#aaron hotchner x reader

[cindol]

aaron hotchner is the type of man who’s softer to children than he is to adults. (female reader btwwww . )

his tone is softer, so is his smile. If a child is crying for their mommy in a store he’ll bend down to ask them, “when’s the last time you saw mommy?” or playfully bouncing back the ball his neighbor’s kid bounced on his yard right back to him with a grin.

all those little things just made your baby fever stronger and as hard as you tried, you weren’t a woman who could hide wanting a baby.

aaron himself noticed the little glances and how you’d smile at some kids toy commercial on the television and even your reaction to him treating a dog.

“so, you wanna tell me something?” the question is abrupt coming from him. It’s late at night, the tv’s off. And you’re close to turning off the table side lamp and closing your book until he says that.

“tell you what exactly, dear husband?” you teased back at him as an answer instead.

aaron chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. He was all very familiar with your teasing. “that my dear wife wants to have a child.” he says it so bluntly, completely cut and dry.

you both stare at each other for a moment. Aaron waiting for a response while you just stare at him.

“well, wouldn’t a little aaron be nice to have around?” you hummed at the end of your sentence. Looking at aaron for a response back.

“wouldn’t mind that.”

you had a bright smile on your face at that. “yeah?”

aaron smiled right back at you, just a more soft tight lipped smile. “yeah.”

on that note you thought the conversation was done, a talk that would continue tomorrow. You put your book on your end side table and your fingers going to turn off your lamp, finally.

..until aaron spoke up, again.

“matter a fact…”, he shifted in his spot, scooting closer over to you and grabbing you up into his arms and making you squeal. “what’s so wrong with trying early?”

[sweetbabygirlsworld]

I'm crying at work because of this omg

Your Five Truths¹

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader Summary: You have five simple truths. But when your relationship and your life are put on the line, you start to question what you believe in anymore. Warnings: reader is a bau tech analyst, serious angst, aaron is being mean, big argument, mentions of haley's death, references to foyet arc, home invasion, graphic descriptions of violence Words: 3.5K

Masterlist | Part 2

a/n: there will be a part 2.

1. Aaron doesn't yell at you. 

If all else was unsure, then this was one of the five things you knew for certain. You weren't sure if he yelled at all. Maybe at work with criminals, but never with you.

This was still true.

Right now, he wasn't yelling at you. He was speaking in an even tone, but you knew him well enough to notice the difference. His voice was as cold as his rigid stance, like ice ran through his veins. His arms were crossed, and so, even if you weren't a criminal—even if you knew you were his fiancé—you sure as hell felt like one.

Standing on the other side of the kitchen island, you were in opposition of each other in every sense of the word.

You took a deep breath before speaking. "Aaron—"

He cut you off before the words could even leave your mouth. "We've had this conversation before. I've already told you how I feel about it."

You repressed the urge to take another breath, knowing he was a profiler. Knowing he could profile the discomfort all over you, regardless. But you picked up a few profiling tricks, too.

You could see the way he was staring at you. Like you were an idiot.

Maybe you agreed on that.

Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot— 

You took the breath, anyway. "Aaron, I said I'm sorry."

You tried to step closer to him, and he didn't move away. But he didn't usher you into his arms, either.

And despite the fact that Aaron doesn't yell at you, you could tell he really wanted to.

"And I'm saying you shouldn't have to say sorry. We shouldn't be having this conversation because you shouldn't have done it," he scolded.

You took another step closer, rounding the counter like your body was trying to get him to physically understand, to remind him that you were on the same side.

"What was I supposed to do?" Your voice was desparate now, almost like you actually wanted him to answer. "You were working. I had to work. You weren't picking up the phone—"

"That's right," he cut you off again. This time, he stepped closer to you. "I was working. You weren't."

2. You have an equal relationship.

The second truth was what had you tilting your head. You were already flushed from the heat of the argument, but now you could feel yourself getting a little angry.

"What do you mean I wasn't working?" you questioned. "Yes, I was. Garcia said you called everyone in; you said to get there stat."

