
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”
He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
“You think this is nothing?”
His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.
“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.
He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.
That’s all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”
He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”
“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”
His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.
Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.
If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.
“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
“Alright. Keep me updated.”
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”
Your stomach tightens.
“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”
The name hits you immediately.
“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”
You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.
“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”
Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”
“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”
He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”
The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.
“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
“Why do you do that?”
You frown. “Do what?”
“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”
You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”
“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”
Your pulse stutters.
“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”
“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”
But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.
“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”
Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.
“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”
“Leave Leia out of this.”
“She doesn’t like strangers.”
“She likes you.”
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”
Oh God.
“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.
“You track me.”
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.
“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”
Your breath stutters.
And Hotch notices immediately.
His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.
“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.
He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.
“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”
Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.
“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”
His eyes lock onto yours.
“You redirect.”
You can barely breathe now.
He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.
And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.
You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.
“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.
He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.
His throat shifts slightly.
And then—
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.
Because holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
What the hell just happened?
“They got him.”
Your head snaps up. “They what?”
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”
“Oh.”
“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”
He pauses, then looks at you.
“But they got him.”
“Good,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.
“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”
You nod. “Okay.”
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”
“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
“Babysitting?” he repeats.
“You know what I mean.”
He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”
“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.
But you can’t.
All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.
You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.
His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesn’t last long.
Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.
Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
“Aaron—”
“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”
FRIDAY 6:15AM
Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—
Oh God.
The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.
Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.
Your stomach swoops.
You slept with your boss last night.
With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.
You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.
“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.
“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”
“Oh, he notices.”
Your stomach flips. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”
Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”
“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”
“Oh my God.”
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
“And the red bra,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Mm, sure.”
You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”
You feel his lips curve.
“Good thing I’m the boss.”
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.
The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”
You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.
“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”
Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”
You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”
“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.
You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”
“I was.”
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”
You frown. “Hotch, I—”
“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.
“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”
Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.
“…Huh.”
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
aaron hotchner x fem!reader
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word count: 4k
Warnings: grief/loss, reference to character death, fluff overall
a/n: domestic lilbaddiexhotch content? healing? peace? happiness? in my fic? who would have thought 😭 rip haley, gone but never forgotten.
June 2013
Bookend: "Grief knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger links than common joys."
— Alphonse de Lamartine
A loud crash splits through the house, and you're already moving — down the stairs before you've fully thought about it, your hand catching the banister on the turn.
Jack stands frozen in the foyer beside a collapsed box, all his things spilled across the hardwood in one bright, tragic sprawl. Dinosaurs. Cars. Action figures. A plastic T. rex tangled with the wheel from some entirely unrelated truck like battlefield debris.
Aaron appears in the doorway before the echo fades, and Jack looks up at his father with the particular expression of a child who has been deeply wronged by an inanimate object.
"The bottom opened."
You're already on your knees beside the mess. "That's okay. We'll fix it."
You reach first for the things Jack loves most, handling each one with exaggerated gravity, lifting King Kong as though he's survived something dramatic. "These are obviously precious cargo. We should probably get them to your room before there are any more casualties."
Jack's whole face brightens. "My room."
You look up at him. "Your room."
Aaron takes a small step back and watches the two of you with that quiet, almost disbelieving expression he gets when life hands him something good and he hasn't quite figured out how to hold it yet. You can see it move through him as clearly as weather.
This is my life now.
It only lasts a second before he bends for the ruined box and the tape gun. "I knew I should've taped the bottom twice."
"You definitely should have."
"Helpful," he says, dry as dust.
You gather the toys into your arms while Jack carries the dinosaur sheets himself — this was non-negotiable, firmly established in the car — and the three of you head upstairs: Jack trotting ahead narrating the rescue operation, you following with an armful of plastic chaos, Aaron coming behind with the box and tape and that unguarded expression he doesn't realize he's wearing.
By the time you reach the room at the end of the hall, Jack is already standing in the center of it with his hands on his hips, taking stock of his kingdom.
He takes King Kong from your arms and places him on the dresser with ceremony. "This one goes here. And these go over there. And the dinosaurs need to be together because they're a family."
You set the last of the toys on the rug and smooth a hand through Jack's hair. "Sounds like a very good system."
"It is," Jack confirms. Then, pointing at Aaron with all the authority in the world: "Dad. You can put the books on the shelf."
Aaron nods gravely. "Yes, sir."
Jack drops to the floor, satisfied, and begins arranging his toy families with the intensity of a small general who has given this extensive prior thought.
Aaron places the books exactly as instructed and crosses to you, stopping close enough that his shoulder finds yours. His voice drops just below the sound of Jack's ongoing commentary to the dinosaurs.
"You okay?"
You look around the room — the half-made bed, the stack of books still waiting on the floor, the open closet, the little boy already at home on the rug — and then you look at Aaron.
"Yeah." Your voice comes out quieter than you intended. "I'm more than okay. It just all feels… strange too."
"Strange?"
You lean back against the dresser, folding your arms loosely. "After everything that happened a few weeks ago. The Replicator. Losing Strauss. Her family losing their mother."
The catch in your throat is small, but he hears it. He always hears it.
"I know Rossi is hurting right now. And it wasn't that long ago that we were the ones on the wrong side of timing — wanting each other, carrying all of it, still having to pretend otherwise." You look back at him. "So getting this now, getting everything we wanted…" You let out a breath. "It's beautiful. It is. But it's bittersweet too."
He steps closer, his hand coming to the side of your neck, his thumb settling just below your ear.
"It is bittersweet," he says. "But that doesn't make it wrong." His eyes hold yours. "You and I know better than most that grief and happiness don't take turns. They can happen at the same time. What happened to Strauss, to Rossi — that's true. And this is also true. Both things get to exist."
"I think one of the cruelest things this job does," you start, "is convince people they have to earn joy by waiting for the world to stop hurting first. It never does...does it?"
You reach for the front of his shirt and pull him closer, your forehead almost meeting his.
"We don't dishonor anyone by loving each other," his hand finds your waist, "or by building something good in the middle of bad things. If anything, I think we owe it to the people we've lost to hold onto what's still here."
"Aaron—"
"I spent too long believing the timing had to be perfect before I could choose you." His gaze moves briefly to Jack and then back to you. "I don't ever want us to make that mistake again."
Across the room, Jack holds up a small dinosaur and announces to no one in particular, "This one's in charge."
The laugh comes out of you before you can stop it and Aaron smiles too, something releasing in his face at the sound of it.
He draws his knuckles once along your cheek. "There. That's better."
"You really think it's okay?" you ask. "To just let ourselves be this happy?"
The tenderness that moves through his expression is almost unbearable. "I think it would be a tragedy not to."
That sits in you for a long moment. Then you nod, and he leans in and presses a slow kiss to your forehead.
You close your eyes and stay there for just a second — the grief still present somewhere underneath, the sweetness of this moment sitting right alongside it, not competing, not taking turns, just both at once, the way things you can't resolve simply learn to share the same space.
Later, when the last box is flattened and stacked by the mudroom, when the takeout containers are in the trash and the dishes rinsed and left in the sink, when the house has settled around the three of you in that particular way a place does when it realizes it is no longer waiting — it's time to get Jack to bed.
He is already drooping: dinosaur pajama pants dragging at the ankles, hair still damp from his bath, one sock inexplicably missing. He carries King Kong under one arm and a plastic triceratops under the other as though both are non-negotiable requirements for the night ahead. He stops in the doorway of his room with the expression of someone who still can't quite believe it belongs to him.
"This is the best room I've ever had," he announces.
He has said this at least five times. He means it every time.
He climbs in without being asked and settles back against the pillow while Aaron draws the blankets up and smooths them flat with that quiet, practiced efficiency he brings to everything. You sit on the edge of the mattress and brush the hair off Jack's forehead, and for a moment the three of you are completely still, held in something that doesn't have a clean name.
Jack looks from you to Aaron and back again with the solemnity of a child receiving important news. "So. This is for real now?"
Aaron glances at you once — just once — then looks back at his son. "Yeah, buddy. This is for real."
"So when I wake up, you'll both still be here?"
You answer together. "Yes."
He smiles into the pillow. "Good."
Aaron's hand settles at the back of your waist, and the three of you talk through Jack's plans for the room — the curtains change color schemes twice more, the shelf arrangement gets reconsidered, and there's a lengthy sidebar about whether King Kong should face the door or the window for optimal security purposes. By the time his arguments have slowed to barely a murmur, his eyelids are losing the battle.
Aaron reaches over and draws his thumb across Jack's temple. Jack's eyes find you first, heavy and peaceful. "Goodnight, Y/N."
"Sleep good, baby."
Aaron leans in, and his voice takes on that tone it uses only for Jack — each word set down carefully. "Goodnight, buddy."
"Goodnight, Dad." A beat, and then, from somewhere already half inside sleep: "Love you guys."
"Love you too," Aaron says, without hesitation.
You will never stop being surprised by the ease of it — the way Jack says it like it has simply always been true.
"Love you too, Jack."
He's asleep before either of you moves, and you sit there in the lamplight listening to his breathing settle into that slow, even rhythm children find so easily when they feel safe.
Then Aaron reaches over and switches off the lamp. Moonlight takes over in pale blue strips across the walls, across the blankets, across the small shape of Jack's shoulder.
You both rise slowly, carefully, and he follows you to the door. Jack shifts once — pulls King Kong a little closer — and then stills again.
At the threshold, you turn back for one last look.
Your first night. All together.
Aaron comes up behind you, one arm sliding around your waist, his chin brushing your temple. "Thank you," he says. "For making him so happy."
You lean back into him. "I love that kid like he's mine, Aaron."
His arm tightens. "I know," he says, and when you tip your head just enough to look at him: "And that makes me love you even more."
You pull the door to — not shut, just almost, leaving the hallway light spilling in — and when you turn around Aaron is still looking at it, like he's trying to make the reality of it stick.
Then he looks at you, and everything he's carrying — the love and the relief and the exhaustion and the gratitude, that quiet awe he wears when life gives him something good and he's afraid to blink too hard in case it shifts — all of it is right there on his face, unguarded.
You step into him, and he catches you the same way he always does now, one arm around your waist and one hand at the back of your neck, his whole body orienting toward yours the way it has quietly learned to do.
Home is not the house, exactly.
It is this —
you,
Jack asleep at the end of the hall,
the life the three of you have made real out of time and choice and love.
"Your first official night," you say against his chest.
A quiet laugh moves through him. "God, that sounds good."
You smile. "It really does."
His hand slides lower at your waist, warm and unhurried. "You can let me know when rent's due."
You tip your head back. "Maybe you can make a little advance payment now."
The look that crosses his face is immediate — amusement first, then something far less innocent.
"Is that right."
Not a question.
You brush your mouth once over the line of his jaw. "I have my own bills to pay."
He makes a low sound and then kisses you — slow, deep, the kind of kiss that belongs specifically to the end of a very long day and the beginning of something that is going to last.
When he pulls back, his hand gives your hip two subtle squeezes, that small private signal he never had to explain and you somehow learned anyway. Your pulse lifts every time.
"Come to bed," he says.
You glance once more at Jack's door, the thin warm line of light beneath it, the room on the other side that now holds some part of all of you, and then you look back at Aaron and lean in until your lips are at the corner of his mouth.
"Yes, sir."
You come back from the bathroom in his shirt and nothing else, skin still warm, hair loose from where his fingers were buried in it not long ago, and he looks up the second you step through the door with an expression he no longer bothers to hide.
Like it would take too much effort.
Like he has given up trying to look like a man who is not completely gone on you.
You slip into bed and tangle your legs with his, your cheek finding the familiar place on his chest, and his arm comes around you before you've fully settled.
"Hopefully that counted as a decent housewarming gift."
A laugh moves through him beneath your cheek, and his fingers find the hem of the shirt and trace up your side in one slow, absent pass. "It was perfect." A kiss pressed to the crown of your head. "You're perfect."
You smile against his skin, then lift your face to look at him. "Do you think Jack's happy? With his room?"
Something in Aaron's face softens immediately, the way it always does when the subject is Jack. "Are you kidding me? He was still smiling when his eyes were closing. I don't think he stopped once."
"Good." You breathe out and settle closer, and his hand keeps moving over your side, easy and familiar, the particular kind of touch that isn't asking for anything.
But the thought is already there, and you know yourself well enough to know it won't leave.
"I know it's probably—" You stop. Try again. "Hard."
His hand goes still. "Hard how?"
You fiddle nervously with the hem of his shirt that drapes across your hips. "Moving into a new home again. Seeing his dad every day with someone who isn't—" The words arrive carefully, each one placed down like something fragile. "Who isn't his mom."
Aaron goes very still, and you feel it and wish briefly you'd waited.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought that up tonight, I just—"
"No." His hand moves to the back of your neck, turning your face toward his. "You have every right to say it."
You search his expression in the low light. "I just don't ever want this to feel like I'm replacing her," your voice worn down to almost nothing. "The life you had. What she was to him."
The look on his face does something complicated — tender and a little overwhelmed but very certain, all at once — and he pushes your hair back from your forehead and keeps his hand there.
"You are not replacing anyone," he assures. "Haley is Jack's mother. She always will be. Nothing will ever change that." His thumb traces your temple, once. "But, what you are doing is loving him. Giving him another safe place to land. That is not a theft. That is a gift."
The sting behind your eyes intensifies.
"Jack is allowed to love you," he comforts you further, "and I am allowed to love you, and none of that diminishes her. Love doesn't work like that."
"I know that," you shrug. "In theory."
His mouth curves, just slightly. "I know."
The house settles around you, quiet and new, and then, lower, more deliberately: "And if I ever thought for a single second that this was confusing for him, or harmful — I would tell you. I need you to know that."
You nod tentatively.
"Do you know what I saw tonight?" he asks, and when you shake your head: "I saw my son in a room he already thinks of as his own, in a house that already feels safe to him, looking at you like you belong there." His hand moves back down your side, slow and sure. "That is what I saw."
A tear slips free before you can stop it, and he catches it without comment — just his thumb, simple as that.
"There will be hard moments," he states honestly. "I won't tell you otherwise. He'll miss her in new ways as he gets older, he'll have questions, feelings he doesn't have language for yet." A pause. "So will I. But I want to have those moments with you — not around you, not despite you. With you."
You press your face into his chest, and both his arms close around you at once. "I want that too," you mumble against his skin, and then you pull back just enough to breathe. "And I want Haley to still be part of our life. I want her to be honored. I want Jack to be able to say her name in this house like it belongs here, because it does."
Your hand finds his chest and anchors there. "If he wants pictures in his room, we put pictures in his room, in the living room, the dining room. If he wants to tell stories about her, we tell them. Birthdays, little traditions, things she loved — I want him to have all of it, Aaron. I mean that."
He looks at you in the near-dark for a long moment, too much moving through his face to name. "Y/N," he hums, and your name in his mouth sounds like something handled with devotion.
"I want the same for you too," you keep going, because if you stop you won't start again. "I want you to be able to miss her here, without feeling like you have to take that somewhere private, like it's something to be folded away out of sight. I don't need protecting from the life you had before me — I love you because of all of it, all the roads that led you here, everything that made you who you are." You look at him steadily. "You never have to choose. Not between me and her memory, not between who she was to you both and who I am. There is room. I am telling you there is so much room."
For a moment he is completely still, and then the sincerest smile finds his mouth — undone, a little broken, entirely real.
"I think," he wavers for a moment, "you two would've been good friends."
You hold him tighter at that, "I think so too."
The next night, the three of you sit on the living room floor with a bowl of popcorn between you, three sweating cans of soda on the coffee table, and a home video paused on the television — a little overexposed, the color a little washed, the edges frayed the way old recordings go.
Aaron leans forward and presses play, and his own voice comes out of the speakers first, younger, from somewhere behind the camera. "We're ready for you, Jack."
On the screen, Haley laughs from a hospital bed, one hand resting over the curve of her stomach, hair loose, cheeks flushed with exhaustion or anticipation or both. "If you could please hurry up," she tells her stomach, patting it twice, "that would be great."
Jack sits up very straight between you and Aaron. "I was in there?"
"You sure were," Aaron confirms, warm beside you, and Jack looks from the screen to his father and back again with the expression of someone encountering a plot twist of the highest order.
The video wobbles — Aaron laughing behind the camera, the picture tilting briefly toward the ceiling — and then cuts.
The next clip opens quieter, in a different room. Aaron in the hospital bed now, Haley's shoulder pressed against his, a newborn tucked into the crook of her arm in a small knit cap. They are both very young, experiencing a new form of life and love — the exhaustion and the awe and the specific terror of a thing you wanted so much it's almost unbearable to finally have.
Jack gasps. "I was so little."
"You were extremely loud for someone so little," Aaron laughs, and on screen Haley traces one finger over the baby's cheek without looking up. "He has your perpetual furrowed brow."
"What's a furr—furry brow?" Jack asks, and Aaron draws his eyebrows together in solemn demonstration, and Jack laughs — the sound of it filling every corner of the room. "Mommy was funny."
"She was," Aaron agrees, with no pause, no catch in it, just the simple warmth of something true.
Another cut, another room. Haley in the kitchen now, a fussy toddler balanced on her hip, stirring something on the stove with her free hand, and she turns toward the camera with an expression of magnificent long-suffering. "You are no help."
Aaron's voice from behind the lens, threadbare with amusement: "I'm documenting."
"You are documenting your own failure to assist me."
You laugh into your hand before you can stop yourself, and Aaron glances sideways at you — just a look, quick and content and entirely private — and you have to press your lips together to keep from smiling wider.
The footage shifts again to Aaron this time, holding a slightly bigger Jack on his hip while attempting to make a bottle one-handed, Haley laughing behind the camera so hard the frame shakes.
"You said you had this."
"I do have this," Aaron insists, with great conviction, as Jack pats his cheek with an open hand.
You look at him — the man beside you on the floor, shoulder solid against yours — and then at the younger version of him on screen, years away from knowing you existed, years from any version of this life, and something moves through you that isn't quite grief and isn't quite joy, something that doesn't have a clean name and doesn't need one.
The picture changes once more. Haley on a blanket in a park, Aaron lying beside her, baby Jack asleep between them in the afternoon light. The camera has been propped somewhere — a bag, maybe, or a folded jacket — because for once all three of them are in frame together, just existing, just a family on an ordinary afternoon that didn't know yet how extraordinary it was.
You sit with the quiet weight of it: the strangeness and the privilege of being trusted with a life that started long before you arrived, of loving people who were already deep inside their story when you found them.
Aaron glances over and catches whatever is on your face, a question moving through his eyes.
Are you okay? Is this too much?
You give him the smallest shake of your head.
No. I'm okay. This matters.
Something in him settles.
The video ends, the screen holding on Haley's face for half a second — caught mid-laugh, head tipped back, completely unselfconscious — and then goes dark.
Nobody moves.
Then Jack speaks, his voice small and very certain. "Can we watch more tomorrow?"
"Yeah," Aaron smiles. "We can watch more tomorrow."
Jack leans into his father's side, growing heavier with sleep. "I like hearing her voice."
You reach over and draw your fingers through his hair, once and then again. "Then we're never going to stop listening to it."
He seems satisfied with that, his eyes holding on the dark screen a little longer like he's waiting to see if it comes back, his hand still loose in the popcorn bowl.
Then Aaron's hand finds yours on the floor between you, his fingers closing around yours without comment, without ceremony, and you sit there in the dim living-room light — the three of you held gently in the space between memory and present, between what was lost and what is still here, between the life that came before and the one that is, quietly and stubbornly, still unfolding.
aaron hotchner who swore he’d never get close to another woman, after haley.
aaron hotchner who meets you at one of jack’s soccer games; your niece was jack’s friends becca, the pee-wee team’s goalie.
aaron hotchner who struggles to keep up with you— you’re younger, energetic. you spend your day teaching kindergarteners and it never wears you down. your jobs couldn’t be more different.
aaron hotchner who loves you nonetheless, even after being hesitant at first— but seeing you get on with jack so quickly melted down his walls.
aaron hotchner who finds he sleeps better when he listens to your heartbeat; a constant thumping, telling him you’re safe, breathing.
aaron hotchner who listens to you babble on about your day over dinner, eyes glossed over in a way they only ever are with you.
aaron hotchner whose coworkers at the BAU adore you— penelope, jj, and emily take you in as one of their own, inviting you to girls night. he watches across the bar with dave as the four of you chat all night.
aaron hotchner who knew on the first date, you’re his forever.
tw: light cm violence, reader gets hurt, hurt/comfort & fluff
a/n: just a little something cuz who doesn't like to being taken care of
KEEP YOU WARM
Everyone in the BAU knew you and Hotch had crushes on one another. It was clear as day to everyone with eyes — everyone except the two of you.
Every morning, you brought him coffee from the nearby coffee shop on your way to the office, and he repaid you with a bottle of water left on your desk during the day. You claimed it was nothing special. You tried to be nice to your friends, but nothing was as regular as this. You brought donuts once a month, baked cookies occasionally, and made coffee runs for the others during exhausting cases. So, to you, the morning coffee was simply a kind gesture.
For Hotch, it was not just something nice. It was the reason he got out of bed every morning, wanting to arrive a few minutes early just to see you and personally thank you for the cup. Occasionally, your fingers brushed, and the contact made his skin prickle even hours later.
A new case: three murders, one kidnapping. You were in Minnesota for four days already, and you really hoped to be back home by the end of the week. Your go-to travel bag was catastrophically unprepared for the cold November weather, and you were beginning to wonder when your last warm sweater would start to smell.
You busied yourself with a copy of the latest victim’s diary, trying to find something — literally anything — that could help you identify the unsub.
Someone cleared their throat right in front of your desk, making you look up. There he stood in front of you, wearing a navy blue sweater and dark slacks, handsome as ever. However, his face was now set in a frown.
“Have you been eating?”
You looked at him in confusion, trying to remember the last time you had eaten.
“Yeah, I think so? I had a donut for breakfast and coffee later. I was just finishing reading the victim’s diaries and—”
“Breakfast was at 7:30 a.m. It’s 3 p.m. Have you eaten since then?”
You looked around, shrugging as you tried to dismiss the problem.
“I’ll eat lunch when I’m done,” you said eventually.
Hotch just looked at you before gently closing the file, sliding it farther away, and placing a takeout container in front of you along with a bottle of water.
“Eat. I need you focused, not starving,” he announced before leaving you with Chinese takeout. You glanced at his back dumbfoundedly as he approached Rossi to discuss the case.
The breakthrough came the next day. Someone recognized the unsub, and Garcia found their location in record time.
You jumped into the SUV with JJ and Morgan, with Rossi, Hotch, and Reid hot on your tail. The drive was short and frantic when every second counted.
You arrived at the place in record time, running around the house with guns in hand and Kevlar vests strapped on.
The sudden movement at your side caught your attention, but it was too late. A fist connected with your jaw, knocking you out for a moment, making you lose your balance and fall right into the small pond you had been checking moments before.
“Y/N!” JJ called at the same moment Morgan tackled the unsub, cuffing him and throwing him to the ground harder than necessary.
Hotch didn’t wait. He jumped in after you immediately, not allowing fear to paralyze him. He pulled you out of the water, soaking wet but slowly regaining consciousness.
“Hey, honey, wake up,” he mumbled before he could even process the words that had slipped out.
“Aaron,” you smiled weakly, calling him by his first name out loud for the first time.
“It’s me. Let’s get you warm and checked out, okay?”
You nodded weakly, eyes fixed on his face as he carried you to the EMTs. A paramedic wrapped a towel around you and checked your head for injuries. You were cleared after fifteen minutes.
“I need to change,” you said, shivering as the cold wind cut through your wet clothes.
“Yes, let’s go. You can change at the precinct, and then we’ll go home.”
You sat in your usual spot on the jet, wearing black leggings you normally used as pajamas and a long-sleeved shirt, since it was the last clean thing in your bag. You were still cold, curled up with a cup of tea in your hands, damp hair loosely braided so it wouldn’t cling to your face or clothes.
“Here. Wear this. It’ll keep you warm.”
You looked up at Hotch as he handed you his sweater. Hesitantly, you took the navy fabric and pulled it on, instantly wrapped in the scent of his cologne.
“Thank you,” you smiled as he took the seat next to yours.
“Don’t mention it. Are you feeling better?” A soft smile danced on his lips as he looked down at you.
“Yes. Now I am.”
And if your head dropped onto his shoulder as exhaustion took over and you fell asleep, no one dared to comment on the gentle smile on Aaron’s face or the hand resting protectively over yours.
Just to keep them warm, he justified to himself.
“Five bucks says he asks her out by the end of the year,” Morgan whispered to Rossi as they watched the two of you from the other side of the plane.
“Ten bucks says he does it by the end of the month.”
“Come on, they’ve been dancing around each other for months now. He won’t speed things up that fast,” Derek laughed quietly.
“But nothing pushes a man to take action like keeping his woman safe.”
And if Derek had to hand Dave the money by the end of the next week, after the two of you left the office hand in hand... well, no one else needed to know.
Summary: It was well known within the team that there was one other person that had captured their team leader's heart. You knew Aaron back when he and Haley took a break from their relationship and he went to the academy and met you. What the team doesn’t know is that you have been with the FBI ever since, working the west coast mainly until you get requested to join the BAU.
series list
word count: 4.4K
an// the timeline is a little different in this from the show, Aaron spent longer as a prosecutor before going to the academy and joining the FBI for this to work and to make the reader younger than Aaron. This is also a world where Foyet never happened and Haley is still alive.
-
You had gotten hours of sleep back at the hotel, but the night dragged on anyway. The unsub’s countdown kept ticking by on the monitor at the far end of the table. You have half scribbled behavioral notes that are all heavy on the guesswork. Prentiss and Morgan checked in periodically from the field, still retracing the previous bomb sites looking for overlap.
Every check in ended the same way on both ends. No solid leads.
Across the room behind you Aaron remains stretched across the couch. Every so often you find yourself looking over involuntarily. Each time you force yourself back toward the case board. Seeing Aaron asleep felt strangely intimate. Sure, everyone’s had a nap on the jet, but this was just the two of you.
He looked too human. Too soft. Without the rigid posture and constant focus he looked younger and it reminded you of a version of him you tried to keep blocked out.
You rub your eyes tiredly before leaning back in your chair. You were missing something. The unsub is building toward a final event. He isn’t random. It’s not chaos for chaos’ sake. He had intention and you could feel it.
“Any luck?”
You look toward the door expecting Morgan and Emily but instead find Mark. He’s in a new suit but it’s clear he didn’t sleep much either.
You sigh, “Not enough.”
He nods once before looking over the new things you had added to the board. He glances over at the couch, spotting Aaron. He looks back at you right after.
“I’m heading out for coffee.”
You perk up and he smirks.
“I knew that’d get your attention.” He laughs, “I remember something about ‘bureau coffee tastes like battery acid’.”
You smile, “Let me ask you this, when was the last time someone cleaned that thing?”
You gesture to the ancient machine sitting along the far wall, he holds up his hands in defence and takes a couple steps backward toward the door.
“Same order?”
You nod immediately and his eyes flick over your shoulder toward Aaron again.
“What about him?”
You blink a couple times, honestly surprised he was offering. It must’ve shown on your face too because he snorted softly.
“We’re all working to catch the son of a bitch together.” He shrugs, “Team morale or whatever.”
You huff a small laugh before looking back toward the couch.
“Large black coffee.”
He nods and disappears out into the bullpen. The silence in the room takes over again and you give it exactly three seconds.
“You really gotta work on your poker face if you’re going to make a habit of eavesdropping.”
Silence.
“Does it count as eavesdropping if I’m in plain sight?” Aaron eventually answers.
You spin around in your chair and he still has his eyes closed. You don’t know the exact moment he woke up, but you knew he was awake when you looked over at him when Mark asked about his coffee. He sits up, his hair messy and in all directions from the throw pillows.
“You could’ve told him your coffee order yourself.”
A faint near smile crosses his face.
“That was a surprise.” He admits, “He’s a good man.”
You raise your brows to show how surprised you are at the admission.
“He is.”
“Why didn’t you marry him?” He asks boldly and you sigh. You run a hand back through your hair to buy yourself a couple seconds to come with the answer. You know you can’t lie to him, there’s no use.
“After our break up I told myself I would never settle for less.” You confess, wanting to dodge his stare, “I knew if I went through with the wedding… “
You stare off for a second, not finishing the thought. You can’t and not to him of all people. After a second or two you look back at him and where he’s still focused on you.
“He deserved better.” You nod, leaving it at that.
Aaron swallows, finally looking down and wiping his palms on the top of his thighs in front of him. You turn back toward the table and press your elbows into it with your hands folded together. The converging maps still lay out in front of you.
You shift back into work mode and he rolls up the wrinkled sleeves of his button down to reveal his forearms and leans forward to put his shoes back on.
“Any breakthroughs?”
“Maybe.”
That got his attention. You grab one of the subway maps and he stands up and leans over your shoulder. You point toward the locations of each bombing.
“We’ve been assuming escalation meant bigger casualties.”
He nods, “But?”
“I don’t think he’s targeting our response time. I think he’s testing the traffic patterns at different hours and locations to see what gives him the biggest fallout.”
He nods and you continue.
“The first attack was the car bomb, and the passengers were the only victims, the road was only closed for a few hours. The second bomb was at a subway platform, which closed that train but the lines were still running. The coffee shop shut down access for a block radius. The most recent one? That line is still closed because of the wreckage and thousands of people are using alternate routes.”
“The fewer routes, the more people condensed on the alternate routes.” He continues, catching on immediately.
You nod, “He bottlenecks people to specific trains and then targets them heavily.”
Your eyes meet at the same time at the realization. This unsub wasn’t simply trying to cause panic, he was looking to harm thousands of civilians.
Mark comes back with a tray of coffees, the rest of the team following behind him. JJ and Reid look more alive than when you last saw them. You offer Mark a quick ‘thank you’ when he hands you your drink. He then turns toward Aaron and offers his. Rossi’s eyes follow the motion and his shoulders move with a silent chuckle.
“Thank you.” Aaron takes it.
“Oh this is messy.” Garcia’s eyes widen, looking between everyone in the room.
“Garcia.” You warn, cutting her a look.
“First thing in the morning…” She sits down and opens her laptop and continues mumbling mostly to herself, “Where’s my coffee?”
Everyone settles in around the table.
“We have two hours.” Aaron announces and you look over to the countdown. It’ll go off at 8 o’clock this morning, during the start of the morning rush. He continues, “Y/n has a theory I think we should pursue.”
He looks over to you and nods.
You point at the maps, “I think he’s trying to target train lines to get more people on the alternate routes. The alternate routes are the real targets, they’ll be more crowded than usual.”
JJ’s face pales slightly, “That’s thousands of people commuting.”
“And a dozen different train lines that he could be targeting.” Morgan’s expression hardens, “We can’t cover every line with bomb squads fast enough.”
“So we don’t.” You cut in.
Aaron nods, “We’ll pair off. Morgan and Emily take the A line. JJ and Rossi take the 7 line. Reid and Garcia, monitor surveillance and coordinate the remaining lines with local agents. Y/n and I will take the F line.”
-
The subway platform beneath Manhattan felt crowded before you and Aaron had fully descended the stairs. Commutters were packed shoulder to shoulder, moving in both directions getting in and off passing trains. You are hanging on every second, Reid just announced in your earpiece that the unsub’s timer has run out.
You and Aaron are scanning people constantly, your shoulder is barely brushing his as you face different directions. You’re looking for everything. Behavior. Movement. Nerves.
“I have a bad feeling.” You frown, Aaron glances over at you for a split second.
The energy was wrong. You had a pit in your stomach that was telling you to run.
“I feel it too.” The ever so rational Aaron Hotchner admits.
The train shutters to a stop, all the doors opening simultaneously. There’s an exchange of people getting off and then on the train. Moms with strollers pass through, elderly couples, and dozens of people heading in for work.
The train doors shut after a few seconds and then immediately bounce back open with the conductor cracking on the PA. Everyone lets out a collective groan.
“Train delay.” The train conductor announces, “Something blocking the line, please hold.”
This is it.
“Aaron-”
“Yep.”
Both of you immediately shift to get people moving.
“Everybody off the train NOW!” You shout, waving people out toward the stairs and guiding them out. People start flooding past the two of you.
“FBI” Aaron yells, “Off the train!”
The panic was immediate, people screaming and shoving. Everyone is trying to force themselves toward the exits. You and Aaron move through the chaos like experts, helping mothers get their children to the stairs, trying to get everyone as far away as possible.
The train is empty and nearly everyone is moving up the stairs. Everything moving in seconds, you turn to look for Aaron.
You press on your ear piece, “Reid get emergency services to the F train and figure out which alternate lines he would target if he takes out the F train.”
“Y/n has there been an attack?” Reid answers quickly.
“Not yet-”
“Let’s go.” Aaron reaches out his arm and gestures for the two of you to leave. You look back once to make sure no one was left behind and he pushes you forward ahead of him closer to the stairs.
And then the world exploded. The blast hit like a physical wall, glass shattered violently and metal screamed. For one long terrifying second, nothing existed except for white noise and intense pressure.
The sound comes back rushing, you slowly lift your head. Smoke has taken over the station forcing you to cough violently as you try to reorient yourself. Pain is throbbing near the top of your forehead. Warm blood slides slowly down your temple as you get up on wobbly legs.
“Aaron?” You call, squinting through all the smoke. The lights have gone out and the stairs are clouded with distant daylight. You can see a few remaining civilians flee, running up to the street level. Panic punches in your chest at the lack of response from him. You walk back toward the subway platform where there’s small flames and the edge to the platform is gone. The subway car is in warped pieces and the concrete ledge is crumbling away.
You turn back to see Aaron standing. Barely. Something about the look on his face made your stomach drop. You take quick careful steps toward him, avoiding the rubble.
“Aaron?”
He looks up and his balance wavers and you catch his arm before he can trip over his own feet.
“You’ve got glass in your hair.” He shouts it like you’re still standing across the station instead of inches away.
You freeze as his hands come up instinctively to your head, brushing off the glass in your hair.
“Aaron, we’ve gotta get out of here.” You gesture toward the stairs, your lungs craving fresh air. The sound of sirens is getting louder from the street above.
His eyes look distant like he doesn’t follow.
“I think you’re in shock.”
He frowns and you nod toward the stairs. He follows you as you carefully make your way upstairs, coughing while the dust is still trying to settle. Police are flooding in while people are screaming for help.
You reach for your earpiece to talk to Reid but it would seem you lost it in the blast. Hopefully he is looking into the alternate route for the closure, you and Aaron may have bought the critical seconds needed to avoid mass casualty. Maybe.
A black SUV pulls up right next to you with lights flashing. Morgan and Prentiss get out before he fully puts it in park.
“Are you guys okay?” Emily asks, concern written all over her face as she takes you two in.
“I don’t think he can hear.” You explain.
“Again?” Derek sighs.
“This has happened before?” Your eyes go wide.
“Not even the first time in New York.” He shakes his head and you look horrified.
“Jesus.” You mutter, clutching the top of your head where it pounds.
You can still feel Aaron staring at you like he’s trying very hard to stay grounded. It’s pure chaos around all of you while people are being treated for minor injuries and hundreds of people are flooded into one spot, narrowly avoiding the bomb that knocked you and Aaron on your asses.
“You with me?” You ask carefully. His eyes are focused on reading your lips, he slowly nods.
“Reid is sending the bomb squads to the M stations.” Morgan explains, “He said you guys called it in before the blast.”
You nod once, tiredly. Paramedics begin to crowd the two of you, checking out his hearing and the wound on your head that won’t stop bleeding. The adrenaline and smoke are still burning through you, but you catch Aaron’s eyes every few seconds through the chaos.
-
Reid managed to get the bomb squad evacuating the alternate route and the tactical team caught the unsub attempting to plant the secondary explosive on a crowded inbound train. He was swarmed with no other option but to surrender and they didn’t give him the chance to self detonate.
Hundreds of lives were saved.
Just like that, over forty-eight hours of terror over the city came to an end. JJ called it in to confirm for everyone that he had been taken away in handcuffs while screaming incoherently. Hours later after you and Aaron have both been cleared by medical, everyone ends up back in the conference room with packed go-bags and bare evidence boards.
It still looked like a warzone, coffee cups littered everywhere. You’re sitting at the table with everyone else, trying hard to focus on your paperwork rather than the stitches throbbing along your hairline. The jet is fueling and the official medical clearance to actually fly home should be coming any second.
“You look even more badass now.” Garcia insists.
“Thanks, Garc.” You smile.
Aaron’s hearing had mostly returned, by his standard. He was still a little off balance, but it had mostly returned after the initial blast ringing faded. Every once and a while he’d miss the beginning of a sentence and try to hide it.
“We’ve gotta stop coming to New York.” Morgan shakes his head, “One of us always nearly gets blown up.”
“Yes,” Aaron agrees, “let’s not make it a habit.”
“Says you.” You bite, “You’re two for two.”
Garcia lets out a tired sigh, “Can we all just agree bombers are the worst forever?”
The room offered her nods to agree.
Reid looks up from his notes, “If we’re talking statistics, they’re among the least empathetic offender groups.”
Emily points at him, “Reid, I cannot handle any more statistics
Out of the corner of your eye you see Mark approach the open door.
“Hotchner.”
Aaron looks up at him, but everyone’s head’s snap up in surprise. Everyone looks too fast and Mark nods behind him outside of the room.
“Can we talk?”
Aaron nods and stands up from his chair, following Mark outside the room and a few feet away.
“No way.” You mutter. You can’t help but shake your head, watching the two of them talk without any context.
Emily smirks, “You’re trying to figure out what they’re saying.”
“Obviously.” You sit up taller, “And I’m making sure neither of them puts the other in a headlock.”
Rossi nearly chokes on his coffee and Morgan lets out a deep laugh. Aaron looks back toward the room at the noise and you immediately look down. You throw your pen at Rossi when he can’t hide his laugh and nearly blows your cover.
Out in the bullpen the noise inside the conference room faded. Aaron stood across from Mark for a silent moment before either of them speak.
“I owe you an apology.” Aaron admits.
Mark looks mildly surprised and it encourages him to continue.
“My behavior was unprofessional.”
“That’s one word for it.” Mark folds his arms on his chest.
He took that without argument. He deserved it.
Mark’s posture shifts, he leans back and lets out a short laugh.
“For what it’s worth, I probably would’ve done the same in your shoes.”
That caught Aaron off guard and Mark can’t help but grin at his expression.
“She has that effect on people.”
Aaron couldn’t deny that. Silence settles between them briefly and Mark looks toward the conference room where you’re sat arguing with Morgan.
“Treat her well.”
Aaron’s posture shifted. It was subtle, but instant. Mark noticed it.
“Yeah,” He says quietly, “I thought so.”
Aaron looks at him carefully and Mark looks back at him.
“You and I both know what it feels like to lose a woman like that.”
Aaron remains silent. He didn’t know what he could possibly say to that.
“When she called off the wedding I couldn’t even be angry with her.” Mark admits.
Aaron frowns and Mark laughs softly at himself.
“I tried to, believe me.”
“What happened?”
Mark looks down the distant hallway for a second before answering.
“She told me I deserved someone who loves me completely.”
Aaron goes very still.
“She said she knew the real thing and wouldn’t be my almost.”
The words land hard for Aaron because he understood immediately.
Mark smiles faintly without humor, “She was sincere about it too. That was the worst part.”
Aaron swallows once and shifts his weight.
“I’m sorry.”
Mark shrugs lightly, “She wasn’t wrong. She just realized it before I could.”
He looks back over toward your direction.
“I don’t know if anybody’s ever gonna measure up to her.”
Aaron follows his gaze to where you’re still talking with the team. It’s clear you’re arguing about something you’re passionate about. It’s the only time you get that wild look in your eye and a wry smile that hides your sharp tongue.
“But I’m still looking.”
Aaron looks back at him. Understanding had passed between them now. Mark extends his hand forward and Aaron meets it. Firm. Respectful.
Then Mark smirks, “Try not to make her homicidal.”
Aaron gives him a rare smile, “Easier said than done.”
The two of them walk back into the conference room and the entire team looks up. Everyone’s faces freeze, not expecting them to look like they were getting along. Was Aaron smiling?
“Well that was anticlimactic.” Derek sighs, spinning in his seat and bumping into your chair with his leg.
“Oh go find a door to kick in or something.” You roll your eyes, pushing Morgan’s seat away from yours.
Aaron snorts and not a single person in the room misses it.
Rossi points between the two men who are still standing side by side, “I was hoping for at least a shove.”
“You guys need help.” Aaron shakes his head.
Garcia gasps dramatically, “Did you two bond?”
“Oh god.” You groan. An actual nightmare.
Mark shakes his head with a light laugh, “This team spends way too much time together.”
“Occupational hazard.” Emily shrugs.
“So?” You turn your attention to the two men, “What did the two of you talk about?”
Your tone is teasing, but there’s a sliver of real curiosity.
“The case.” Aaron holds up his file.
“Liar.” You roll your eyes.
Mark smirks lightly and pats him on the shoulder, “Good luck with that, Hotchner.”
Your jaw drops, “Hey!”
“I’ve got to head up and brief the director.”
You get from your spot to say goodbye and he pulls you in for one last hug. This time Aaron watches it without visibly bristling.
“Take care of yourself.” He says over your shoulder, giving you one last squeeze before letting go.
“You too.”
Mark glances back toward Aaron behind you once before looking back at you.
“Try to go easy on him.” He gives you the smallest hint of a smirk.
You push him toward the door, “Get out of here.”
He shouts a couple goodbyes over your shoulder and you turn back to see all of the BAU team openly staring at you.
“What?”
Emily points at Aaron, “He didn’t even glare once.”
Aaron sighs, “Wheels up.”
-
The city skyline glowed orange against the early evening sky. Everyone looked wrecked in their wrinkled clothes and exhausted eyes. You’re coming up on twenty-four hours awake after working through the night and being in an explosion this morning. What a day.
JJ and Emily passed out almost immediately. Garcia was curled up, leaning on Morgan’s side with a movie playing on her laptop in front of them on the table. Reid and Rossi are talking quietly on the other side. You and Aaron ended up toward the back of the plane, the two seats facing each other.
Somehow that had become your spot on the way home. Wordlessly the two of you would take these seats the last few weeks.
You wince slightly when you accidentally bump your hairline. Aaron notices it right away.
“Still hurting?”
“Barely.”