He was quick. "I meant everyone that was necessary. You aren't."

You could feel the cut immediately, etched deep into your skin. It didn't matter how he said it, frivolous or not—the words were sharp enough to cut you effortlessly.

You aren't necessary.

The words echoed through your head. Words you'd heard before, but never from him. Never from the man who swore to be better than everyone else who ever hurt you.

Yet, no matter how much you'd been hurt in the past, it hurt a thousand times more to come from him.

You waited for him to say something else, waiting for any sign of regret to cross his face.

Nothing did.

There were many times when you wished you had Aaron's poker face, but right now, you didn't have to try. The sadness flooding your body remained internal; the only thing that showed on your face was rage.

Your eyes narrowed. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Hotch doubled down, staring you right in the eye. "It means your job is an accessory. Garcia does the same job as you—you aren't needed."

That was a lie so blatant it made you scoff. You were a technical analyst for the BAU, and you'd proven yourself time and time again. Hotch was the one that hired you—he's the one that said he saw something in you.

Apparently not.

"I'm not needed," you echoed, sarcasm lacing your voice. "Right. So when an alert comes out that there is an active hostage situation and a potential terrorist threat, what do you expect me to do? Not come into work?" 

"Yes," he deadpanned. "Not when you're picking up my son."

You ran a hand through your hair, stuck in disbelief. "You can't be serious—"

"When you're picking up my son, what I expect is for you to take him home."

You spoke over him, countering, "I brought him to a place where I knew he'd be out of harm's way. You weren't picking up the phone. I did what I thought was best—"

"You brought him to Jessica—"

"I brought him to his aunt—"

For the first time since the conversation started, Aaron raised his voice just enough for it to stop you dead in your tracks. "You don't get to bring him to his aunt. You are not his mother!"

3. You are not Jack's mother.

You knew that. God, you knew that. You were there to see the carnage in the Hotchner household after Haley's death. The blood that splattered the walls. The boy who was too young to spell the word devastation but still felt it in his bones.

You knew you were not Jack's mother. You lived in a house with her pictures on the wall. Jack was a mirror image of her; he was her son, and you knew that. It was one of the truths you held the most conviction in.

It was the truth.

But you still recoiled, almost like Aaron had slapped you. A part of you thought maybe that would've hurt less.

All the fire you had was extinguished. You didn't have a rebuttal for that. What could you say? It didn't matter if you loved Jack like he was your own—that didn't change the fact that he wasn't.

You avoided Aaron's gaze, choosing to stare at the pattern of his tie instead and trying not to succumb to the sting in your eyes. You liked this tie; it was one of your favourites. You were close enough to him to see all its beautiful details.

But, at the same time, you'd never been further away from him.

Aaron still hadn't said anything, and out of fear that the dam would break if the silence continued, you spoke up. "I—" your voice cracked. "I know I'm not Jack's mother, and I'm not trying to be." You paused. "I was just doing what I thought was best."

You left it there, not knowing if the right words to say the right thing even existed. Saying the right thing was always Aaron's thing, not yours.

But whatever words he was going to say were cut off by the shrill pinging of a cellphone. Two cellphones.

Aaron picked up his first, sighing immediately. You didn't have to guess what it said. "We have another case." The heat in his voice was gone; he sounded like himself.

That didn't mean you felt any less burned.

"Okay, um—" you couldn't stop yourself from sniffling even if you tried. "I'll stay here and watch Jack. You go."

Another sigh left him. "Y/N—"

The sound of your name leaving his mouth almost made you cry, but you persisted, "No, you can go, it's fine." You chuckled if not just to make light of it for yourself. "I'm not needed there, anyway."

"Y/N."

"Aaron." You fingally looked up at him, and you saw it. Remorse swirling in his brown eyes. The same eyes that crinkled at the sides when you said you'd marry him. Somehow, that made it worse, knowing that it was the same person who said both of those things. Who built you up from scratch just to bring you right back to the bottom. 

You repeated yourself, "Go." The team needs you, you wanted to say. The only reason you didn't say it was because he'd already accused you of trying to be his past wife; you didn't need to prove him right.

You could practically hear the churning of his inner turmoil, torn between staying and leaving. It was pointless; you both knew what his decision would be.

When he reached for his go-bag, it was final. And in some ways, he was leaving more than just the house.

As if he could sense that, he turned around. "We'll finish this discussion when I'm back," he said. That was an anchor: telling you something about the present by talking about the future. When I'm back meant that he'd be back. Discussion meant you had something to talk about, a two-sided activity. We meant you were still one unit; you were still a we.

Maybe that's what he meant by it. If you scoured through his words and read between the lines, maybe you'd find the beginnings of an apology—in his own way, at least. But he wasn't sorry, not for what he said. If anything, he was only sorry that he said it.

You wouldn't profile him and ascribe meaning to words that didn't mean anything. We'll finish this discussion when I'm back meant you'd finish the discussion when he was back. 

When you replied, that was what you were replying to. "Okay."

You weren't okay.

This wasn't okay.

Aaron cast one last look at you before he crossed the threshold. You looked away.

And then he was out the door, leaving you in a house that no longer felt like your own.

—

"Y/N, my love, I thought I'd die without you!"

Penelope was on you as soon as you walked into the bat cave, shooting up from her chair and hugging you so tightly that you would've thought you'd been gone for ages. Really, you were only gone for a night.

You told Aaron that you wouldn't be coming in, and you were holding true to that, but you weren't gonna make Garcia work alone if she had to, even if she was perfectly capable of it.

You knew you weren't needed. Hotch was right: this ship could sail just fine without you. But you could help.

You'd just dropped Jack off at school, so now you were here, ready to work until you had to pick him up again.

You forced yourself to laugh at her words, causing her to hit your back. "No, I'm being serious! You're my oxygen—I can't live without you."

At that, you snorted. "Okay, Penelope."

She pulled back, resting her hands on your shoulders. "Seriously, though." She looked deep into your eyes, seeming to be looking for something. "Are... are you okay? I don't even think you've taken a sick day since... since forever."

You smiled at her exaggeration, even if it didn't really reach your eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine, P. I just have to leave early to go get Jack, and um... I'm gonna stay off camera today. And off the phones." You shifted your weight. "Not like it matters or anything, but I just don't really want Hotch knowing I'm here. I just want to stay in the background today, if that's okay?"

Her brows raised, but she quickly affirmed, "Yes, that's okay! Totally okay. We'll keep this 100% incognito."

It was in Garcia's nature to ask questions, so you knew she had them, but she didn't voice a single one.

You talked about work, and new bureau technology, and your next girls night, and everything but what you asked of her.

You'd never been more grateful.

—

It'd been two days since the team left, two days of bouncing back and forth between the office and back home with Jack. The son that wasn't really yours. The son that felt like yours, anyway.

If you were doing as good as you thought you were, then nobody knew you were even there. Garcia was telling the rest of them that you were sick. Your phone had been flooded with get well soon messages from everyone except the one person you really wanted one from.

Aaron hadn't spoken to you since he left. You wished it didn't hurt as badly as it did.

"Okay, Jackers! I think it's time we head to bed."

"What?" You held back a laugh at the incredulity in his voice, knowing that—for an 8 year old—this was a very serious matter. He looked at you with traces of shock, somehow looking everything and nothing like his father at the same time. "But it's only ten o'clock!"

"Ah, and yet it is still past your bed time. Mine, too."

Jack frowned—and there it was. There was that bit of Aaron you were looking for. "You say that, but you're just going to stay up after I go to sleep."

You couldn't suppress the smile on your face any longer. "No, Jack. I promise you I'm so tired, I'll be out as soon as my head hits the pillow." You ruffled his hair, your smile becoming a grin as he groaned. "Now go brush your teeth, little man."