He leans back in his seat and studies you quietly for a moment. The bruise near your temple was still darkening. The glass left you the large gash that needed stitches and several small scratches.
You catch him and you don’t even have to say the words. He knows he’s caught. The two of you let the hum of the jet settle around you. Minutes pass as Aaron works up the courage to ask a dangerous question in a confined space.
“Why didn’t you marry him?”
“Aaron, you already asked-“
“I know.”
You look up slowly because you know there’s no pretending with him. Aaron has always seen everything about you whether you wanted him to or not. He knows that you’ve been strict with dealing out information of your life for the past ten years. You lean back in your seat as you consider the question and giving him an answer longer than the couple of sentences that felt like muscle memory telling everyone else. He’d already heard that one and it would seem he wasn’t going to settle for that.
“Because he deserved better than almost.”
He stills for a second before swallowing, but he doesn’t say anything to stop you from continuing.
“I could’ve married him.” You admit, “But then I would’ve been you.”
The anger creeps in slightly, you can’t help it. He lets you continue, the pain flashing in his eyes.
“He’s a good man.” You look down at your hands.
“I know.” Aaron nods.
“And I care about him.” You look back up, “But… I knew what real love felt like.”
The words settle between you heavily. Aaron didn’t move or dare interrupt. Your voice is still calm, and almost too soft with his hearing right now, but he hangs on each word.
“I couldn’t stand in front of him and promise him forever knowing part of me would always compare it to something else.”
Aaron’s chest tightened before thundering so harshly the jet may as well be going down.
You let out a humorless laugh, “That sounds horrible saying it out loud.”
“No.” He answers quickly, “It sounds honest.”
You look over to the dark cabin.
“When I told him I couldn’t go through with the wedding I told him he deserved someone who could love him completely.”
Aaron remembered Mark saying almost the exact same thing earlier. You look back at him finally.
“I knew what big love felt like.”
You put it out there. It wasn’t subtle or hidden and you couldn’t take it back. Aaron swallows again, knowing you’re talking about him. You always had been. The confirmation warms his chest, he finally feels like he can breathe again.
“And once you know what that feels like…” You admit quietly, “everything else feels unfair.”
Silence takes over the corner of the cabin that the two of you occupy. The dim overhead lights glow just enough to reveal the expressions crossing Aaron’s face. You shake your head and turn toward the window.
“Y/n.”
You look back and he’s leaning forward, if he reached out he’d be touching you. Your chest tightens at how emotional he looks. No more walls.
“I’m sorry.”
Your brows furrow slightly but he holds your gaze steadily.
“For ever making you feel passing time.”
Your breath catches softly, “Aaron-”
“No.” He shakes his head, “You were right back then.”
Apparently when you said whatever was going on between you and needed to wait until after the case, he was taking that very literally.
“I never should’ve made you feel like that.” He lowers his voice slightly, “You were never just almost to me.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
“You are… everything to me.
He hesitates like saying it might be too dangerous. He can’t take this back either.
“You are my biggest love.”
He’s looking at you with an honesty so stripped bare it almost hurt.
“The standard nobody else has ever met. Not that I want anyone to.”
You blink a few times. The realization of what he’s admitting wrecks your composure for half a second. Aaron notices you soften.
“And I think you ruined me a little.” He continues.
An unexpected laugh escapes you, “A little?”
The corners of his mouth finally lift. You look down and shake your head to try and regain control of yourself. This is dangerous territory. Confessions at thirty thousand feet after surviving a bombing together.
It was very unhealthy. It was very you and Aaron.
You look back up eventually, his eyes still trained on you.
“This doesn’t magically fix everything.”
He nods, “I know.”
“I’m still angry.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still annoying.”
He tries to hide his surprised smile by wiping at his mouth.
“Also aware.”
You study him for a long moment.
“Thank you for finally saying it.”
He reaches out his hand to take yours and you let him. His hand is warm, maybe more callused than the last time you held it. Immediately his finger extends to your wrist. Your steady pulse is comforting to him, it’s something mindless he used to do back at the academy.
“Thank you for listening.”
You can’t help but grin and lean in, “If I change my mind tomorrow, I’m blaming the concussion.”
“You have a concussion?” Concern taking over his face, replacing the joy.
You nod, “Yeah, I think you were still hard of hearing when we established that. But, I have good news.”
“What’s that?”
“I need someone to keep me up all night long.”
an// eeee happy Friday my loves! but you guys are WE KIDDING??? the pure chaos of ALL of that. let me hear all the thoughts plz bc OMFG FINALLY
summary: after weeks of back-to-back cases, exhaustion is written all over you— and Aaron Hotchner notices. When a relaxing dinner at Rossi’s confirms his fears, your husband takes matters into his to his own hands with a surprise getaway designed to remind you how it feels to simply breathe and relax again
Aaron Hotchner x Reader
authors note: haven’t updated in daysss.. because writers block sucks and I’ve also been really busy with work. So if there’s anyone out there with any ideas, please help me 🙏 alsoo, I hope you enjoy reading this one! 💗💗
The first thing Aaron notices is that you’re rubbing the back of your neck again.
Not absentmindedly, either.
It’s the slow, exhausted kind of movement that comes from days of too little sleep, too much coffee, and one case bleeding straight into the next before you’ve had time to breathe.
The BAU has been running nonstop for almost three weeks.
A kidnapping in Ohio.
A spree killer in Colorado.
A family annihilator in Virginia.
By the time the jet touches down after the latest case, everyone is running on fumes.
Even you.
Especially you.
Aaron watches from across the aisle as you stare blankly out the window, your FBI jacket folded in your lap. Your eyes are heavy. Your shoulders are tight.
You don’t even notice him looking.
His chest aches.
Because he knows you.
He knows every version of you.
The one who laughs so hard you snort when Garcia sends ridiculous memes to the team.
The one who steals fries from his plate and pretends you didn’t.
The one who curls up beside him on the couch with a book after a long week.
And right now?
You’re none of those things.
You’re exhausted.
“Sweetheart.”
You blink and turn toward him.
“Hm?”
Aaron offers a small smile.
“We’re home.”
You glance around as if you’ve forgotten where you are.
“Right.”
The concern settles deeper in his chest.
—
Two nights later, Rossi insists on hosting dinner.
“Nobody is allowed to talk about serial killers,” he announces as everyone arrives. “Or paperwork. Or psychological profiling.”
Garcia points dramatically toward him.
“You’re taking away eighty percent of our personalities.”
Rossi laughs.
“Then discover the other twenty.”
The evening turns out exactly how everyone needs it to.
Wine flows.
Music plays softly through the house.
Emily and Morgan argue over some ridiculous story from years ago.
Garcia keeps stealing food from everyone’s plates.
JJ laughs harder than you’ve heard her laugh in months.
For a while, the tension eases.
For everyone except Aaron.
Because even as you’re smiling, he notices the little things.
The way you lean heavily against the kitchen counter.
The tired shadows beneath your eyes.
The way your smile fades whenever you think nobody is watching.
And Aaron is always watching.
Not in a profiler way.
In a husband way.
A deeply, hopelessly in-love husband way.
Later, while everyone is gathered around Rossi’s patio table, you sit beside him with a glass of wine cradled between your hands.
The evening air is cool.
Comfortable.
You seem calmer.
But still tired.
Aaron slides a hand onto your knee beneath the table.
Your fingers immediately find his.
A habit.
An instinct.
His favourite one.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
You smile.
“Just tired.”
“That’s what you’ve been saying for weeks.”
Your expression softens.
“I know.”
Neither of you speaks for a moment.
The conversation around the table continues.
Morgan is teasing Reid.
Garcia is threatening violence.
Rossi is pretending not to enjoy the chaos.
Aaron squeezes your hand.
Then he says casually,
“Take next week off.”
You nearly choke on your wine.
“What?”
“Take next week off.”
“Aaron—”
“I’m serious.”
You stare at him.
“We have paperwork.”
“It’ll survive.”
“Cases.”
“We have a team.”
You narrow your eyes.
“What are you planning?”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
A dangerous sign.
For you, anyway.
Because whenever Aaron Hotchner gets that look, he’s already made up his mind.
“A vacation.”
You blink.
“A vacation?”
“Yes.”
“Those are real?”
He actually laughs.
A genuine laugh.
And the sound makes your heart do embarrassing things.
“Apparently.”
You stare.
Aaron simply sips his wine.
Calm
Collected.
As if he hasn’t just suggested something completely insane.
“Aaron.”
“Hm?”
“You hate vacations.”
“I don’t hate vacations.”
“You brought case files on our honeymoon.”
“I brought one case file.”
“You brought three.”
Aaron wisely decides not to argue.
—
Three days later, you’re standing beside him at a small lakeside cabin several states away from Virginia.
No phones ringing.
No briefing room.
No crime scenes.
No paperwork.
Just trees.
Water.
Quiet.
The kind of quiet you forgot existed.
You stand on the porch staring out across the lake.
A breeze brushes against your skin.
Somewhere nearby, birds chirp.
The water glitters beneath the afternoon sun.
And for the first time in weeks…
You feel your shoulders relax.
Aaron appears beside you carrying two mugs of coffee.
“Still think this was a bad idea?”
You take the mug.
“Ask me tomorrow.”
He smirks.
“Fair.”
The next few days pass slowly.
Wonderfully slowly.
You sleep in.
You read books.
You take long walks along the shoreline.
You spend entire afternoons doing absolutely nothing.
At first it feels strange.
Your brain keeps waiting for a phone call.
A case.
A crisis.
Something.
But nothing comes.
And gradually, you stop waiting.
Aaron notices before you do.
The tension leaves your shoulders.
The crease between your eyebrows disappears.
Your laughter comes easier.
Your smile becomes genuine again.
One evening you’re sitting together on the dock as the sun begins to set.
Your legs dangle over the edge.
The lake reflects streaks of gold and orange.
Beautiful.
Peaceful.
You lean your head against Aaron’s shoulder.
His arm settles around your waist.
For a long time, neither of you says anything.
You simply watch the sunset.
Eventually you glance up at him.
“Thank you.”
Aaron kisses the top of your head.
“For what?”
“For this.”
His gaze remains fixed on the water.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do.”
Aaron is quiet for a moment.
Then he turns slightly toward you.
The setting sun catches the softness in his eyes.
The expression only a handful of people ever get to see.
You.
Jack.
His family.
“Honey,” he says gently, “I don’t like seeing you exhausted.”
Your heart melts instantly.
“You worry too much.”
“I do.”
“At least you’re honest.”
Aaron smiles.
Then he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.
A touch so tender it steals your breath.
“I like seeing you like this.”
You tilt your head.
“Like what?”
“Happy.”
The answer comes so quickly that you know he didn’t have to think about it.
Not even for a second.
Aaron presses a kiss against your forehead.
Then another.
And another.
Until you’re laughing.
A real laugh.
Light and carefree.
The kind he hasn’t heard in weeks.
Aaron smiles against your skin.
Because that’s exactly why he brought you here.
Not for the lake.
Not for the cabin.
Not even for the vacation.
But for this.
For the sound of your laughter.
For the sight of you relaxed and smiling in his arms.
For the reminder that the world can wait for a little while.
And as the sun disappears beneath the horizon and Aaron pulls you closer against his side, you realize something.
Maybe rest isn’t a luxury.
Maybe it’s necessary.
And maybe being loved by Aaron Hotchner means having someone who notices when you’re carrying too much long before you’re willing to admit it yourself.
It had been a rough night for Ellie, and that was putting it mildly.
After you left for your night out, she sat solemnly by the front door for a while, despite Aaron’s attempts to comfort her and his promises to play whatever game or watch whatever movie or show she wanted. All he got in response were harsh cries and tearful demands for you.
When she finally wandered back to join him and Jack on her own, she seemed quieter than before - distracted, almost - and for a little while, Aaron thought maybe the worst of it had passed.
Then bedtime came.
She was overtired; the earlier meltdown had completely worn her out, and without her usual bedtime routine, without you, she seemed lost. Antsy and not herself. It also didn’t help that it was already past her normal bedtime.
But then Aaron grabbed the wrong pajamas, and all hell broke loose.
Eventually, he managed to calm her down enough to get changed (into the right pajamas), brush her teeth, and now the three of them - Aaron, Ellie, and Jack - were crammed together in her tiny bed, Ellie wedged safely in the middle while Aaron read bedtime story after bedtime story.
"Okay, I think that’s enough for tonight." Aaron said after the fifth book, closing it it with exaggerated finality and repeating the line for the second time in the hope that maybe, this time, she’d agree.
Of course, she didn’t.
"One more," Ellie protested immediately, a pout settling on her face as she tugged the blankets tighter beneath her chin.
"Ellie..." His expression and voice softened, he was bound to read her entire bookshelf at this rate. Usually, she would’ve fallen asleep halfway through the stories, but she was stubbornly fighting it. He couldn’t blame her; tonight’s routine was just too different. "It's getting late. You gotta get to sleep, sweetheart."
"One more," she whimpered, kicking a foot under her comforter in frustration.
The aching desperation in her voice tugged painfully at his chest. She was exhausted. He could see it in her glassy eyes, in the way she kept rubbing at them with the sleeve of her pjs. In the back of his mind, he wondered if she was keeping watch - trying her best to wait up until you returned home.
To make her happy, and to provide as much comfort as he could, of course he’d read as many as she wanted. That wasn’t a problem, he just didn’t want it to come at the price of her not getting a restful night’s sleep.
He reached over and grabbed the next book from the stack you’d prepared before leaving, all of Ellie’s favorites.
"Okay," he agreed, and he felt Ellie instantly relax beside him. "One more."
"Dad," Jack whispered, quietly from beside him.
Aaron looked over, catching the smile Jack was unsuccessful in fighting back.
“She’s hustling you," he said, his voice playful. Brotherly teasing.
"It’s fine," Aaron said amidst a chuckle, turning to the first page.
Halfway through, Ellie interrupted.
"That’s not how Mommy does the bear voice." She stated, slight offense in her voice.
"Well," he said carefully, "Mom’s better at bear voices than me. How does she do it?"
"She makes him sound grumpy." Her eyes narrowed, as if emphasizing her point. "'cause he's a meanie old bear."
"Meanie old bear, got it." Aaron backtracked, deepening his voice for the bear's dialogue. It seemed to suffice; she remained quiet as she listened along, her cheek smushing against his arm.
Aaron found himself settling into it more than he expected. The steady rhythm of his voice, the weight of her small body tucked against him, the way she went quiet just a little longer each time he turned a page.
It stirred something deep in his chest - the quiet familiarity of a bedtime routine he’d missed while being away. Moments like this made him wish he could be here for more of it.
And every so often, a brave little sniffle left her, a small sign of all the sadness she was trying to hold back from missing you. Her little body could only hold so much, after all.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Jack watching too, quieter now - no teasing. Just a kind of reluctant patience as the stack of books beside them slowly shrank.
Aaron turned a page, only to realize Ellie hadn’t interrupted in a while.
Glancing down, he found that her eyes were finally closed, lashes still damp against her cheeks, one small hand fisted tightly in the fabric of his shirt like she didn’t trust him to stay otherwise. Even asleep, every now and then her brow twitched faintly, like she was still upset somewhere deep in her dreams.
"Is she asleep?" Jack whispered from beside them. His own voice was groggy too, as if the stories were slowly luring him to sleep as well.
"I think so," Aaron murmured, switching off the lamp on her bedside table, enveloping the room partially in darkness. He was gentle with his movements as not to nudge or awaken Ellie, especially due to her death grip on him.
So he stayed, even after Jack had retreated to his room, trapped beneath blankets and books and the weight of her tiny hand holding onto him. Until the sound of rolling tires on the driveway signaled your return, and you entered Ellie's room shortly after.
"Hey." You whispered in greeting, a small, sleepy smile tugging at your lips, still carrying the warm, loose ease of a good night out. It softened even further at the sight of them, Aaron cramped awkwardly on the bed with Ellie fast asleep against him.
summary: Transferring to the BAU was neat, especially from where you transferred from. Your boss was an added bonus.
A written companion piece to the smau 'love is embarrassing' but also not really.
warnings/contents: fluff, in love with each other from the start. pining/longing. friends to ???. humour. angst. haley makes an appearance but she doesn't really talk. hotch talking about his divorce. no jack. brief dr robby x reader. sexual tension through the roof. brief bones cameo. inappropriate touching and conversations with your boss (do not do this irl). hotch teases reader about her sex dream about him. reader standing up for her man. humping on the couch. minors dni.
notes: plot holes in my smau and my work? happens more often than you think. i am aware she is a beast but i promise the future parts will be a little less shorter.
word count: 16k+ (reow, i was on a roll)
song inspo everything i know about love - laufey
hotch masterlist | masterlist | ask
the first year - the first week (june 2025)
“That’s SSA Hotchner,” you followed Strauss’ nod towards the man at the top of the stairs. You studied him as he briefly glanced over to you, a light tingling appearing in your chest as he gave you a small smile and nod. “He’ll be your Unit Chief.”
Following her as she walked up the stairs, you could feel the curious stares behind your back. You briefly glanced at the open office, a man who had a pen in his mouth already grinning at you from down below. Scoffing at him, you rolled your eyes and focused on Strauss.
“Agent Hotchner,” Strauss greeted as she stepped aside, letting the man look at you. “This is Agent (Y/L/N), the new member of your team.”
Agent Hotchner looked you up and down and an unusual feeling of insecurity surged through you, but you forced yourself to not fiddle with the hem of your blazer as you put your hand in front of you. “Agent Hotchner, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard exceptional things about you and your team.”
Hotchner took your hands and gripped it firmly. You couldn’t help but take inventory of the callouses of his hands, the strong and natural firm grip, and finally just how right it felt encompassing your own hand.
“Likewise, Agent (Y/L/N), your Captain speaks highly of you. It was like fighting tooth and nail to get him to sign your transfer,” Hotchner let go of your hand but not before giving it another gentle squeeze.
“Well now that introductions are done, I’ll leave the two of you to it,” Strauss left without another word, and both of you watched as she walked down the stairs.
“Is she always like that?” You asked.
“She can be,” Hotchner responded diplomatically. “There’s usually a lot of stress with being a Section Chief.”
“Oh don’t worry, our old Section Chief was much like her,” you responded. “She’s a great woman.”
“Shall we?” Hotchner asked as he gestured towards his office, allowing you to go first. What you didn’t see was the brief but firm glare Hotchner threw to his team as he followed you.
“So, is this the part where you interrogate me, Agent Hotchner,” you inquired as you waited for him to go around his desk. “Because let me tell you, I’m a great interrogatee,” you winked as another small smile appeared on his face.
“Call me Hotch,” he spoke as he sat down, his eyes never leaving your face. He smiled at you and you felt that small flutter in your chest.
“Hotch,” you responded, a bigger smile on your face. “I think I’ll like working with you.”
the first year - the first week (june 2025)
“I need your number,” Hotch said in lieu of a greeting. He watched as you turned around, a spoon in your mouth, eyes wide. “For work. In case.”
“Don’t need to justify yourself to me, Hotch,” spitting out your numbers, you watched as he plugged it into his phone with laser point focus. He repeated the words to you, and you confirmed your numbers. “What do you have me in your phone as?”
“Your name?” He answered, confusion on his face. He turned his phone around and there it was, (Y/N) (Y/L/N) BAU.
“You got another (Y/N) (Y/L/N) running around?” You tsked, “You mind?” You gestured to his phone and he handed it over to you.
You smiled as you replaced your name in his phone, “Feel free to change it, but if you do, it has to top this one.”
Hotch looked down at his phone, your contact name being changed to (y/n) (hottie) >,< 🫶🏼. He couldn’t but chuckle fondly at your boldness. “I’ll message you now so you have my number.”
unknown number
Hello. This is Hotch.
you
hotch u don’t have to be so formal over text, ya know
unknown number
I don’t think I’m being formal. This is how I normally text.
you
i forget that you’re old
“That isn’t very nice,” Hotch scolded next to you, momentarily forgetting that he was there.
“I’m kidding, but it is a bonus to you, I like my men older,” you winked, attitude brazen as if you weren’t violating three HR codes right now.
“Get back to work,” Hotch replied firmly but you grinned as you saw the red creeping up his neck and flushing into his cheeks.
Naming him in your phone, you screenshotted your screen and sent it to him. You looked up from your desk, catching his gaze, even from this distance you could see the annoyance on his face. Grinning, you winked at him.
the first year - a month in (july 2025)
It was a month in and you weren’t getting antsy in your position at all - something that you fear would happen. You fit in better than you expected, more than the team expected. Maybe you were the breath of fresh air that they needed. Or the fact that you made them realise that it was okay to not be about work all the time.
“So what’s Hotch’s deal?” You asked as you looked at Derek and Emily, the three of you outside of the waiting room.
Emily grinned as she shared a glance with Derek. “What do you mean?”
“He single?”
“He’s your superior,” Derek piped in, a knowing look on his face.
“That won’t stop me,” you shrugged. Popping another piece of chip in your mouth, “So, is he?”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t told you,” Emily responded as she amusedly watched you from her spot. “Feels like he’s an open book to you.”
“What does that mean?”
Derek leaned forward, grabbing your snack, “It means that ever since you started, boss man has tried to make sure that you’re spending every moment with him.”
“I’m new, probably wants to keep an eye,” you reasoned out, though that didn’t stop the grin on your face.
“He’s getting a divorce,” Morgan supplied helpfully. “It’s almost finalised.”