Jack got up from the table, his little feet pitter-pattering across the floor as he made his way to the stairs. It didn't sound much like a pitter-patter anymore now that he was getting older, but he would always be the same little boy to you. So, "pitter-patter" it was.

Until suddenly, you heard a different noise.

Not pitter-patter.

The door.

Your eyes darted to Jack as he stopped in his tracks, then they darted to the door. The knob, turning lightly, gold glinting in the light. The sound of your own heart beating was just as loud as the turning. The person got impatient, the knob turning faster now, like someone was trying to pry it open.

Fuck. Fuck.

Your mind ran a mile a minute. That wasn't Hotch. You weren't expecting anyone, and whoever was at the door certainly wasn't asking for an invite in.

They were trying to force their way in.

Somebody was breaking in to the house.

With that realization, you were moving. "Jack." You caught his attention easily, spotting the fear on his face right away. More than fear. 

Familiarity.

He went through his before. Oh, your Jack. He'd been through this before, and he would know what to do. You did.

Conversations with Aaron flashed through your head, just-in-case scenarios, if then statements. Emergencies.

You knew what to do, too.

You just never thought you'd have to.

You grabbed onto Jack's shoulder, immediately feeling how his body was trembling. "Jack, I need you to listen to me." The knob got louder. You lowered your voice. "I need you to work the case, okay? Like with your dad. Do you understand me?"

His eyes went wide. "Wait, Y/N. What about you—"

"Jack. Do you understand me?" He went quiet, and then he nodded, making you sigh in relief. "Okay, take my phone. Call 911, but don't make a sound." You handed him the phone, and then you let go of him. "I love you." Your throat closed up. "Now go."

Jack ran up the stairs, and you were up automatically, trusting he'd do as you said.

It was like someone else was in your body, telling you what to do. You opened the pantry, looking where you'd never looked and typing numbers into a keypad you'd never touched.

Why do we need a safe in the kitchen? you had laughed at the time.

In case of an emergency, Aaron had said. You thanked his forward thinking.

The only way you knew that you were still there was by the violent shaking of your hands as the cool metal touched your skin. You'd only ever operated a gun once or twice. Did you even remember how to load it?

The door banged, making you jolt. You had to remember now. Come on, Y/N. Load the fucking gun. 

You thrusted the magazine into the well and then pulled back the slide. Another bang. You turned the safety off.

Hold the gun with both hands.

God, Hotch, when will I ever need to do this?

Well, I hope you never have to. But we can never be too safe.

Another bang hit the door, this time more forceful. We can never too safe. Tears flooded your eyes, and you promptly blinked them away.

Then. There was another bang, and this time, the door hit the wall.

You intook a sharp breath, hearing footsteps thump against the floor. You closed your eyes, focusing on the noise. One set of footsteps. 

Aaron's voice echoed throughout your head. Are you sure?

You screwed your eyes shut tighter, straining your ears. Yes. One person. Loud. Heavy. Male.

Okay, that's good. What else do you know?

You knew they spent a long time fiddling with the door knob before busting the door open. That could either mean they lacked physical strength or they were trying to taunt you. The second option. You knew this was a low-risk neighbourhood. You knew your car was out front. This wasn't about money. This was personal. Intentional.

You knew this was an FBI agent's house. You knew—

Wait. You strained your ears more, following the footsteps. They weren't heading for your direction. No. No, no, no, no.

Jack was upstairs.

You couldn't let this man go up there.

4. You love Jack Hotchner unconditionally.

Knowing number four makes you act fast with a determination you'd never felt before. The pantry door swung open as you left the enclosed space, instantly raising the gun in the air like it was weightless. 

You pointed it at your stairwell where a masked man stood, motionless. 

"You better stop right there, you son of a bitch," you threatened, cocking the gun like it was second nature to you.

The man raised his hands into the air slowly. He tilted his head at you as if he was trying to mock you.

And then he smiled.

Before you could even realize what was happening, he was running at you. Your eyes widened, pulling the trigger. You barely got to see if your shot made it before he was tackling you to the ground, knocking the gun out of your hands.