“Oh shit,” with that you sat up. You looked between the two of them, trying to decipher if they were pulling a fast one on you. “Seriously?”
“What? Not interested in divorcees?” Emily grinned as Derek handed her your snack.
“Not interested in men that have not had their divorce finalised yet,” you cleared up.
“So Hotch is off the table then?” Derek asked.
With a perplexed look on your face, you looked towards Derek, “When did I say that? He’s off the table until his divorce is finalised.”
“If it’s any consolation, their divorce has been finalised since forever, it’s just the stupid legalities that’s taking forever,” Emily added.
the first year - three months in (september 2025)
It’s a rough case. The toughest you’ve had so far since you started at the BAU and that was saying something. Groaning, you rubbed your head hoping to make the headache go away.
“You doing okay?” The firm hand of Aaron Hotchner grasped your shoulder.
As subtly as you could, you leaned into his grasp. You knew that this was probably violating so many HR codes but at this moment you could not care. “Just a bit tough right now.” If you could feel the slight rubbing of his thumb on your shoulder, you won’t say anything.
“You’re doing well, you know that?” Hotch asked as he gave your shoulder another squeeze before letting go. Looking into your eyes, he frowned as he saw the exhaustion on your face. “I’m here for you if you need anything.”
Looking down at the papers in your lap, you glanced back up at him. “I know, Hotch,” moving aside so he could sit next to you. “Thank you.”
“You’re going to do your head in,” Hotch said softly as he looked at the same papers you were looking at back in the station. “Looking at the same thing won’t help you.”
“Says you,” you joked as you could feel his eyes glance at your face (again). “I just feel so useless,” you confessed. “I just, I feel like it’s in front of me and I just can’t see it.”
Shifting yourself closer to Hotch, as subtle as you possibly could until you could feel his body radiate off him. You could feel your thigh pressed against his, his arm slightly behind yours to allow you room. You couldn’t help but lean into him, basking in the silent and intimate moment.
Letting your head fall to his shoulder, you looked at Hotch, who was now looking at the same documents you had in your lap. You admired his jawline, the five o’clock shadow and if you leaned in just a little closer, you could tell where he sprayed his cologne. “You missed a spot.”
Hotch hummed in response. Softly touching his jaw, you ran your hand gently across the tiniest patch. “Right here,” you murmured, your fingers now drifting and tracing his jawline.
He looked down at you, a small smile on his face already before he even saw you. “I was in a bit of a rush this morning.”
“I like it,” you complimented. “It makes you human. I like that.”
If you were less exhausted you probably wouldn’t be doing this. You probably wouldn’t have the soft voice usually left for pillow talk. To be so vulnerable, let alone touching your boss. And if you weren’t exhausted you probably would have felt the little shiver that ran through Hotch.
“Why don’t you get some sleep?” Hotch suggested as he noted you slowly drifting off, your eyelids fighting sleep. He couldn’t help but run his eyes down your face. The soft glow of the light illuminating your features. He manoeuvred the arm you were leaning on, moving his hand to lay on your waist. Rubbing gently, a warm feeling spread across his chest.
“I’m fine,” you spoke as you yawned. “Okay, maybe I’m a bit knackered, but I’m here. I don’t think I can sleep well if I don’t look,” you took back the papers. Completely melting yourself to Hotch, you removed all semblance of actually looking at the papers. Instead, enjoying the calm moment that you managed to find yourself in.
“(Y/N)?” You answered him with a soft snore. Gently lowering his back to the couch, slowly as to not wake you, Hotch couldn’t help but look at you. Truly look at you. It was one of the rare moments where he allowed himself to take note of every feature.
It was that moment that Aaron Hotchner realised that you were the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen and that he wouldn’t mind seeing this exact picture for the rest of his life.
“Sorry to interrupt,” a voice piped up behind him, and before Hotch could stop himself, he gave Spencer a mild annoyed look. “Oh, is she sleeping?” Spencer looked between the two of you. The way you seemingly fit with Hotch, and the unnatural softness Hotch had around him.
“Please keep it down, Reid,” he briefly moved, allowing you to burrow more into him. “What can we do for you?”
Spencer took note of how natural it was for Hotch to say ‘we’, “I just needed the blue files from the Sheriff,” he explained, his gaze falling to you. “Is she okay?”
“I think this case is taking a toll on her,” he answered, passing the notes to the man in front of him.
“It is a particularly difficult case.” Spencer understood, this case was frustrating even to himself. There was something they were all clearly missing and he hoped it didn’t take another victim for them to figure out. “I like her,” Spencer commented. His gaze still fixed on the two of you. “She’s a good fit for the team.”
“She is, isn’t she?”
“You’re fond of her,” Spencer said softly.
“Reid.”
“I’m just saying, Hotch. You’re more gentle when she’s around.”
the first year - four months in (october 2025)
“Your birthday is coming up, right?”
Grinning, you nodded, “You remembered. I always knew I was your favourite.”
“It’s in your file.”
“That’s like, so un-romantic, Hotch,” you pouted. “Are you getting me a gift?” You rounded his desk and perched yourself up. At his sigh and knowing look, you gently knocked his elbow with your foot.
“Of course. I think you’d light me on fire if I didn’t,” he grinned at you, gently shoving your foot back. “It’s not tangible, though, at least not now.”
At that you pouted, “But tangible things are nice. I like tangible things.”
“What’s even nicer is the fact that all your coffees and your breakfast burgers are paid for from your favourite spot for the next six months,” he commented.
At his words, you grinned at him, an action that he himself mirrored. “You are an amazing man,” you jumped off the table. “And you know my favourite breakfast place. Very romantic.”
“They do have a nice breakfast selection,” he agreed as he watched you roam around his office, eventually landing on bringing a chair next to his. “I haven’t tried it, but it seems delicious.”
“I got suckered into their marketing from Instagram and it actually paid off.”
“Instagram?” Hotch asked, as if the app was a foreign thing to him, which was probably correct.
You gasped and pulled out your phone, “Look,” pulling up their page, you moved closer to him. Scrolling through their photos, you could hear Hotch’s hum of approval but not realising that his gaze was flickering from the photos to your face.
“I have to take you there some time, I think you’d like it,” you allowed him to continue to scroll. “When we actually have some free time,” you groaned.
the first year - five months, one week in (november 2025)
“How are you holding up?”
Hotch glanced up from his paper as he gestured to come in. “I’m fine.”
“Hotch,” you closed the door and when you turned back, a frown appeared on your face. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying,” he responded and you tutted.
“Aaron,” you sat down in your usual chair, you wouldn’t be surprised if the chair had your ass permanently printed on it. “You’re tense, like more tense than usual.”
At your insistence and knowing that you won’t let this drop, postpone maybe, but never drop. “It’s the first birthday since we initiated the divorce,” Hotch looked at you, then back to his paperwork.
“Oh.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Hotch spoke but judging from the constant fidgeting of his pen and tell tale sign of him bouncing his leg up and down, you frowned at his lie.
Shrugging, you leaned forward and picked up the fidget you left yesterday. “I know this killer Mongolian place,” you said as you moved the toy between your hands. Looking at him, “Want to come? Last time I ordered, I realised that it is not meant for a lone soul.”
“I don’t need your pity.”
“Pity, shmitty,” you rolled your eyes. “I like food. I like you. I want to eat food with you and it just happens to be your birthday.”
“If we don’t have a case, then yes,” he nodded and leaned back in his chair, eyeing you fondly. “That’s the first time you called me Aaron,” he commented.
“No,” you responded, racking your memory. It couldn’t be. Could it? “Seriously?”
Hotch nodded, “You’ve called me Hotch, Hotchner, boss man, that guy, the guy with the badge, but never Aaron.”
“It’s a nice name,” you complimented. “For a nice guy,” you winked, then scrunching your face, “yuck, that’s gonna ruin my cred. Don’t tell Morgan.”
Chuckling all he could give you was a smile.
the first year - five months, two weeks in (november 2025)
“Is that Hotch?” Spencer asked, causing you and Derek to pause your movements and stare at the couple in the restaurant.
“Who’s that?” You asked.
“His wife,” Spencer replied helpfully, not noticing the clench in your jaw.
“Ex-wife,” Derek corrected, briefly glancing at you. “But that is Haley. Don’t know why they’re there together though.”
The three of you watched as Haley smiled at something Hotch said, an uncharacteristic smile on his face. It suits him, you thought. You frowned as you saw him lean in, their bodies close until he lightly kissed her. It was a quick peck, one that you would have given your friends, but the difference was you weren’t married to them.
“I guess their divorce isn’t happening,” Derek whistled, his eyes flicking to see your reaction.
“I guess that explains why she was in his office last night.”
“She was in the office last night?” You asked, eyes still on the couple. It was domestic seeing them. You could see the light in Hotch’s eyes, the ease that you’ve never seen him have around the office. The familiarity between them that only happens when you’ve shared the same bed for years.
“Kid, what have I told you about keeping information like this away from me?” Derek playfully shoved Spencer. “That’s why we have phones for.”
Spencer looked at the two of you, “She was,” he confirmed. “She came in after you all left, and then they left together. It seems like he was dropped off by Haley this morning as well.”
You made a noise, eyes still not moving from the couple. Eventually the three of you moved on, walking down the streets. You were still in your head. If they were back together, you needed to back off. That was the right thing you needed to do. You were not going to be a homewrecker.
“You alright, mama?” Derek nudged your shoulder, as you both watched Spencer look at the vintage books in front of him. Scanning for something that he hasn’t read yet.
You shrugged, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Maybe it isn’t what it looks like.”
Again, you shrugged. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. But I do know that it’s definitely not my business.”
Derek watched you with a knowing look, watched how you unknowingly closed yourself in.
He may have not known you for long but it was practically written on your face. The devastation on your face, no matter how much you tried to hide it.
the first year - five months, three weeks in (november)
There was nothing more holiday-inducing than being in Pittsburgh for a case, finishing said case and then finding out your plane is grounded until the next morning due to the snowstorm, and not being able to drive because of the ice.
You all gathered to the nearest pub by the hotel, tired and weary from the cold. Hotch and Rossi taking care of everyone’s orders, as you all sat by the biggest table that was offered.
Glancing around there were less people than you thought for this time of the night. Your eyes landed on a man hunched over the counter, nursing a beer and briefly glancing at the tv. Catching your eye, he raised his glass to you and you raked your eyes down his body.
He stared at you, waiting for you to finish checking him out, to do the same. Winking at him, he saluted his glass to you again before turning back to the game on the tv.
The moment Rossi and Hotch came back, the conversations lit up between the team. Noticing the space next to you, Hotch beelined to the spot, handing you the drink in his hand. Thanking him, you tried to subtly move yourself so you weren’t touching him.
“You did well tonight,” Hotch murmured, striking up a conversation with you. He felt hesitant to talk to you, which was unusual. There was a gap between the two of you, and he didn’t know what happened between his birthday and now that made you lean away from him. You were still you, you still teased him but there was a certain hesitation to it. A touch less personal, more akin to professional teasing.
You gave him a brief smile and thanked him. “It was mostly Pen, I’m just the guns.”
“You’re more than that,” Hotch urged, wanting to continue to talk to you.
Again, you gave him a brief smile but didn’t continue the conversation, and instead flitted in and out of other conversations. Hotch frowned as he looked at his drink, he momentarily looked at you then your hand which was fiddling with the glass.
Leaning over, you popped another wedge in your mouth, you flickered your eyes back to the man who’s been trying to discreetly stare at you since you got in (and trying to ignore Hotch’s body pushed against yours). He was older than you, that much was obvious and bigger as well. Salt and pepper dusted his beard and hair gracefully.
“You should go for it,” JJ encouraged, her voice low. “He’s cute.”
Hotch hearing JJ, looked towards where your eyes were focusing. Across the bar, he saw a man who was probably the same age as he was, carrying the same amount of stress on his face and body. He could see him briefly glance at you, the appreciation in his eyes even all the way from here.
Something dreadful landed on his chest. As discreetly as he could, Hotch glanced between you and the man. It seems like everyone else disappeared except the two of you, and Hotch helplessly had to watch this from the outside.
“We’re off the clock, aren’t we?” You inquired, eyes not leaving the man. Derek and Emily followed your gaze, grinning at each other.
“Alright, kiddo!” Derek gave you a wink.
“Technically, we are,” Rossi smirked, knowing exactly where this conversation was going.
“We so are,” JJ replied, drinking another glass of beer.
Nodding and without another word, you finished the last of your drink and stood up. If you felt Hotch’s hand briefly ghost yours, you didn’t think much of it.
“Where’s (Y/L/N) going?” Hotch asked as his eyes never strayed from your figure.
“I think (Y/L/N) is about to go get some,” Derek replied helpfully, noticing the way that Hotch’s hand clenched around his drink. “It’s about time.”
“Do you always stare at women or am I just lucky?” You spoke as you sauntered up to the bar. Leaning forward, you turned to the man and flashed him a smile.
“I wouldn’t say I was staring.”
Flagging down the bartender, you asked for another drink. “You’ve had your eyes on me since we’ve walked into the bar.”
“Are you even old enough to be in a bar, princess?”
Smiling at him, “Want to see my ID?” You turned towards the man, “I’m going to be very frank with you, I have,” looking at your watch, “probably the whole night and a bit of the morning until I leave Pittsburgh.”
“That’s a short amount of time, sweetheart.”
You leaned closer to him, “Sweet calling me already and you haven’t even bought me a drink,” you teased. “Men these days.”
“You’re asking me to leave with you and you haven’t bought me a drink,” he noted.
“And you haven’t even asked me for my name,” you pouted, sipping on your drink.
Turning his whole body to you, he leaned in, a small, playful smile on his face. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
You spoke your name, smirking as you watched his eyes drift down to your lips. “And yours?”
“Robby.”
“Nice name to be calling out tonight,” you laughed as you watched him choke on his beer. His eyes wide at your audacity. “Or moan, whatever you prefer,” you shrugged nonchalantly.
Gathering his thoughts, Robby eyed you appreciatively, “You’re something, you know that?”
“Look at her go,” JJ said fondly. They all watched you as you flirtatiously moved closer to the unknown man, your hand masterfully drifting down to the man’s thigh.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen her in action,” Derek whistled.
“She almost has you beat, Morgan,” Emily remarked. Watching as the man leaned, whispering something in your ear causing you to drift your hand higher.
“So my house,” Robby started, inching closer to you. “Has a very nice fridge that contains some of the finest Chinese takeaway leftovers.”
Dragging your hand up his thigh and once you got close to his hip started circling your fingers, “And your bed? Is it nice?”
“I’m trying to be polite here, princess,” Robby chuckled. “Want to sweet talk you for a bit before we do anything.”
“Robby,” pulling what appeared to be scrubs, you yanked him closer to you.“You can sweet talk me after you fuck me tonight.”
“You have a foul mouth for such a pretty girl,” Robby commented, his thigh now between your legs.
Grazing your hands from the bottom of his scrubs to the front of his pants, where a bulge was now forming. “Well it seems like you enjoy it.”
Finishing his beer, Robby leaned forward, his chest pressed against yours. Squeezing your hips with his hand, he whispered into your ear, “Say goodbye to your friends, baby.”
“Do you guys still need me?” You didn’t wait for their answer as you started putting your jacket on. Your face flushed, not looking at any of them.
“No, go ahead, bella,” Rossi give you a knowing look, refusing to acknowledge Hotch’s annoyed glare. “We’ll see you in the hotel at 8am.”
“Great,” without another word, you walked back to Robby, his hand automatically moving to your lower back. Guiding you out of the door and into his car.
Hotch spent the night nursing his second drink, the final drink that he’d have for that night. He occasionally glanced at the door that you left through, a small part of him hoping that you’d come back. Snow still in your hair, a flush on your face from the cold. But you didn’t.
Checking his phone under the table, he was expecting a message from you, something he’s become accustomed to. But there was nothing. No little message. No meme - as you call them, or even whatever you were thinking at that time.
“So, Hotch,” Spencer started, his words a little looser due to the drinks Emily kept passing him. “Are you and Haley back together?”
Whatever separate conversation the team was having completely stopped. They all turned to him, questions on their faces.
“Reid. You know,” sweeping his gaze across the table, “and as everyone else does that Haley and I are currently in the middle of a divorce.”
“Really?” Spencer tilted his head. “Because (Y/N), Derek and I saw the two of you in a restaurant kissing.”
Hotch snapped his head to Spencer, the latter man unaware of the bombshell that he just dropped. You saw what happened between him and Haley. The brief moment of lapsed judgement from the two of them?
“And I saw that the two of you leave together the night before, and her dropping you back to the BAU the next day.”
“That wasn’t what it looked like,” Hotch said tersely. “I would appreciate it if my private life wasn’t discussed between all of you.”
Not in the spirit to be around company anymore and he hasn’t been since you left with the unnamed man, Hotch excused himself to walk back to the hotel.
“Holy shit,” you panted, falling on top of Robby. Sitting back up, you winced as you slowly removed yourself from him. “Fuck, maybe I should move to Pittsburgh.”
Earning a chuckle from the man below you, you flipped yourself over to his side. “I’d love that, I can just keep you in here,” placing another tender kiss to your lips, you couldn’t help but make it deeper by wrapping your arms around his neck.
Kissing Robby was nice, very nice. He obviously knew what he was doing and he was giving - something that you enjoyed. Deepening the kiss, you slithered your tongue into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist.
“I need a moment, princess,” Robby flushed, his face turned away in embarrassment.
Turning his head so he was looking at you, “That’s kinda hot.”
“You’re weird,” he chuckled as his head dipped to your neck.
“You like it,” pecking his lips again.
“How long do we have?” He asked as he rolled off the bed. Standing up, you saw him walk to what you assume was his bathroom, as he walked out with a towel in hand.
Looking over at the clock on his bedside table, “Another eight hours, I think.”
“Great,” he spoke as he finished cleaning you up. “I can go for one more round and then I can take you to my favourite pierogi place.”
“Only one?” You arched a brow. “Old man.”
Throwing the towel into the hamper, Robby moved up the bed, caging you in his arms. “Thought you liked that.”
It was after ten pm that Hotch had enough of looking at the paperwork when he heard the telltale sign of your keycard ding. He walked to the door, wanting to at least talk to you when he heard your giggles. Opening the door, he was greeted with seeing you pressed up against the door, the man from the bar deeply kissing you.
He couldn’t help but stare at the two of you for a moment, trying to gather everything that he could see. You weren’t in your usual attire, instead clothed in a pair of well-worn sweats, a sweatshirt and a hoodie that didn’t belong to you.
Hotch didn’t stop there, he looked at how the man’s hand was on your waist, drifting every so often to the curve of your ass, your leg in between his and if he squinted, he could see you grind against the man’s thigh. Your hands wrapped around the man’s neck, pulling against the small hair there.
A low groan from the man broke Hotch out of his reverie and having had enough of seeing you and the man practically dry hump in front of your door, and refusing to acknowledge the pit in his stomach, he cleared his throat.
“Hotch,” you greeted, a bit startled. “Why are you still up?” You pulled away from Robby, the man's hand resting on your hip. Your face flushed and lips swollen.
“I was just finishing up some paperwork,” his hand still on the doorknob. “Are you guys turning in for the night?”
“No,” you shook your head. “Oh shit, you guys haven’t met. Robby, this is Hotch, my boss. Hotch, this is Robby, he’s a doctor.” You gestured between the two men, and Robby reached around to shake Hotch’s hand.
If Hotch shook Robby’s hand a little bit too hard, well that was between him and God.
“We’re actually just grabbing my stuff, then we’re gonna have some dinner,” you gestured to the man behind you, and Hotch really tried to not notice how dishevelled the man looked, or the bite marks he could clearly see.
“It’s late,” was all Hotch stated.
You furrowed your brows, “Well, then we’re grabbing some late dinner. Don’t worry, I’ll be back before the jet leaves,” you winked at him. “I’ll even bring some doughnuts.”
“Otherwise, I can just drive her back up to DC,” Robby piped up, his hand rubbing the small of your back.
Hotch knew what you were saying. You were staying with Robby for the whole night. And a little bit of the morning. He’d probably be dropping you off at the jet. Without another word, and wanting to finish this excruciating interaction, he nodded.
“Night, Hotch, I’ll see you in the morning,” with a final smile, you tugged Robby into your room.
“How was your night?” Emily asked, a saccharine smile on her face as you walked onto the jet. “We didn’t see you back in the hotel.”
“What I do in my private time is no concern of yours, Emily Prentiss,” you pointed a finger at her.
“Well, well, look at what the cat dragged in,” Derek whistled as he saw clothes on you, that was definitely too big and definitely not yours. “Nice clothes, mama.”
“Shut up, Derek,” you pinched him as you walked by.
Stopping you, Derek peeked curiously at the bag in your hand, “What’s that?”
“Pierogi and doughnuts,” you jostled the bag, removing it from his reach as Derek tried to get at it. “I would have given you all some, but I only have a few, sorry.”
“Have a good night?” Hotch asked, his eyes never leaving the papers in front of him.
Feeling the slight tension, you lowered your things slowly. “Uh, yeah?”
“Those aren’t your clothes,” he stated simply, eyes flicking once to your body. “I thought you grabbed your bag last night.”
“Nothing I brought felt comfortable,” you explained, uncomfortable in the detached way he was interacting with you. Sitting down slowly, you winced as your ass touched the chair, you glanced at Hotch who noticed your discomfort. Raising a brow, you shook your head. “I think I pulled a muscle.”
“A muscle,” he commented under his breath. Making a contemplative noise as your phone buzzed on top of the table. His eyes flicked to it.
“You good?”
This time he paused his scratching and looked at you. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re being so clinical,” you gestured. “You’ve never been like that.” Not getting an answer, you shrugged and looked at your phone, causing you to smile softly.
michael ‘raw’ robinavitch
If you’re ever in Pittsburgh, let me know. I’d actually like to show you around.
you
i mean you showed me a killer pierogi place last night and your house. definitely enjoyed your house and your bed
michael ‘raw’ robinavitch
Yeah, I enjoyed you in my bed too, sweetheart.
“We’re taking off soon,” Hotch piped up, and you nodded, not taking your eyes off your phone. “You need to put that away.”
you
flying now. i’ll text you when i land <3
michael ‘raw’ robinavitch
Safe flight.
Locking your phone, you made a show of it being turned off to Hotch. Pulling your book from your bag, you pointedly ignored Hotch for the rest of the flight.
In the meantime, Hotch occasionally looked at you. He took notice of the red marks around your wrist, the bite marks and hickeys littering your neck. And not that he would admit it, but if he sniffed the air a little bit harder, he could tell that the body wash you had on you wasn’t yours.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hotch this tense before,” Spencer muttered to JJ, and they both looked at the man.
“I think it has something to do with a certain someone last night,” JJ replied back, and she nodded towards you.
Spencer gazed at you. “Do you think he’s jealous?”
JJ shrugged, “Hard to tell, but fifty bucks say he is.”
After the debrief in the conference room, you heard Hotch call out your name. The team glanced at you, curiosity in their eyes. You turned to Hotch who was still compiling his papers together.
“I need to talk to you in my office,” Hotch nodded.
“Ooo, someone’s in trouble,” at Emily’s taunting tone, you accidentally swiped her shin with the toe of your boot. “Ow!”
Walking side by side with Hotch, you walked in first, turning around as you saw him close his door.
“(Y/N), about what you saw,” he started and when he saw your confused face, he elaborated. “With Haley, when you were with Spencer and Morgan.”
“Hotch, no offence but that’s really not my problem,” you interrupted, as you started to run your eyes across the back of his office. “What you do with your wife isn’t really my business.”
“She’s,” he shook his head. “She’s my ex-wife,”
“Again, Hotch. Not my business,” you reiterated. “That’s your business.”
“Haley and I have been together for a very long time, we just,” he looked away from you, trying to find the right words.
“Fell back into something familiar? Hotch, I get it,” you understood. You truly did. “Like I get it, get it.”
“But we’re done,” Hotch’s words had a finality in them, like he was believing them for the first time. “I’m sorry that you had to see that and that you were dragged into this.”
You shrugged, “It’s fine.”
“We’re not getting back together.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
That stopped whatever you were about to say. You looked at Hotch, your brain not catching up what you wanted to say. “Why don’t you want me to get the wrong idea?”
Hotch swallowed, “I just want to be clear about everything.”
Opening your mouth, you were interrupted by your phone buzzing loudly. Hotch’s eyes flicked to it and his jaw clenched. “It’s fine, Hotch, like I said, we’re fine.” Without another word, you gave him a smile and left his office.
the first year - five months, four weeks in (november)
“Excuse me,” Penelope cleared her throat as she looked down at you. Her arms crossed against her chest. “You hooked up with a doctor and you didn’t tell me?”
“Pen!” You glanced around the bullpen, everyone too busy in their own work to notice.
“I’m practising celibacy right now, I need to vicariously live through people,” she bent down and grabbed your arm. “Tell me everything. And I mean everything.”
You laughed and stood up from your desk, entangling your arms together, you walked to the kitchen. “He’s nice. Sweet, actually.”
“And according to JJ and Emily totally smoking,” Penelope winked.
“He is,” you agreed immediately. “Good in bed too.”
“Tell me,” Penelope grasped to your arm. Your laugh caught in your throat as Hotch came into view from behind.
“Pen, this isn’t really work appropriate,” you coughed into your hand.
She waved her hand around, “We talk about dead bodies, it’s about time we talk about something nicer. Are you going to see him again?”
You made a noncommittal noise, “I mean, maybe? He has a few days off apparently, and he’s coming up here.”
“That good?” Penelope’s eyes widened.
You smirked, filling your mug with coffee. “He’s nice,” you repeated.
“Oh, so he is good,” Penelope gasped.
the first year - six months, three weeks in (december)
You frowned at your phone, cussing under your breath as you typed out your response. “Fuckin snow.”
“You okay?”
“Holy fucking shit, Aaron,” you jumped in your seat, looking at said man who had an unnatural grin on his face. You looked around noticing no one was in the office except the two of you. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”
“Language.”
“Language,” you mocked him. Spinning in your chair, you looked at him, noticing the ease of his body, the softness in his eyes. “Getting intel are we?”
“I’m just curious as to why you’re still in the office,” at his statement you looked around and you only saw a couple of agents milling around, everyone in your team gone for the day.
“You’re still in the office,” you remarked and you saw a small tired smile on his face.
“I usually am,” Hotch answered. “Why are you still here? You should go home.”
“Tired of me already?”
He shook his head, “Never.”
You sat there for a beat just staring at Hotch, there was something soft around him. He looked at you in a way that you’ve never seen. Before you could answer, the soft buzz of your phone made you tear your eyes away from him.
Groaning softly at the message, you blew out a loud puff of air and placed it back on the table.
“You okay?”
“I’m just waiting for someone but there’s a jam on the streets cause of the snow,” tapping your fingers on the table, you wondered if it was better to just go home and meet him there.
“Robby?” Hotch asked and the pit in his stomach that’s been there since November made itself known. “I didn’t realise that you were still seeing him.”
“We’re seeing each other,” you said carefully. “And it’s nice.”
“Nice,” Hotch repeated and you arched your brow. Coughing into his hand as he realised he said it out loud, “Is he treating you well?”
You smiled softly, “Yeah, he’s kind and good.”
“That’s good,” he repeated again, and you couldn’t help the small chuckle that came out of you. “We’re good though as well, right? I just feel like we’ve been off.”
You took another moment to answer, “We are, Hotch,” you replied truthfully. “Think I just had a bit of a weird patch a couple weeks back but I promise we’re okay,” you nudged your foot with his, and by the look on his face, he seemed to hesitate to believe you. “We’re fine, Hotchner,” holding out your pinky finger, you urged him to do the same. “I promise.”
“I’m happy he’s treating you well,” Hotch muttered between still lips.
“And if he wasn’t?”
“I have a lot of leeway as Unit Chief,” he smiled.
You laughed loudly, and the other agents looked at you, ducking your head a bit, you smiled teasingly at Hotch. “You’ve got jokes, Hotchner?”
“An arsenal full of them,” he looked towards the window. “You should go before we get snowed in.”
You looked outside, and then looked at your phone.
michael ‘raw’ robinavitch
I want to say ten minutes out? It’s hard to tell, but I’ll be there soon, baby.
Gathering your things, you felt Hotch’s eyes watch you. Once you got everything, you turned to him, gentle smile on your face. Leaning up on tip toes, one hand wrapped around him, you brushed your lips against his cheek.
“Have a happy Christmas, Hotch.”
Feeling his arm encircle one side of your waist and instinctively you stepped closer into his embrace. Fully hugging him now, it didn’t occur to you until now that it was probably his first Christmas alone since his separation. Letting him have this moment, you tried to separate this moment as a co-worker needing a shoulder for a moment and not anything else.
For Hotch, he allowed himself to cherish the small affection that he hasn’t been permitted for the last couple of weeks. Tightening his grip on you, Hotch momentarily leaned and pressed his head against yours. Memorising the scent of your shampoo, the way that you felt around his body.
He wanted to keep you there with him. Wanted to keep the conversation going but he didn’t know how to. Hotch wanted to know your plans but he didn’t think that could bear knowing what the two of you were planning.
Pulling away, he looked down and all he wanted to do was press his forehead against yours. Feel your breath against his skin but instead he grinded his jaw and let you go.
“Have a good Christmas, (Y/N).”
the first year - seven months, two weeks in (january 2026)
“I can’t believe their divorce is finally finalised. Great way to ring in the New Year, I guess,” Morgan said as he handed the drink to you. “Now you can finally make your moves on him.”
“Moves?!” You feigned as you gratefully took your drink. “I’m not you, Morgan.”
“Oh, but you are, mamacita, but just a different type of font,” winking at you, you both cheered your glass.
“Seriously, though,” Derek implored. “Anything?”
“I’m with Robby,” you stated simply.
“Sure,” Derek shrugged. “But don’t tell me that you wouldn’t drop everything if Hotch came through that door asking for your hand in marriage.”
You sighed, “You make me sound like I’m using Robby, Derek.”
“Sorry, kid,” Derek apologetically nudged your foot. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
You tilted your head, “I guess. I mean, Robby isn’t a replacement for Hotch or anything but I won’t lie and say that seeing Hotch and Haley didn’t spur me to do something.”
Derek held his hands up, “I’m not blaming you, kid. That’s healthy and all that, instead of stewing in your own feelings.”
“I like Robby,” you admitted. “I’m also pretty sure that we’re both on the same page that it’s not going to go anywhere serious. I mean I’m here and he’s there,” you took a deep breath, feeling a weird weight of relief off your shoulders.
“I don’t want to push him,” you mumbled. “Don’t want a once-off thing with him. Kinda in it for the long haul, you know? Wanna wait until he’s ready.”
Derek said nothing but he watched you intently. “But when he’s ready,” you fiddled with your drink. “Then I’ll be right there for him,” you nodded, finality in your tone.
“Well, well, well,” Derek said as he leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest.
“What?”
“Someone’s in love,” he teased.
Rolling your eyes, you kicked his shin under the table, “Shut up, Morgan. As if you’re not in love with Garcia.”
The man shrugged, “You didn’t deny it.”
“I would be a big idiot if I didn’t fall in love with Hotch,” you reasoned out.
“He’d be up for it, you know,” Derek voiced out, taking another sip of his beer. “Whenever you’re ready to make your moves on him.”
“I don’t know, Derek, I mean what happens if I’m just reading into things? Like, that would be so embarrassing,” you scrunched your face at the thought of it actually happening. “And he just got divorced, I don’t want to be the young rebound before he settles down again. I think that may actually kill me.”
Derek tutted and shook his head, “Listen, kid, you’re getting in your head again. You’re thinking of the worst possibilities for this situation. Think about it, do you think Hotch is the type to have a pretty young thing that he’ll just fuck and dump?”
At his coarse words, you grimaced. “He’s still a man,” you deadpanned.
“Hotch isn’t that kind of man, no way,” Derek shook his head again. “He’s been into you ever since he saw you walk in with Strauss, or maybe he’s been pining for Strauss this whole time,” Derek laughed.
Bumping your shoulder with his, “You do know you’re going to have to make the first move, right? He’s openly fond of you but actually acting on his feelings?” Derek pursed his lips.
“I’m gonna have to be patient, Derek. I don’t want to spook him.”
“You’re the most impatient person I know.”
“You’ve known me for seven months,” you rolled your eyes. “But I can be patient for him.”
the first year - seven months, one week in (february 2026)
You and Hotch sat outside on the bench, overlooking the forest outside of Quantico. There was a slight chill to the air, but the sun was shining and you were content. There wasn’t a case yet, you were caught up with paperwork and the dish you made last night turned out well.
“You good?” Passing a bit of your lunch to Hotch, the man took a bite, humming appreciatively. “How are you feeling?”
“I think that it’s been going on for so long that I don’t feel any different,” Hotch confessed. “Is that wrong for me to say?”
“I don’t know,” you replied. “I’ve never been divorced, Hotch.”
“Someone would be the biggest idiot to divorce you.”
You turned to him and smiled, “That’s sweet, Hotchner. But I can be a handful.” You observed him, “Seriously, Aaron. You okay?”
“To be honest, I’m fine,” taking another bite of your lunch. “I’m fine. I just never thought I’d get divorced but then again I never thought I’d be a Unit Chief.”
Watching him take another bite, you couldn’t help but blurt out, “Would you do it again?”
Hotch turned to you, his eyes soft, “Do what?”
“Get married?”
He took a while to answer, instead enjoying the winter sun dance across your face. It’s been a while since the two of you were like this, the small intimate moments that the two of you managed to fit in between the real world. He cherished these moments.
“With the right person.”
“Right person?”
“Haley and I, we, were high school sweethearts. I grew up thinking that the first person you fell in love with was the love of your life, the one that you married. Everything came so fast, my career as a lawyer, then the BAU, and then Haley’s career. I loved her,” Hotch choked out. “But I think along the way love wasn’t enough, and she loved me more than I could love her.”
You didn’t respond. You’ve never been in a position like Hotch had been in before. Placing your hand on top of his, all you could offer him was the comfort of your touch.
“I loved Haley, but I don’t think she was the one, no,” he shook his head. “What about you? Do you ever want to get married?” Hotch kept his eyes on your hands, the slow circular movements relaxing him.
Looking at his side profile, you catalogued the creases by his eyes, the small lines near his mouth, “Yeah, Hotch, I do.”
“Got anyone in mind?”
“Do you?” You nudged his shoulder.
The two of you didn’t reply, the air was calm. He studied you in a quiet way, the way that he would look at all the evidence on a case before coming to the right conclusion. “I think when I do it again, I want -,” he looked at you, in a way that made you breathless. “I’m going to do it right, you know? I’ll fight for her. I don’t want her to think that I could love anything above her.”
Coughing slightly, hoping whatever you were feeling wasn’t showing on your face. “Do you think she’s going to be the one?” You teased.
Hotch stared at you, and without another beat, “Yes.” He turned back to your lunch, grabbing another bite, hoping that you didn’t see the heat creeping up his neck. “What about you? Do you have anyone in mind? Like Robby?”
Chuckling, you shook your head, “I actually broke things off with him a few weeks back. I can’t do distance, even if it is just in a different state.”
“If it wasn’t for distance, do you think he’d be a candidate?” He knew that he was prodding know, that’s why he kept his eyes from you, something that he hated to do.
You thought about it, and hummed, “No,” you shook your head. “I only have one candidate in mind.”
“Jeremy from the cafeteria?” Hotch proposed, smiling as he watched you giggle.
“My one and only,” you spoke lovingly, a hand to your heart to affirm your words.
Hotch looked at you, and in the winter sun, he thought you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Thank you, sweetheart,” stroking your hand lightly, he allowed you to interlock your fingers together.
the first year - eight months, two weeks in (february 2026)
Knocking on Hotch’s door, you looked at your phone again. Looking through the information, you waited for his confirmation and when you received it, you wasted no time striding in.
“Hotch, I need you,” you announced, not bothering to close the door and instead beelining to him.
“Well, hello to you too, bella,” Rossi grinned as he flickered his gaze between the two of you.
“Dave,” you nodded and then turned to the man who was looking at you intently. “Look,” you passed over your phone to Hotch who took in and scrolled through the details Seeley sent. You looked with him, bits of information jumping out.
Too engrossed re-reading through all the details, you didn’t notice Rossi’s eyes studying the two of you. The way it clocked to him how at ease Hotch was with you, how said man moved back so his shoulder was touching your chest. The fact that your hand wasn’t on the back of his chair, but his shoulder instead - giving him the gentle assurance of your touch. He raised his brows as the two of you exchanged knowing glances before Hotch locked and passed you the phone back.
“We need to head to DC,” Hotch stated, finally looking at Rossi. “Agent Booth and his team needs us.” You leaned back, your hand trailing down his back as he stood up. “We’ll drive out in five.”
Rossi nodded, knowing that now wasn’t the right time to bring up whatever was going on between the two of you. Nodding his farewells, he walked back to the bullpen.
“You okay?” Hotch asked as he started gathering up his bag. “I know Agent Booth means a lot to you.”
“He’s like a brother to me,” you bit your lip and took a deep breath. “He’s looked after me since he’s met me. I know this is killing him and I don’t know how else to help him other than this.”
“We’ll help him,.” Hotch said firmly, his tone booking no room for any other answer. “We’ll get Dr Brennan and Dr Hodgins back. I promise.”
“I thought you didn’t make promises when it comes to cases,” you said lightly, trying to take your mind off just how dire this situation is.
“It’s different for you,” Hotch replied softly, his hand itching to comfort your current tense one.
“Hey,” Hotch called out softly, he pulled on the sleeve of your blouse. “You okay?”
“You’ve been asking me that a lot, Hotch,” you sighed.
“It’s taking a toll on you,” he replied softly, tugging your sleeve again, “come here for a second,” you stood in front of him, wondering what he needed. Hotch moved his hand from your sleeve and gently wrapped his hands around your body. “It’s okay,” he whispered as you instinctively melted into his body.
Placing one of his hands on the back of your neck, he rubbed softly at the base, “We’ll find them, okay? We have some of the most brilliant minds here, we’ll find them.” Pulling you even closer, he felt your arms around his hips. “It’s okay, honey.”
“Hotch,” Booth called out. “Wait up!”
When Hotch turned around, Booth held out his hand, “Thanks. I don’t know if we would have been able to do this without you.”
“You have a very capable team, I’m sure that you would have figured it out as well,” Hotch replied.
“You still came though, I didn’t even have to ask.”
“It wasn’t me,” Hotch spoke. He turned to where you were standing, still conversing with Temperance, he nodded to you. “She asked.”
“She asked and you came,” Booth finished. Booth looked at Hotch, who was still staring at you, a fondness on his face that he knew all too well. “Look after her.”
“What a shitty valentine’s day,” you threw your bag on the couch as soon as you stepped into Hotch’s office.
“It could be worse,” Hotch followed you. Closing the door, he walked over to his small table. Pouring your glass and then his, he sat down next to you. Loosening his tie, he leaned back, allowing you to be more comfortable.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Aaron,” you clinked your glass to his.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, (Y/N).”
the first year - ten months, two weeks in (april 2026)
“Can you believe that I’ve almost been here a year?” Passing your paperwork to Aaron, you began to start on another one. The unknown joys of working as an agent.
“2nd of June,” Hotch added. “That’s when you first started.”
“You remembered?” You briefly glanced at him.
“That was the day I learned what a cruffin was, so yes.”
“What a momentous occasion for you,” you teased, passing another piece of paper. “Seriously though, it feels like I’ve been here since forever.”
“I feel the same way.”
Arching your brow, you relaxed back into your seat, “Oh, really? And why’s that?”
Hotch glanced at you and shrugged, “It just seems like you’ve always been here. It’s hard to think of what the team was like before you.”
“Oh, I am so your favourite.”
Nudging your shoulders with his, “It’s actually Reid.”
“And here I was going to say that you were my favourite, but I guess that isn’t reciprocated,” you dramatically moved your chair away from him. “Here I am helping you with paperwork but I don’t see Reid doing that.”
“You barged in here and wanted to spend time together,” Hotch reasoned out, pulling your chair back to its original position.
“Yeah, and I don’t see your so-called favourite coming in here to spend quality time with you.”
“Maybe that’s why he’s my favourite.”
“Fine,” you fumed. Standing up, you gathered your one pen and made your way to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to spend time with someone that actually wants to be with me,”
“(Y/N), I’m kidding,” you almost felt bad that you were pulling his chain. “Please come back.”
You turned around, arms crossed against your chest, “That was mean, Hotch.”
“I’m sorry,” he apologised, everything else forgotten except the woman standing in front of him who appeared furious with him. “That’s why I don’t make jokes.”
“It’s your tone, Hotchner,” you rolled your eyes. Sitting back down, pointedly moving your body from his, something that made Hotch feel uneasy.
“You know though right?”
“What?” You hummed, focusing (and failing) on the paper in front of you.
“That you’re my favourite.”
Turning your head, you looked at Hotch who looked earnestly at you. Nudging his foot with yours, you pushed your chair closer to his. “Yeah, Hotch, I know.”
the first year - eleven months, three weeks in (april 2026)
It was humiliating. Here you were laying on the ground, eye thumping in pain. It was almost cartoonish, you running around the corner chasing the unsub then getting hit by a 2x4 by said unsub.
“Motherfucker,” you groaned in pain. Clutching your eye, you tried to get up. “Of-fucking-course,” you swore as you felt the telltale run of a bloody nose.
“(Y/L/N), you alright?” Emily asked, coming around the corner.
“Yeah, Morgan’s after him,” you gestured west where Derek and the unsub ran off too.
“(Y/N)?” You could hear Hotch ask through the earpiece. “You okay?”
“She got hit by the unsub, nosebleed and I can see a bump forming. Possible concussion,” Emily answered for you, assessing you as she talked to Hotch.
“I’m fine,” you gritted out.
“She’s not,” Emily supplied.
“(Y/L/N), stay there,” Hotch commanded.
“No,” shoving Emily’s helpful hand off, you began to jog to Derek. “Morgan’s alone, and I’m not leaving him there.”
“(Y/N), I’m serious,” Hotch bit out. “I’m about two minutes away, just stay there. Prentiss will go.”
But it was too late and you were too stubborn, knowing that Derek was in trouble. Running as best you could, you caught up to where Derek’s already apprehended the unsub.
“You good?” You nodded to Derek.
“Yeah, kid, don’t think you are though,” pointing towards your nose.
You could hear the rest of the team starting to arrive, Hotch in the front, JJ, Rossi and Emily in tow.
“What were you thinking?” Hotch snapped as you came into view, gun lowering and heading straight to you. “I told you to stay.”
“Morgan-,”
“Morgan had it handled,” Hotch bit out, his eyes running across your body. “An order is an order, (Y/L/N).”
“You didn’t know that,” you snapped back. Moving too quickly, you winced as you held your head.
Whatever Hotch wanted to say or snap at you died in his mouth as he quickly strided over to you. His hands gently running over the wound, thumb running under your nose to get rid of the blood.
“Are you okay?” He whispered, annoyance and any anger gone from him.
“Head hurts,” you complained.
“Come on, let’s go to the medics,” wrapping his arms around your waist, Hotch guided you.
“She should be fine, no need for an overnight stay,” the medic stated as she finished looking you over. “No signs of subdural hematoma,” the medic turned to Hotch who was hovering behind her, looking at you with concerned eyes. “But it’s best that someone stays with her. Any signs, bring her in. I’d also recommend that when you go home that you go to your usual doctor, just to make sure everything is okay.”
“I’ll look after her,” Hotch replied with a definitive tone. Like there was no room for anyone else to look after you.
“You’ve got a good one,” the medic winked at you. “It’s rare that those come by.”
“He’s not,” you started but stopped as Hotch walked over to you.
“Thank you,” Hotch looked at the medic thankfully, a rare smile appearing on his face. “Come on, sweetheart,” guiding you down, you pushed your weight to Hotch, who was all too happy to provide the support you needed. “We’ll go back to the hotel.”
If the team saw the way Hotch’s hand stayed glued to your lower back as he escorted you to the car, none of them said anything.
“In the bathroom,” Hotch directed as the two of you went into his hotel room. “I got JJ to grab all your belongings from your room already.”
Walking to the bathroom, you squinted your eyes as he turned on the light. Whispering apologies, he dialed down the brightness. “I need to clean your wounds,” he murmured, looking at your head.
“I’m not a baby,” you moaned out, removing Hotch’s hand from your face.
“You,” he started and you could see him clench his jaw. He made a fist and looked away from you, “Do you know how stubborn you are?”
“I’ve been told that,” you responded cheekily.
“I need to clean your wounds,” he repeated, this time more firm. He moved you to sit on the bathroom counter. Gathering the first aid kit that he always kept in his bag, Hotch stepped between your legs.
“Just let me,” Hotch murmured. You looked up at him, the focus in his eyes, getting the dirt, grim and blood off your face. The gentle touch that you could feel on your forehead. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, and you knew that he could feel yours.
“There,” he whispered, as he placed the final bandaid on your head. “All cleaned up.”
“You know, some people believe that kissing the wound will make it heal faster,” you supplied, as you gazed up at him. Your hands finding home on the lapels of his jacket.
He grinned down at you, “Oh really?” Brushing your hair away from your face, Hotch couldn’t help but stare at you. The emotions in your eyes, the way you clung to him, the subconscious lean into his hands, Hotch wanted you to touch him forever.
You hummed. Gently grasping your head in both of his hands, Hotch leaned down to flutter a kiss on your wound. Then another, then another, until he was peppering kisses down your cheek. He skimmed his hands to your side and you flinched as his lips touched your head a little harder than he would have wanted.
“I’m sorry,” he apologised instantly, pulling away from you and looking at the wound.
Tugging his lapels lightly, you pulled him to you, “Don’t you ever apologise for kissing me, Aaron Hotchner.”
Laughing he tenderly kissed your forehead, then your cheek, his lips hovering your own, so close that the two of you felt each other’s breath. “You’ve got to sleep,” he whispered against your lips. Craning his neck, he placed another tender but long kiss to your forehead. “Come on, we’ll change you out of your clothes and take your meds.”
Picking you up from the counter, he placed you down on the ground. Hands on your hips to steady you. “Did you need help getting changed?” He asked, his eyes suddenly not on you.
You grinned, “Aaron Hotchner, I got hit in the head, a mild injury mind you.”
“I’m just asking,” he replied, his tone close to a whine. “I’ll get your clothes,” he said but made no move to get them, instead standing in front of you, your back pressed against the counter. He pressed himself to you, his hands on your waist, as he gazed at your wound again.
“It’s just a little bit of a knock on the head, Hotch,” you placed your chin on his chest, looking up at him. “I’m okay, I promise.”
“Still,” Hotch stated. “I don’t like seeing you injured.”
“Alright, you okay?”
You rolled your eyes, “Yes, Hotch.”
“Where are you going?” You demanded sleepily as you saw his figure walk away from you.
“I need to finish these up, and then I’ll sleep on the couch,” he held up the papers and you frowned at him.
“No, you’re sleeping here,” you replied stubbornly, you patted the spot next to you, and scowled at him until he sighed and came over.
He laid on the bed next to you, back flushed to the headboard. Hotch opened up the case files, watching you from the corner of his eyes as you tried to get comfortable. Seeing your distress, he pushed the file aside and moved your upper body until you were laying on him.
He looped his right arm from behind your back, hand splaying across your stomach. “Better?” He heard you hum in response, and the next thing you knew, you were out.
Gently rubbing his thumb across your stomach, he watched from above as you turned, hands burying under his shirt, hands curling against his chest hair, your face burrowed into his stomach and your leg thrown across his. There was a content look to your face, your body melting into his as if you were one.
the second year (june 2026)
“Happy Anniversary,” Hotch commented as you came into his office. “It’s officially been a year since you transferred to the BAU.” He nodded to the brown paper bag in front of where you usually sit. “I got you a cronut.”
Normally you would have beamed at him, hugging him (as professionally as you could within the precinct) and thanked him. But there was tension between the two of you today. Well, more on your part than his. He didn’t know anything about the inner turmoil you had. It wasn’t bad tension, but it was tension that you felt in your stomach. Tension that seeps into your dream, and all you can think of when you wake up is how nice the weight of your boss on top of you would feel really nice.
You’ve thought about this before, of course you had. You weren’t silent in your attraction and affection for Hotch but this was the first time that your subconscious did anything about it.
“Are you alright?” Hotch asked, a concerned frown on his face when you didn’t move from where you were standing. Your eyes not even drifting to the bag. “You feeling okay?”
You looked at him and you groaned. You hated the fact that you couldn’t hide anything from this man. It’s not because he was a good profiler, or anything, it was the fact you didn’t want to lie to him. That you had the urge to tell him the truth no matter what because you never want to keep anything away from him.
“I had a sex dream about you,” you shyly confessed, your tone laced with something Hotch has never really heard from you.
“What?”
“Oh my god, Aaron!” You threw up your hands, “I had a sex dream about you, okay?”
“Okay,” he responded dumbly. He looked at you then cleared his throat. “That’s nothing to be embarrassed about. We work together an awful lot, so it’s only natural that you find yourself in that kind of position.”
Rolling your eyes, “I work with a lot of people, I have never had this problem.” You practically stay rooted in your spot. “This is so embarrassing,” you buried your face in your hands. “I sound so childish.”
You could hear the creak in Hotch’s chair as he stood up and walked over to you. Running his hands down from your shoulders, you mumbled, “This doesn’t help you know.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” You balked at his suggestion. “It may help,” he shrugged. Hotch was spouting bullshit, both of you knew it. When has talking about a sex dream, with said person who starred in it was ever a good idea?
Hotch knew that you were smart. You knew what he implicitly wanted. “I promise I won’t make fun,” but the grin on his face told a different story. “Come on.” Pulling you to his couch, he sat on the table in front. “Tell me.”
“Uh, it was a sex dream,” you started eloquently and he nodded.
Coughing into his hand, Hotch asked, “Were we together in this?”
“Considering you wanted to knock me up, I’d hope so,” you mumbled quietly, shifting in your seat.
“Knock you up?”
“Are you going to repeat everything that I say? Cause if so, that isn’t helping.”
“I’m just trying to make sense of everything.”
Rolling your eyes again, you shuffled yourself further down. “I don’t know, the beginning’s hazy, but I remember you on top of me, there was kissing involved,-”
“Of course,” at his interruption you glared at him, and all he could do was give you a reassuring smile.
“As I was saying, there was kissing involved and touching, and you called me-,”
Hotch watched your breathing become deeper, he looked at your fists which were clenched on top of your thighs. Hotch gritted his teeth as he saw that your thighs were clenched. “Called you what?”
You turned to him and what he saw on your face made him almost gasp. Your eyes were almost black in this light, your lips flushed and swollen from you biting them. You were ravishing.
“Good girl,” you replied hoarsely. “Specifically, your good girl.”
Hotch has never been happier until now that he had the self-restraint of a monk. All he wanted to do was kiss you silly on his couch, the team downstairs and professionality be damned.
“My good girl,” it wasn’t a question, it was a statement as he looked at you. And the moment those words left his mouth, it was like you were a sleeper agent as your eyes trained on him. “And how did I, how did that make you feel?”
You glared at him, “Is this fun for you? Is my embarrassment fun for you?”
Touching your knees, Hotch leaned forward. “Not at all. I’m learning about you, and I want to help you out. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable around me.”
Looking at his hands, his big hands on your knees, you bit your lip harder. “You could never make me feel uncomfortable.”
“So it wasn’t uncomfortable for you?”
Shaking your head, “The opposite,” you confessed thickly. “I liked that you called me that.”
“Interesting,” Hotch hummed as he looked at you. This was completely different. Usually you would be the take-charge, hard-headed woman that he cared for. Brazen, loud and unabashed but sitting here in front of him was completely different. This was a different side to you. Something he wanted to explore. “So let me get this straight; we were together, I was trying to knock you up and I was calling you my good girl.”
“That’s basically the gist of it,” you murmured, face flushing at the words being repeated back to you.
“That sounds normal.”
You stared blankly at him, “When has that ever been normal? When has having a sex dream about your boss, trying to breed me and calling me a good girl be normal?”
At the word ‘breed’, you could feel Hotch squeeze your knees. “Don’t tell me you’re getting turned on right now,” you scoffed.
“I am not,” he denied, having the audacity to have a perplexed look on his face.
“Then there’s something wrong with you,” you rolled your eyes.
“Excuse me?”
“There’s something wrong with you,” you repeated, this time slower. “What kind of man wouldn’t be turned on with me saying that.”
And there she is, he thought. The fire in your words, the self-confidence that he wished he could possess.
“You’re unbelievable,” Hotch shook his head, fondness in his smile at you. “Do you want me to get turned on?”
That question took you aback, pouting, you thought it over. “Yes.”
“I don't think this is work appropriate,” despite his words, Hotch slid closer to you, one of your knees slotting between his legs.
“You’re the one who wanted me to talk about my sex dream,” you responded, leaning in as well.
Too lost in each other, you didn’t hear the knock on his door, or JJ walking in. “Am I interrupting something?” JJ looked at the two of you, one of her brows arching. Her eyes went straight to Hotch’s hands still on your knees, the man slowly removing them from your body.
The two of you cleared your throat, and Hotch answered. “No, what do you need, JJ?”
“We have a case, we’re setting up the room now,” with one last knowing look she left his office.
Turning back to him, you glared playfully, “This stays between us, Hotchner.”
Squeezing your knees, Hotch drifted his hands up your thighs to your hands before pulling you up with him. “Of course, can’t let my good girl down.”
Hitting him on his chest, you groaned as you began to walk out of his office.
the second year - one month in (july 2026)
It was like Hotch’s left hand was now stitched to your lower back. Like the only place that it can ever belong was on your body. Ever since you confessed your sordid dream about him, it was like he was a new man.
The confession allowed the two of you to be more comfortable with each other. Maybe Hotch was right in the way that it helped the connection between the two of you. He was more open with his touches (when it was just the two of you), open with his compliments and praise in front of the team.
It started with a small touch. Hotch was just passing by and he placed his hand on your waist as he moved behind you, a whispered excuse falling from his lips as he moved behind. You flinched at first, thinking it was a random man, until you smelt the familiar cologne. Leaning back, you basked in the small but intimate moment.
Your reaction gave him the courage to be more forward. Well, as forward as Hotch could be. When no one was watching, his touch on your back was longer. More intimate. He never just had his hand on your back. It was a small movement of his thumb, grounding you. Moving his whole hand across the span of your lower back, or from your shoulder and then looping around your hips.
You didn’t think any of it. In fact, you were probably worse. You liked to touch him on his back and then run your hand up and down, until it landed on his waist, or his belt. You needed to be near him; your arms and thighs touching when you sat next to each other, your fingers twiddling with the fabric that you could reach.
It didn’t go unnoticed by the team; Derek and Penelope never missing a moment to tease you, JJ and Emily exchanging knowing glances, and Spencer not mentioning anything after you both threw stern glances his way the first time he noted it publicly.
And Rossi? Well, Rossi was Rossi about the whole thing. Watching the two of you keenly, refusing to say anything except a nod and a small grin thrown at the two of you.
It was another case, Missouri this time and the team was barely hanging on a thread. Hotch specifically as he kept butting heads with the Sheriff. Another tense exchange between the two left Hotch practically huffing as he exited the small room.
Knocking on the door that you saw Hotch walk in, he snapped at the door, “What?”
Raising your hands up in the air as you walked in, Hotch’s once irritated face softened into something that was only reserved for you. “You okay?”
“Their own personal biases and bigotry are affecting this case, are affecting the victims,” Hotch bit out, his hands clenching by his sides. “They’re believing what they’re being fed by the news they see and won’t look at the actual evidence.”
Walking closer to him, you allowed him to vent about the past couple of days. “They’re affecting the case and if they won’t get over it, I don’t know how we can help them. They’re going to frame someone because that’s what they believe.”
Without a thought, Hotch sat down on one of the tables, a hand pinched across the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“That’s new,” you stated. “You not knowing what to do,” walking up to him, you stood between his legs, his hands automatically going to your hips despite his annoyed look at you.
“It’s frustrating,” he confided in you, head falling to your shoulder. You rubbed the sides of his neck.
“You’re Aaron Hotchner,” you started. “You don’t take no for an answer, especially when it comes to a case.” Leaning closer you pressed your body flushed to his. “You’re going to walk back in there and tell him who’s boss, because you are. You’re going to take charge of this, disregarding whatever he says along the way because you know what’s right.”
“You’re a good man, Hotch, that’s why this is frustrating for you, because you care about everyone, regardless of who they are.”
Rubbing your hips, he pulled you closer, his head burrowing into your neck. You leaned your head against him, dotting kisses along his cheek and neck, your hands easing the tension from his shoulders.
Pressing a kiss to your neck, Hotch pulled back staring up at you. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “Don’t know how I can do this without you.”
You rolled your eyes playfully, “You’ve been doing this for almost two decades, Hotch, I’m sure you could have managed.”
“Maybe, but I don’t want to do this without you,” he confessed.
“You won’t. I’m here for you, forever.” Kissing his cheek and pulling his belt, you pulled him back to his feet, “Now, come on, cowboy, you got a Sheriff to put in place.”
The two of you walked back to the conference room, the smug sheriff smiling conceitedly making you already clench your jaw. The team watched the two of you walk in, poised and ready to have Hotch’s back as he stood in front of the Sheriff.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Hotch commanded, feeling renewed with you behind him. “We are going to look at the facts, stick to the facts, and not let our personal opinions colour this case,” with those words he threw a very pointed look to the local police department. “We don’t have any reason to think the person is a suspect, apart from how they carry themselves. We’re going through the case again, we’re going to look at this from a very detached perspective.”
“How’re you goin’ about that, hotshot?” The Sheriff looped his thumbs over his belt loops. “This is my department, you can’t do nothin’. We got a suspect. We’re chargin’ that thing.”
“Last I saw, this was a federal case,” Hotch stated, not biting the low hanging fruit.
The Sheriff laughed and looked at his cronies, “That’s the thing with you city folk, you don’t get how these small towns work. We run this town. We know our people. We know who don’t belong.”
“Just because they’re different to you doesn’t mean that they don’t belong,” Hotch informed. “Though I don’t think you’d understand that, considering your world view is quite small, being stuck here and all.”
“What’s that supposed to mean boy?” The Sheriff narrowed his eyes and stepped forward, his hand moving towards the butt of his gun.
Hotch straightened up, “I’m saying that you’re not educated. In the matters of the real world. You’ve been stuck here since you were born, and will still be here until you die. Everything you have ever known has been within the town's limit. You don’t care for people that break the status quo.”
You could see his actions before the Sheriff actioned them, swiftly moving to Hotch’s front, you glared at the sheriff, venom in your eyes, “Do not.” The sight was probably laughable, you practically growling at a man a good foot taller than you.
“What’re you goin’ to about it, princess?” The man leered, craning his neck down and you grimaced at the nickname.
“Watch your mouth,” Hotch snapped, his patience with the department out of the window.
“I will gut you,” you gritted out. “But before I do that, I’ll break every single fucking bone in your body if you dare to lay a hand on him, do you understand me?”
“That’s cute, girlie, but this is a man’s fight,” before he could touch you, you grabbed his arm, spinning his dense body and pinning him to the floor, breaking some of his fingers in the process.
“You can hit me if you want, but touch any of them or him, I swear you’ll be begging for me to kill you,” you threatened against his ear, too low for anyone to hear you. Unaware of the scrapes of chairs from the local police quickly standing up and the team blocking them.
Gripping his fingers in your hand, you twisted, the knee on his back digging harder, “What you’re going to do is listen to what Aaron is going to say, agree with whatever he says, and we solve this case. Otherwise, when my team flies home, I’ll stay, and I promise I’ll make you pay. Got it?” The man whimpered in pain and you tightened your grip when you didn’t see or hear confirmation. “Got it?” This time he nodded.
Letting him go, you stood up back to Hotch’s side who watched you with fascination and fear. You watched as the Sheriff cradled his hands and nodded to Hotch. Everyone dispersed from the room, afraid to say anything more in the charged atmosphere.
Derek whistled as he looked at you, “Damn, mama. Who knew?” He shook his head and grinned, pointing at you, he said, “You are going to show me how you did that.”
You rolled your eyes and moved closer to Hotch. “Sorry,” you said sheepishly. “Am I in trouble?”
“With what, bella?” Rossi asked, an amused smile on his face. “I didn’t see anything,” winking at you, “If you don’t buy that girl a drink, Hotch,” Rossi commented before he left the two of you.
“I’ll fill out the paperwork when we get home,” you nodded. “And I’ll tell Strauss that I was the one who broke his fingers. You think I’ll get suspension with pay?”
“Hotch?” He was still looking at you, this time the fear was gone from his eyes.
“I didn’t know that you could do that,” was all he said.
“Years of being in the military will teach you things,” you shrugged. “Seriously, you think I’ll get suspension with pay?”
“You didn’t have to do that,” and you rolled your eyes.
“He was going to hit you,” you raised your brows at him. “I’m not letting anyone hit you.”
“Honey, you could have gotten hurt,” this time Hotch moved forward, hands already reaching for yours. Looking at the small red blemishes, he rubbed his thumb over them.
“I’ve taken bigger targets down, Hotch.”
“Thank you,” kissing your knuckles, you couldn’t help but graze your knuckles against his cheek.
Kissing him on the cheek quickly, you ran your hands down his shirt, landing on his belt. “Seriously, suspension with pay? Gonna visit me when I get grounded?”
Hotch laughed and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, “You won’t get in trouble. I won’t say anything and I doubt the team will.”
Turning around, you feigned a gasp, “You’re breaking the rules? Since when does Aaron Hotchner break the rules?”
Pinching your waist, he gave you a grin, “You just bring it out of me I guess.”
the second year - two months, one week in (august 2026)
The soft crooning of Laufey wrapped around your ears as you focused on the form in front of you. You made a face as you realised you didn’t know what the fuck Section 2.15, paragraph 13-14 from the second volume of blah, blah, blah was.
The soft tap on your shoulder briefly distracting you from the allure of paperwork, you took out one earbud. “Hotch? Everything okay?”
“It’s seven pm.”
You glanced at the clock on your desk and inwardly groaned, “Fuck, I didn’t realise it was that late.”
“This can wait,” he tapped on the piece of paper, frowning as he saw your answers. “This isn’t correct.”
“I’m gonna kill myself,” you groaned, your head falling back dramatically. “I thought I had this down pat.”
“They changed it a couple of years back,” Hotch explained. “The Unit Chief’s had to review all of the forms to make sure it fits the current legislation.”
“You made this?” You narrowed your eyes at the man in front of you, any other time you would appreciated the way this colour suited him, but not right now. Not when he was the reason for the bane of your existence. “Hotch.”
“I can help, if you want.”
“That’s cheating,” you grumbled. “I hate this, but I’m not cheating.”
“It’s not cheating if I show you the right books to look at,” Hotch explained. “Come on,” gathering your things up for you, Hotch waited until you stood up before going into his office.
“And why are we going to your office?”
“I’ve noticed that you focus better in here than downstairs,” Hotch opened his door, and placed your items on the table in front of the couch. “I’ve ordered us some food.”
“Why are you being nice to me?”
“Am I not always nice to you?” Hotch inquired, as he took off his jacket, placing it on the back of his chair. He rolled up his sleeves, a sight that made your mouth water.
“You are,” you appeased. Placing down your items, you made yourself comfortable on his couch. “But never outwardly like this.”
“The team isn’t here.”
You made a noise in acknowledgement, “Gotcha. Gotta keep your reputation intact. Can’t let people know that you’re soft for me.” All you got was a small smile in return. “Can I play some music?”
“As long as it isn’t your Slipknot, then yes.”
You stuck out your tongue at him. “You’re such a stick in the mud, Hotch. Who doesn’t love the soft crooning of Corey Taylor?”
“It’s barbaric.”
“How is metal barbaric? You could even argue that it’s the fundamental way to express human emotion.”
“By screaming?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s this?”
“Laufey,” you responded, closing your eyes at the first sound of her voice. “She’s dope.”
“Dope.” Opening your eyes, you saw just how close he was now.
“Never say dope again,” you jested as you hit him softly with your foot.
“I like her,” Hotch commented, softly nodding along to the melody. “She is dope.”
Making a disgruntled noise, you nudged him again, “Aaron Hotchner. That was icky.”
“Icky?” Sitting down next to you, it was him this time that didn’t allow any space between the two of you, polite space completely forgotten. “Am I icky?”
“When you say dope you are,” you laid your legs on top of his thighs, Hotch’s hands instantly landing on top of your shins. You watched as he rubbed your leg gently, thanking God that you made the decision to wear a skirt today.
There was a turn in the air, as you looked at Hotch under the light of his lamps. You were in complete violation of every rule that was written about superior and subordinate relationships but you really didn’t care. “But most of the time, you aren’t.”
Hotch hummed and it was different, it was lower, more intent in it. “And what am I most of the time?” You saw his hands move further up, his body leaning towards you.
Glancing down, you could feel your heartbeat thumping beneath your chest. “I think you know,” you gulped as you finally felt the heat of his hand on your inner thigh. “You’re the best profiler in the world, I think you know.” It was instinctive for you to lean in, for your eyes to drop down from his gaze to his lips which was just begging to be kissed.
Hotch followed you, leaning forward, his hand now inside your skirt, engulfing your thigh, fingertips feeling the warmth radiating from your centre. He clenched his jaw as he saw you bite your lip, “Honey.”
“Honey? Don’t think that’s my name.”
“It is to me,” taking his hand out of your skirt, he chuckled as he heard you whine. Grabbing one of your thighs, he pulled you, making you sit on his lap. “Fuck,” he groaned as you sat down, squeezing your thighs against his hips.
Leaning forward you wrapped your arms around his neck, his hands drifting to your waist. A soft sigh left our lips as you could feel him harden underneath you. Testing the waters, you moved your hips slightly, earning a small groan from the man underneath. Drifting your hands down the plains of his chest, you eventually landed on placing your hands on his stomach. Grasping his belt in your hands, you pulled once, untucking a piece of his shirt.
Pulling you closer to his body, Hotch ran his hands down your back, until he landed on your ass. Squeezing and moving you along his length, both of you let out a groan. He could feel just how warm you were, and he knew that if he pulled your skirt up he could see how soaked you were.
“Hotch,” you whimpered, hands clenching his belt. You could feel the heat in your stomach, and you clenched your thighs tighter, grounding yourself down to his cock. “Please.”
“Please what?” Dragging you against him, his gaze focused on your glossy lips. It looked so plump and juicy and all he wanted to do was bite it. “Be my good girl and tell me.”
At those words your hips jolted, hands clenching at his belt. Before your lips could touch a buzz from Hotch’s phone broke whatever reverie the two of you were in. You didn’t pull back quickly, instead allowing yourself to categorise every feature of his face.
“I think that’s our food,” Hotch groaned, his hands still on your ass. He allowed himself to squeeze once, feeling the shape underneath his hands. He watched your face above his, your pupils dilated and your mouth parted open.
Another buzz and this time your eyes followed the sound, “We better get that. I don’t want to keep them waiting, it’s rude.”
He cleared his throat and reluctantly removed his hand from you, “You’re right. I’ll be back soon.”
With that, you detached yourself from him and if you felt him graze your ass for a bit, well that was between you and the silence. “Hotch,” you stopped him, “might want to, sort that out first,” you gestured to his crotch which now had a damp spot, not to mention his erection. “Unless you want to greet the delivery man like that.”
Looking down, a flush appeared on his face as he saw just how he liked what you were doing. “Oh.”
“I can get the food,” you teased, leaning down to grab your phone.
“Take my card,” he pulled out his wallet and handed it to you.
Moving forward, you leaned in and kissed his cheek. “What a gentleman.”
the second year - three months, two weeks in (september 2026)
“You dry humped your boss?”
“Jesus, Haley,” you scolded your best friend over the phone. “Thanks,” you nodded to the barista who handed you your coffee.
“And why am I only hearing about this now?”
“Because I’ve been busy,” and truly you have. Every case you finished, there was another one to jet off to. “It’s not something I can just drop on you.”
You could hear her squeal over the phone, “And? Did it go any further?”
You shook your head, “No. It was that and then we had some food, and helped me with paperwork.”
“Boring,” Haley scoffed. “Is it awkward between the two of you?”
“No, not really,” you said, opening the door to the building. “It’s been the same. I mean we haven’t been in the same situation but he hasn’t treated me differently. In fact it’s the same.”
“And are you sure he isn’t just using you?” Haley inquired. “Cause if so, I’ll string him up by his balls.”
“I’m sure, Hales,” you affirmed. “He’s a good guy, the best that I’ve known. Aaron would never treat me like that.”
Looking at the bullpen, you could see Hotch from the top of the stairs. He nodded towards you and then went into his office. “I just got to work, Hales. I’ll have to call you back.”
“Okay, babes, have fun looking at dead bodies and humping your man.”
Knocking on his door, you could hear Hotch’s voice from the other side. “We have a case?”
He nodded, signing something and then looking at you. “Garcia’s putting the case together. Conference room in twenty.”
“Cool,” you replied. Closing the door and walking over to him, you handed him a brown bag.
“What’s this?”
“Food,” placing another cup of coffee down on his desk, “and coffee. You need to eat. I know that you probably didn’t have anything apart from a single piece of toast this morning.”
“Thank you,” taking a sip of his coffee, he groaned quietly, something your ears picked up on. You watched as he took a bigger sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “You okay?” You looked at Hotch who now had a small smirk on his face, knowing exactly that he’s got you entranced.
“My birthday’s next month,” you commented. Running your hands across his desk. “I’d like for you to come to my party.”
“Is it on your birthday?”
“Since it’s going to a Tuesday, no,” you shook your head and sat down in front of him. “It’s going to be on the Friday after my birthday.”
Hotch swore under his breath, “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“Oh, that’s cool,” you breathed out, a little disappointed in his answer. “Better plans?”
“We have a meeting for all the departments in the FBI, all Unit Chiefs are expected to attend,” he replied sullenly. “(Y/N), I would prefer to go to your party and be with you, but I think I may actually get reprimanded if I don’t go.”
“Hotch,” you interrupted. “It’s fine,” and truly you were okay with it. You knew that him being a Unit Chief added extra obligations to the average agent. “But I expect a present, mister!”
“I’ve already picked it out,” Hotch replied, a knowing smile on his face.
“Is it continuing to hump me on your couch, cause I didn’t get off last time.”
“Work hours,” Hotch gently scolded. A small flush appearing on his face. “And you already know what it is, you’ve been snooping.”
You pouted and smiled at him. “Got it. Hump talk after work,” you winked.
“Agent.”
“SSA Hotchner.”
In the brief moment that the two allowed yourselves to be just you. Hotch allowed himself to be just Aaron for a small couple of minutes. Eyes softening, he dragged you by your trouser pocket, his hand drifting down to your thigh.
“You know that it isn’t something I usually do, right?”
“Humping on the couch? Well, I hope not,” you responded. “I don’t usually do well with jealousy.”
“I’m serious, (Y/N),” playing with your hands, Hotch looked up at you. “This means something to me.”
“I know,” with one hand you grasped his hair lightly, another hand on the apple of his cheek. “This means everything to me.”
Pulling you down, you landed on his thigh. Placing his hands on your ass, he slowly guided you across the length of his muscle. Heat pooled in your tummy, your hand automatically going down to his stomach.
“We can’t,” you moaned out bitterly. You closed your eyes and in that moment you really hated having a good work ethic. Well as good as it can get with humping your boss twice in his office.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Hotch instantly stopped his movements. His hands falling from your ass.
“Hotch, no,” you interrupted him as you could feel him close up. Taking his face in your hands, you made him look at you. “I want you and as much as I want to ride you into oblivion right here, we have about ten minutes before Garcia comes in here.”
“You’re right,” Hotch conceded, a laugh bubbling out of his chest. “You just do something to me.”
“Same here,” placing a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth, you regretfully removed yourself from his thigh. “I’ll see you in the conference room, Agent Hotchner.”
the second year - four months, one week in (october 2026)
“Garcia,” Hotch scolded as Penelope fumbled with her phone. “I usually don’t mind you being on your phone since we’re not on a case, but we have to finish these forms before the end of day. What are you even looking at?”
“It’s Instagram, sir,” gingerly she passed her phone, silently praying that the page she left on was innocent.
“Is this (Y/N)’s account?” Flipping her own phone to her, Penelope nodded as she saw your face grinning from the small device. Flickering his eyes from Garcia’s phone to her monitor, Hotch frowned, “Was that Prentiss taking a shot off a waitress?”
Penelope cringed and delicately closed the forgotten browser on her computer. “Uh, if I say yes will she get in trouble?”
“Not unless she did it during work hours.”
She let out a sigh of relief, “Good thing it was definitely after work hours.”
“Have you heard of it, sir?” At Hotch’s quick glare, “Just asking.”
“(Y/N) showed me it. She showed me her favourite cafe one time, but I’m not on it.”
Garcia let out a silent breath of relief, “Oh yeah, she’s so active on there. Kids these days and all that.” She watched curiously as Hotch looked through a couple of your photos, a small fond smile appearing on his face as he traced the photo with his eyes, something that she definitely will not tell Derek about later.
“It’s a good way to keep in touch with people,” Penelope informed. “And if you’re like (Y/N), it’s a different way to use a diary.”
“What do you do?”
Penelope frowned, “On Insta? Everything, sir. You can post photos and videos, see them as well, as long as everyone’s following each other.”
“Is it hard to use?”
She shook her head, “Not really. You kind of just take photos and upload them, if you like. Unless, you’re like (Y/N) again, and you curate it.” Taking her phone back, “You know, I think she would really enjoy it if you joined.”
Back in the safety of his office, Hotch opened up his phone, and tapping the very unused App Store, he downloadedInstagram. Letting out a sigh, he put in his details and scrolling through the very few photos he had on his phone, he decided that the first picture of himself was good enough to be his display photo. Remembering your username from Garcia’s fumble, he placed it into the search bar and there you were.
Requesting to follow you it wasn’t even a minute until he got the approval and the notification that you were following him. It took another ten seconds before your first message came through.
summary ᰋ you always try so hard to not rely on your boyfriend because you know how busy he is. so naturally when there’s a power outage in your apartment you hesitate to let him know about it which leads to a very disappointed aaron behind you door.
warnings ᰋ angst with fluff end. lots of pauses (sue me i want the dialogue to go slower) swearing & language.
one thing about being with a man that was a man— which, by that, you mean a man who was so unlike the little boys you had dated before—was that he was extremely assertive, mature, and overall just knew how to take care of you just right.
and one thing about being with so many little boys unlike him was that over time you had learned to shut down, because they always made you feel like you were too much.
asking for too much, when the whole time it was beyond the bare minimum.
so naturally, whenever you had issues, you dealt with it yourself.
like right now when you had a power outage on your whole street, meaning everything was shut. your fridge, electricity, elevator (which meant you had to climb up and down eight floors), and most importantly, your stove.
you didn’t call your boyfriend because you felt like it was too much.
shit, you couldn’t even use your phone to order food because it was dead let alone try to call him.
it was running on 5%, and you had just enough to let your best friend know that you were alive and that if you didn’t answer, it was probably because you ran out of battery. while she insisted you leave your house and maybe go over to aaron’s, since she herself was all the way in the other side of the country for a work trip, you had refused, because seriously, it’d be embarrassing.
sure, you’d crashed at his place since you’ve been together for almost three years, that’s normal—but this just didn’t feel right. you weren’t about to go bother him and ask if you could stay at his place for god knows how many days until the electricity was fixed. that was too much. at least, that’s what you thought it was.
it was fine. you were going to be able to survive on a dead phone, dead stove, absolutely no lights, all alone in your apartment.
but it wasn’t fine when aarons’s eighth call to your phone went straight to voicemail and he hadn’t heard from you all day, which was so unusual, because you usually responded no matter what.
naturally, his only solution was calling your parents, your family, anyone he knew, but they also hadn’t heard from you. that left him with one last person: your best friend, who he essentially forced an answer out of until she finally cracked and told him what was going on.
“she’s fine, she just. . didn’t want to bug you,” she had sighed through the phone. “power’s out. the lights and everything. she refuses to leave.”
“and she didn’t even try to call me?” he’d asked, voice going flat.
“you know how she is.”
hearing that he’d cursed under his breath, grabbed his keys and jacket, and headed out the door, worry swirling in his gut the entire thirty-minute drive to your apartment.
he parked near your building’s garage, said a quick hi to your doorman, then went to the elevator. when he realized it didn’t work, he took the stairs two at a time, jaw tight.
another string of curses left him. he was beyond irritated—not at you, never at his sweet girl—but at the fact that you felt like you couldn’t rely on him, like you always had to solve your problems alone.
if he couldn’t help you on your worst days, then why was he even there?
he finally got to your door, only to realize the doorbell didn’t work either. of course. he knocked, harder than he meant to.
a few seconds later, you opened the door in your pajamas, hair up in your crazy big rollers he still didn’t fully understand the point of—something about volume and blowouts or whatever you’d explained to him a hundred times.
you were probably getting ready to sleep off the night alone in the dark.
“hey,” you breathed out, staring at him. from the look on his face, you knew you might be a little screwed.
“hi,” he said simply, eyes scanning you quickly, alive, breathing, upright, before the tension in his shoulders eased the tiniest bit.
“come in.” you give him a light peck on thr lips before you cleared your throat and stepped aside, trying not to do anything to intensify the situation further.
“what’s up with the lights?” he asked as he came in, toeing off his shoes like he always did, acting like he didn’t already know.
“power outage,” you muttered, leading him toward your bedroom. there was still a bit of light from outside, but not much.
“have you eaten?” he asked, following close behind, hands in his pockets.
“not yet,” you admitted with a wince. “my stove doesn’t work, and my phone’s dead, so i can’t order takeout.”
you flopped down at your vanity chair, turning away a little as you started taking your rollers out, trying not to look directly at him.
aaron watched you for a beat, then came up behind you, catching one of the rollers you fumbled. “and you didn’t bother telling me about all this?” he murmured, standing behind you as he gently started helping with your hair, fingers careful not to tug.
“my phone died?” you offered, glancing at his reflection. he looked calm, but you knew him—you could see the tick in his jaw.
“yeah?” he said quietly, setting another roller down. “before or after you decided to play pioneer in the dark instead of calling me from literally anywhere else?”
you chewed your lip. “. . before,” you whispered, then sighed. “i’m sorry.”
you finally blurted it out; you knew it was due.
“not a word,” he said, stepping back and shaking his head. “get dressed, pack a bag. you’re coming with me.”
“baby, you know you don’t have to—” you started, then froze when he gave you a look. firm, not angry, but very, very clear.
“i’m not asking,” he said, tone soft but absolute. “i’m telling you. pack a bag.”
you swallowed and nodded quickly, turning away to change into proper clothes. you grabbed a small overnight bag and started shoving in necessities makeup, skincare, some clothes, your laptop, and your dead phone, while he waited in the doorway, arms folded, eyes following your every move.
he was quiet, and with the way he was quiet, you knew he was more hurt than mad.
“done,” you breathed out, holding up the bag.
“good.” he walked over, took it from you without a word, and with a hand on the small of your back, gently steered you out of your apartment after you’d double-checked everything and locked the door.
you both walked in silence down the eight flights of stairs and out to his car. he opened the passenger door for you, waited until you were settled, then put your bag in the back and got into the driver’s seat.
the car was quiet as he pulled away from the curb.
his hand wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles pale from the pressure. you stared at it for a few seconds, realizing you couldn’t take it anymore you gave in and reached over, gently prying his fingers away so you could lace your hand with his left hand on the center console.
“you’re mad at me,” you said softly, thumb rubbing over the back of his hand—the hand you were honestly obsessed with.
“i’m not,” he sighed, squeezing your fingers. “i’m just—” he cut himself off with a deep breath, jaw clenching.
“i should’ve told you. i’m sorry,” you said, filling the silence. “you’re right. i should’ve called.”
“you should’ve told me,” he agreed quietly. “i should’ve been the first person you thought to ask.”
you looked over at him, seeing the faint frown lines between his brows, the way he was staring straight ahead like if he looked at you too long he’d say something he’d regret.
“i know,” you said. “i just. . didn’t want to bother you.”
he huffed out a humorless laugh. “bother me? you think you bother me?”
you swallowed. “i know you’ve got stuff to do. and besides. . it’s just a power outage. i felt dumb calling you just for that ”
“you live on the eighth floor with no lights, no elevator, no food, and a dead phone,” he said slowly. “that’s not nothing, sweetheart.”
“still. it felt like a lot to ask.”
“from me?” he asked, finally turning his head to really look at you. “after three years? after everything? you’re allowed to ask me for things. that’s kind of the point.”
you bit your lip, shoulders hunching. “i just got used to hearing i was too much, you know? wanting too much.”
his expression softened immediately. his hand tightened around yours.
“look at me,” he murmured.
you did.
“you’re never ‘too much’ for me,” he said, voice low, steady. “you’re my girlfriend. you’re supposed to call me. you’re supposed to need me. if you don’t, then what the hell am i here for?”
your eyes stung a little. “you do enough already.”
“clearly not if you’re sitting in the dark, hungry, pretending you’re fine,” he countered gently.
you didn’t have an argument for that, so you just squeezed his hand instead, letting the silence settle between you, softer this time.
by the time he pulled into his driveway, the knot in your chest had loosened a little. he parked, killed the engine, but didn’t move right away.
“for the record,” he said, still looking straight ahead, “you never ‘bother’ me. if it’s you, it’s not too much. ever.”
your throat went tight. “okay,” you whispered. “i’ll try to remember that next time.”
“don’t try,” he corrected quietly, finally turning to meet your eyes. “just call. right away with absolutely no hesitations.”
you nodded, and that seemed to be enough for him. he leaned over, pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, then climbed out to grab your bag before opening your door.
later after he made sure you ate he moved around to plug your phone in, for you to answer calls from your mom and letting everyone know you were fine, all while you curled against him on the couch while some random 90s movie played in the background. his arm was around you, fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder as he breathed you in, quietly enjoying the feeling of holding you.
“aaron?” you murmured.
“mm?”
“thank you for coming to get me,” you said quietly.
he pressed his lips to the side of your head. “always.”
“and. . i’m sorry i didn’t call. i’m trying to be better at that,” you admitted. “it’s just. . leftover crap from before you.”
“i know,” he said. “i’m not mad at you for having history. i just need you to let me be different from it.”
you swallowed. “you are different.”
“then treat me like it,” he said gently. “let me show up for you.”
you shifted, turning so you could look up at him. “okay,” you whispered. “i will. i promise.”
“good,” he murmured. “my girl’s safe. that’s all i need.”
Both feel the same when your eyes are closed Aaron hotch
|| Hotch broke up with reader about a week ago, but someone isnt happy about it.
*~* sad aaron, sad jack, sad reader. jack misses reader, haley isnt dead but also not mentioned, say she left aaron and jack after he was born. ANGST also fluff.
~~~~~
The restaurant’s ambient lighting caught the edge of your wine glass as your date—a perfectly nice architect named Marcus—talked about his latest project. He was handsome. Successful. Available in the way Hotch never could be.
You were trying very hard to care.
Your phone buzzed. You ignored it. You didnt wanna be rude on the first date.
It buzzed again.
Marcus smiled patiently as you glanced down. Unknown number. You silenced it, but your stomach had already tightened. Unknown numbers at 9 PM on a Friday meant one of three things: a scam, an emergency, or—
The text came through: “It’s Aaron. Jack won’t stop crying. I’ve tried everything. Please.”
The phone almost fell from your hand.
“Everything okay?” Marcus asked.
No. No, it wasn’t. It had been around week since Hotch had ended things, a week since he’d stood in your kitchen with his jaw clenched and said the words that still echoed in your chest: “You deserve better than this. Better than me. Better than raising someone else’s son.”
You were already reaching for your purse.
“I’m so sorry,” you said, and you meant it. “There’s an emergency. I have to—”
“Rain check?” Marcus asked, not unkindly.
You only smiled. You didn’t answer because there was no answer that made sense. How could you explain that you were leaving him for a four-year-old who wasn’t even yours? That a text from the man who broke your heart had you moving faster than you’d moved all night?
The drive to Hotch’s house took seventeen minutes. You spent it in your nice dress and heels, wondering if this was a mistake. If going back was the cruelest thing you could do to yourself.
But Jack.
Jack was four. Jack didn’t understand why you stopped coming over, why you didn’t take him to the park or why you stopped reading him bedtime stories. Jack only knew that someone he loved was gone.
You’d understand that better than anyone.
You parked in the driveway, taking the bakery box from your passenger seat—you’d stopped, desperate for something, and the cake had been there, Jack’s favorite from the place you used to take him. Chocolate with the little strawberries arranged on top like he’d requested a hundred times.
Your hand hesitated on the doorbell.
Before you could press it, the door swung open.
Hotch stood there in a T-shirt and sweatpants, his hair disheveled, his eyes exhausted. His gaze traveled from your heels to your dress and you watched his expression shift through confusion, realization, and something that looked an awful lot like regret.
He didnt say anything though. He didnt trust himself to speak.
From down the hallway, you heard a hiccup. A small, wet sound of a child who’d been crying for hours.
“Jack?” you called, keeping your voice bright.
The response was immediate. Fast little footsteps, and then—
Jack appeared at the corner, his face blotchy and tear-streaked, his hair sticking up at odd angles. The moment he saw you, his bottom lip started trembling again, but this time it was different. This time it was the trembling of recognition, of need finally being answered.
“y/n!,” he whispered.
“Hi, buddy,” you breathed, and he was running.
You caught him instinctively, hoisting him onto your hip the way you’d done a hundred times before. He was warm and damp with tears, his little arms wrapping around your neck so tight you couldn’t breathe, and you found yourself not caring.
“I missed you so much,” he sobbed into your shoulder. “You went away. I asked Daddy where you went and he said you had to go but I wanted you to stay. I wanted you to stay so bad.”
“I know, sweet boy. I know.” You pressed your face into his hair, blinking hard. “I’m here now. I’m here.”
Hotch hadn’t moved from the doorway. You could feel him watching, could feel the weight of his stare as Jack clung to you, his crying slowly morphing into the exhausted hiccups of a child who’d worn himself out.
“I brought you something,” you said, pulling back just enough to show him the bakery box. “Your favorite.”
Jack’s eyes widened. “The strawberry cake?”
“The strawberry cake.”
Something flickered across Hotch’s face—pain, maybe, or recognition of what he’d given up. He turned away, walking into the kitchen without a word. You followed, naturally, easily, as if you’d never stopped living in this space.
You set Jack down on the counter, and he sat obediently, swinging his legs while you opened the box. The cake was perfect—pristine chocolate frosting, strawberries arranged just the way he loved them. You cut a slice, grabbed a fork, and began the careful work of feeding a four-year-old.
“Here you go honey,” you said softly, and watched his mouth open, watched the tension finally drain from his small face as he ate.
Behind you, on the couch, Hotch sat perfectly still.
You didn’t have to turn around to know he was staring. You could feel it—the weight of his regret, the magnitude of what he’d walked away from. This moment, right here. This ordinary, perfect moment of a child being cared for, being loved, being seen.
Jack chattered between bites, telling you about his week. He’d missed you at soccer practice. He’d wanted to show you a drawing he made. He’d asked his dad every single day where you were.
Hotch said nothing.
When Jack had eaten his fill, you cleaned his face with a napkin and carried him upstairs to the bathroom, helping him brush his teeth then to his bed. He fell asleep before his head hit the pillow, his small hand still gripping your finger.
You sat with him for a long time.
When you finally came back downstairs, Hotch was still on the couch. In the same position. Like he hadn’t moved in the entire hour you’d been upstairs.
“He’s asleep,” you said quietly.
Hotch looked at you like it cost him something—like looking at you was the hardest thing he’d done all day.
“Thank you,” he said. His voice was rough. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
You didn’t tell him that you’d left a date. You didn’t tell him that Marcus’s name had already slipped from your memory. You didn’t tell him that there was nowhere else you would rather have been.
“Goodbye, Aaron,” you said instead.
You left before he could respond.
————————
Garcia called you eight times the that night.
Eight. So you knew you were in it for when you walked into work the next morning.
“Where the hell did you go?” she demanded when you finally reached your desk. “Marcus said you just disappeared! I spent two weeks setting that up!”
“I know. I’m sorry, Pen.”
“Well? Where did you go? There better be a good reason. There better be the reason.”
You looked out the window at the morning sun, at the way the light caught the edges of the world. You thought about Jack’s tear-streaked face, about Hotch’s expression when he realized what he’d broken.
“I went where I needed to be,” you said softly.
“That’s not an answer!”
“No,” you agreed. “But it’s all the answer I’ve got.”
Garcia sputtered indignantly, but she’d figure it out eventually. Garcia always did.
For now, you just sat with the memory of a small boy finally falling asleep in your arms, and the man on the couch who was beginning to understand that some things—the important things—couldn’t be fixed just by wanting them back badly enough.
Sometimes you had to want them badly enough to change yourself first.
hotch where he comes home and he's been injured on a case???
ty for requesting lovely !!! aaron hotchner x reader, established relationship, reader and hotch live together with jack, brief mentions of typical bau crimes, aaron is mildly injured <3 fem!reader, 1.1k words
You and Aaron have a lovely little routine together, dictated by a couple of different variables. When you have Jack things are fast and giggly, school pickups and buffet style meals and homework done on the floor of the living room while Aaron does the dishes. Nights where he’s at his Aunt Jess’s are considerably slower, much quieter but no less affectionate.
Of course, there are times when you have the house all to yourself, Jack on a sleepover and Aaron at work. Those evenings you like much less; it’s nice to have time to yourself, chores and hobbies that need tending to finally getting time dedicated to them, but you can’t help but miss your boys.
Nine times out of ten Aaron will call or text you to tell you he’s coming home, letting you know how far out he is, ensuring that one of you makes a promise about dinner; you either won’t wait for him to eat, or he’ll pick something nice up on the way home. Sometimes, though, he’ll find it more enjoyable to surprise you.
You’re curled up on the sofa, blanket that you’d bought for Jack thrown over your feet, book in your lap. It’s nearing sunset, Aaron has a paper bag of groceries in one arm and his work bag in the other. Jack’s at a sleepover according to your shared calendar on his cell phone, and you had the day off work, so he’s expecting a gentle quiet night of just the two of you.
You don’t even notice he’s there until he’s discarded his shoes, jacket, tie and bags, coming to sit down with you on the couch. “Aaron,” you brighten, soft smile beaming up at him. You look tired but happy, somehow impossibly prettier since he last saw you four days ago. “You’re home.”
He gives you a matching smile, pulling your feet into his lap with a groan that insinuates more effort than it is. “Hi, honey.”
Now that he’s properly facing you in the low lamp light of your sitting room, your mouth drops open in horror. “Oh my fucking god, what happened to you?”
Aaron would never say you’re overreacting, especially not when it comes to any anxiety directed at his job. It’s a hard thing to watch him leave for work every morning, knowing that he might not come back, knowing that he might be called away at a moment’s notice for days. But he’d really been hoping to avoid this particular reaction to him coming home from Texas after four days there hunting a woman kidnapping young boys.
There’s a small cut on his cheek running parallel to his left eye but his right eye is bloodshot and the surrounding skin is turning a sickening shade of green.
“Got tackled,” he grimaces, more for your benefit than for his own. “Hit my head on an end table. Not very glamorous.” They’d profiled only one unsub, but had raided the house of a woman who ended up having an alibi. The alibi in question, her two hundred pound boyfriend, wasn’t meant to be there. He’d helped Aaron up and apologised profusely, clearly of the mind that he was going to be arrested for assaulting a police officer, but Aaron hadn’t cared, brushing him off to go and call Penelope. That had been almost two full days ago, and Aaron had been sincerely hoping that it would’ve faded by the time he got to see you again. He tells you as such – minus the last sentiment – and watches how your face does not fill with warmth and relief, but instead a deep frown.
“Two days ago?” You ask him, scrunching your body up almost self-consciously, pulling your feet off his lap and bringing your knees to your chest. “And you weren’t going to tell me?”
Aaron hovers his hand over your foot like he wants to reach out and grab you again, haul you into his lap and murmur sweet nothings to make you forget all about the bruising on his face. You know it’s a little naive of you to expect Aaron to disclose all the grimy details of his job, you usually prefer he doesn’t. But he’s such a sweetheart, and knowing that he’s being tossed around by criminals doesn’t do well to ease your already worrisome mind.
Aaron sits with it for a moment before speaking up softly. “I am sorry,” he says. “I never want to worry you about my work but I suppose I do often struggle with where the line is between privacy and secrecy. It is never my intention to alienate or hide from you.” He offers his two hands out for yours, giving you more than enough space to take them. “I’ve never found a good balance on what to share, I might need some help with it if that’s okay.”
Your expression softens almost immediately, because of course it does. Aaron could commit arson and sound perfectly sincere. You suppose you’d prefer it over the poor communicators you’ve dated in the past, but it does make it frustratingly hard to stay angry with him. “Yeah, okay, sweet talker.”
He tries really hard not to smile too wide. “Perks of the job.”
“Is that concussion one, too?” You snide, letting him take your hands in his. They’re calloused and bigger than yours, and you love nothing more than when they’re on you. You’re pretty sure Aaron isn’t concussed; you’ve seen him with a concussion or two over the years, and he’s acting annoyingly level about the whole thing.
Aaron nods importantly. “I get it because I’m the boss.” You crack a smile despite yourself and Aaron relaxes visibly. “There she is.”
You scowl at him and it makes his heart soar. “Don’t ‘there she is’ me. I’m annoyed with you.”
He wants to kiss the frown right off your face, and he’s almost certain you would let him. You’re the loveliest creature he’s ever beheld, urges screaming at him to tug you back into his lap and plant one on you. “You should be. I’m very sorry.”
You huff. “Whatever. Go shower. You smell like crime.”
Aaron uses this excuse to half-stand, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Can I make you dinner when I’m done? I bought things for minestrone.”
Stupid SSA Hotchner and his bruises and his apology and his soup. You look down at your lap, suddenly embarrassed about the fuss you have and will continue to make. “Can I sit in the bathroom while you do?” You’ll sit either on the floor or on the closed toilet lid, behind the shower curtain, just in wanting of being close to him.
“Oh, beautiful girl,” Aaron sighs into your hairline, offering you a hand to help you rise from the couch and then making sure his next kiss hits your mouth. “I’d like for nothing more.”
Finally, the second part! This was supposed to be posted for Valentine's Day, but I have this thing called I can't finish things in time, so here it is. Longer than A Helping Hand, filthier and even better maybe???
Please do tell me what you think!!
pov ⎮ Third person
disclaimers ⎮ Everything I write is intended as adult content. Please do not read if you are underage or sensitive to such.
warnings ⎮ jealous/pervy/slightlydark!Hotch!!!!! she/her pronouns used, no mentions of name, unprotected adult stuff both oral and other things... filth, maybe dark undertones if you squint but im not sorry, like slight corruption kink, size kink, hand kink, sir kink, he calls her angel, just the norm for me honestly
word count ⎮ 2.5k.
Enjoy! Love, Millie <3
The sun softly danced like golden rays through the window, as the clock on his desk ticked a reminder of the late afternoon. Aaron sighed and rubbed his aching shoulders, that had stayed tense by his ears for the hours he flipped through paperwork. He decided it was time to wrap up, the quiet solitude of the weekend awaited and he desperately needed some time to recover from the brutality of paperwork and serial killers.
With his briefcase in his hand, he closed the office door behind him and scanned the bullpen. Across the sea of desks and messy stacks of paper, he watched as Spencer opened the glass doors to make his leave but remained in the opening, facing the bullpen. Aaron’s gaze followed the direction of the younger man’s attention, finding a girl darting towards the doors followed by a soft laughter he could identify possibly even if he would have lost his ability to hear.
Before he could fully appreciate the memories flashing through his mind, thankfully before his hand would move to palm the inevitable erection, she had vanished out the door and he moved to do the same.
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Aaron stood with his arms crossed by the window of his living room watching the courtyard — the tree tops swaying and the occasional groups of people hurriedly walking by with their heads bowed, clutching their jackets to shelter from the wind — he could not have missed her even if he tried.
Her smile contrasted the darkness of the stormy evening, her arms tightly clutched around a red heart shaped box, the pink bow neatly tied around matched the heat of her cheeks, and the soft color of her lips. The lips he had felt pressed against his own, the lips he could not for the life of him stop thinking about.
Aaron noticed the bounce in her step and the glint in her eyes, despite the ruthless wind whipping at her hair. The way her lips parted slightly, angrily reddening from the harsh gusts, he wondered how they would look around his cock. If she would get down on her pretty little knees and swallow the length of him, if she would look up at him with drool dripping from her chin, if the glint in her eyes would remain or if he could dim it– his jaw ticked, had she been on a date?
He glanced at his watch, only an hour had passed since she left the office. Not a date then, he concluded, unless the fool of an individual was incompetent. His mind raced in tune with the wind, he was not jealous, she could do whatever she wanted. As long as it was with him.
His feet moved before he could attempt to think rationally, and he was halfway out in the hallway with a bottle of wine in his hand when he stilled. He could not even remember where he had put the wine earlier, and how it found its way into his hand was another mystery — and then there was the matter of why he had grabbed it…
“Agent Hotchner,” her footsteps echoed the hall as she closed in on him with a slow smile, “Going somewhere?” He licked his lower lip, hoping to come up with an excuse before she decided the comfort of her apartment was more interesting. She raised her eyebrows expectantly and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Her face heated, from the welcoming warmth of the hallway, definitely not because of the dark intensity of his stare.
“Chocolate?” Aaron pointed at the box in her arms. Arms he could tie behind her back as she took him from behind. She would look so sweet pressed against the mattress, begging for air, pleading for release, he wondered if he could say no with his cock buried in her dripping mess of a cunt. Probably not.
She looked down like she had no recollection of holding a box of chocolates and met his gaze again with a nod, “Bought them earlier. It’s a shame not to have chocolates on Valentine’s Day, isn’t it?”
His brows furrowed, still unsure of what to do with the bottle in his hand, “It’s not.” He watched as she freed a hand to fish out her keys, the door clicked open as she looked over her shoulder, “I’ll share mine, since you so obviously don’t have any yourself.” The box she previously held against her chest rested on the table by the door as she hung up her coat, his back straightened. She undid the top few buttons of her white shirt, the curves of her breasts painfully visible as he lowered the bottle in his hands to hide the growing tightness of his pants. Her body fully turned toward him with a dangerous smile on her lips, “Unless you have plans?”
He did now.
She knew he did not — he was not wearing a coat or holding his usual briefcase, he was not even holding the keys to his apartment. Not to mention he was clutching the same bottle of wine he had brought last time, when he was so kind to help with her boxes. The bottleneck was being strangled by his thick, long fingers and she would shamelessly pay to switch places with it.
Her fingers grabbed the loose tie around his neck and pulled him over the threshold, the bottle finding a home next to the red box of chocolates. The door slammed shut behind her back as his warm hands pressed his body against hers, his lips finding the softness of hers with burning desperation. Her fingers knitted in his hair, deepening the kiss with such fire a groan rumbled from his chest.
He had found himself thinking about her, about tasting her lips again, the little time that had passed since he felt her last should not have allowed for the desperate amount of times he had his hands clutched around his cock. The countless cold showers he had to take when his mind wandered, or his cock straining against his slacks when he could basically see her tits bounce from his office when she walked through the bullpen.
She whimpered as he plunged his tongue into her mouth, her back arching off the door to meet with his chest. Her nipples peaked through the fabric of her shirt and he tightened the grip on her hips, with every last ounce of self-control.
Her teeth tugged on his lower lip, moving her hands from his hair, down his chest and to the bulge of his slacks. He tilted his head back with a raspy moan as she palmed him, his hands loosened their grip on her hips and found her aching breasts, she clenched her thighs.
Aaron lifted her thighs to carry her to the bedroom, his hands rested on the curve of her ass as she twisted her arms around his neck. Her teeth found the soft skin of his neck and her hips grinded against him every time he rewarded her with a low groan.
The hinges of her bedroom door creaked open and her feet found the floor, the exposed skin of her chest cooled without the warmth of his body on hers. The glazed eyes and parted lips of her face had his cock twitching, she looked so sweet and confused and he could barely keep himself from unraveling. Aaron clenched his fists and she whimpered at the sight. “Clothes off,” he commanded with a growl, “Now, angel.”
The nickname sent her mind in a frenzy, her fingers trembled slightly as she undressed under his stare. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, tucking them tightly away so he kept them to himself. If he so much as grazed her skin he would bend her over right then and there, but he had to do more than just take her: he had to feel her, to watch her, taste her.
He had to remember every crease of her body, every sound that left her lips, every roll of her eyes. He had to remember it all. There was no way he could keep his cock out of his hands every time she passed by now, he had to collect everything for future sessions by himself. For his sanity. For his cock.
She was bare in front of him, fidgeting with frustration and anticipation, she looked so sweet. The soft skin of her knees met the rough hardwood floors, she held his eyes as she unbuttoned the slacks. Her breath hitched as his hand claimed her throat and a whine slipped through her lips. His other hand freed his cock, with a firm grip on the base he watched as she opened her mouth, her tongue out, eager and desperate to swallow him. “Such a pretty little one, aren’t you?” Aaron tapped the tip of his cock against her tongue, “Want my cock in your mouth, angel?” She nodded rapidly, she wanted it more than anything — and she did feel pretty, especially with her new favorite necklace so deliciously tight around her neck.
The click of his tongue sent shivers down her spine. “Answer me.” His brows raised and he tilted his head slightly to the side, watching, waiting. “Yes please, sir,” she pouted, “Want your cock in my mouth, sir.” He relented with a growl, sliding his hand from her throat to grip her hair and pushed himself between her parted lips.
Her tongue danced around the tip as he thrusted slowly, hollowing her cheeks when his cock nudged the back of her throat. She gripped his thighs to steady herself, her knees closing together in hopes the pressure of her thighs could help with the burning between them.
His chest rumbled and his head tilted back as she bobbed her head, the warmth of her mouth felt like fire, sent from the deepest pits of hell — threatening to consume him in ways that certainly would erase his chances for heaven — it would not matter, because he was in heaven.
Aaron muttered a string of curses as her hand left his thigh and nestled between her legs. She rubbed the swollen cunt with shaking fingers, so desperately it was only a moment before she made a mess on the floor. Her nose pressed against the small of his stomach, she moaned around his cock as her eyes rolled back with the blinding light of her climax.
He almost crumbled right then at the sight of her so desperate for release. Aaron pulled his cock from her mouth, the string of saliva between them settled on her chin as he pulled her body up. His hands found her hips again, with a bruising grip he flipped her face down on her bed.
She arched her back and looked over her shoulder to watch him tug his tie over his head. Her arms met behind her and he decorated them with the fabric, firmly tightened on her wrists. The palm of one hand caressed the curve of her ass, before landing a slap that had her muttering and whining, face buried in the comforter. Her cunt fluttered and dripped down her thighs as another slap helped to paint her ass red.
Aaron’s fingers drenched in wetness as he plunged two into her with no warning. She yelped and her eyes rolled, almost sobbing with every thrust of his fingers. The softness of her voice was comparable with the inside of her cunt, yet such contrast to the sinful act. He mused to himself, she looked delectable with his tie around her wrists, naked and writhing under his touch.
His fingers pulled out and she whined a protest. She twisted to watch as he moved his hand to his own mouth, tasting her on his fingers with a barely audible hum, “My sweet little angel.”
Her cheeks flushed, an ounce of confidence pulsed through her veins, “Yours?” Her feigned hum was quickly turned to a whimper as he slammed his cock deep in her. “Hmm? What was that?”
He pulled himself almost all the way out, before he slammed in again and the smirk on his face grew watching her eyes roll and mouth drop open. Aaron continued the pattern watching her turning into a mess right under him, her noises swallowed by the sheets, her fingers stretching and clenching around the fabric of his tie. His cock drowned in the wetness between her legs. Again, and again, it was maddening. He was drunk on the feeling of her cunt swallowing his cock.
He stilled with every fiber of his body protesting, and landed a hand hard on her ass, “Answer me, angel.” Her reply came in hurried mumbles, “Yours, sir, m’all yours.”
Aaron hummed an agreement and rewarded her with a relentless pace of his hips. Echoes of his skin slamming against her filled the room, along with whimpers and low groans. He stretched her so good, his cock hit so deep it almost hurt, it was perfect. She could not imagine anything would ever feel better than this. No one could feel better, she concluded.
She was flipped over, her back arched as he leaned over her body, pushing himself back in where he belonged.
He continued the mind jumbling pace with her legs wrapped around him. She breathed a moan in his ear, his cock reaching even deeper; she could probably feel it through her stomach if she put her hand there. Aaron kissed her, so fiercely, before he sat up to quicken his pace. Her mind was puddles, not a single thought could form in her head as one of his hands graced her with its presence around her neck — the other offering the last piece needed to reach completion — his thumb flicked her clit and she was swallowed by the starlight sky once again.
Aaron cursed under his breath and snapped his hips against hers with a growl before he joined her in bliss. Her thighs shook around him and her cunt clenched around his cock, savoring the hot strings planted deep in her.
He leaned over her to catch his breath, their chests heaving against each other, sweaty and warm.
A moment passed, his gaze on her face as she calmed her breathing. She arched her back and wiggled her hands out of his tie, placing it on the bed next to them. He watched in silence, waiting for her to kick him out, or do whatever it is that would lead to him drowning in inevitable guilt.
“Chocolate and wine?” She suggested with a bite to her lip, and every doubt in his mind was replaced by the thought of his cock between them again.
In Love With Aaron Hotchner @zaddyhotch - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