The back of your head hit the ground, making a sickening crack. You gasped for air, and then you were wheezing as the man's hands wrapped around your neck, squeezing tightly.

You looked up into his demented eyes, hearing not the sound of your own voice but Hotch's. Use what you see. Frantically, your eyes flew all over the unsub's body until you saw red staining black, right at his shoulder. 

Without thinking about it, you stuck your finger into the wound, hearing him scream. He was stunned enough that he loosened his grip, giving you the chance to kick him off of you.

You scrambled to your feet, searching for the gun and finding it in the middle of the living room floor. You dove for it right as he got back up, getting to you before you could try shooting again.

His hands wrapped around yours, trying to wrestle the gun from your hands. You held on like your life depended on it because it did. Your life depended on it— Jack's life depended on it. 

You fired a shot into the ground and then another into the wall as he fought you, knocking a picture frame off the mantle. You couldn't see where the gun was pointing anymore, but then, suddenly, pain radiated throughout your lower abdomen, and you knew it was pointed at you.

You gasped, looking down and seeing blood spreading through the white of your tank top.

You looked back up, seeing the asshole smile at you with his teeth. They were pearly white. So clean for a man so dirty.

You sought to make them red, too.

In a surge of energy, you twisted the gun out of his grasp and didn't think before pointing it at his head and firing.

You watched the bullet penetrate his skull before he fell to the ground. Like a domino, you followed, crumpling against the couch.

The gun slipped out of your hands and they immediately went to your wound, making you hiss in pain. You pressed down on it, feeling blood flow between your fingers like a river. 

Keep swimming. Keep your eyes open.

The fatigue hit you like a train. You blinked, trying to keep your eyes open, but they felt so heavy.

Jack. Jack was upstairs. He called the police.

He was okay.

You heard sirens in the distance. The police were coming.

You could sleep now.

And so, as you remembered your fifth truth, your eyes started to flutter closed.

5. You love Aaron Hotchner. And he loves you.

You let yourself fall into a dreamless sleep, hoping that somehow, on some plane of consciousness, he could hear you say I love you one last time.

You loved Aaron Hotchner. You knew that for certain.

You just hoped he still loved you.

[dismalflo]

secrets in the bureau

Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader ✩ 6.5k words

summary: you and Aaron are really good at hiding your relationship, or are you? or 5 times the team suspects you're together and 1 time they know for sure.

cw: fluff, typical criminal minds violence and topics

an: ahhh first hotch fic everrr, gonna have to write more cm stuff to get characterisations down but this feels like a nice first go

1.

"...so what do you think?" you ask, looking at Aaron – Hotch, technically, it is working hours – from across his desk. He glances up from his notes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, an amused glint flickering in his eyes.

"You know the answer is yes, honey. Why are you even asking?"

"It's good manners," you say, your smile tugging wider as you inch forward in your chair, the toe of your shoe brushing his under the desk.

The truth is, you're both long past the need for politeness in these matters. If you want to stay over at Aaron's place, he's rarely, if ever, given you a reason to think he wouldn’t want you there.

He shifts in his chair slightly, setting the file aside to give you his full focus. The look he gives you is equal parts exasperated and soft, which is just how he loves you: half amused by your formality, half undone by it.

“You could come over unannounced and I’d still find a way to make it feel like I’d planned for you to be there all day,” he says, voice low and steady, like everything with him is. “You know that.”

You do. You know it in the way his fridge is always stocked with the oat milk you like, even though he won't touch the stuff. You know it in the extra toothbrush in his drawer, the way your laundry ends up folded at the foot of his bed after a weekend, neatly nestled between his dark t-shirts and pressed slacks.

Still, you like asking. You like that you can.

Hotch watches you for a beat, the silence stretching warm between you. Then he leans back in his chair, a slow breath leaving him like he's reluctant to shift back into Unit Chief mode, but he does because he’s nothing if not disciplined.

"You know something else, too," he says, eyes flicking down toward the folder on his desk before sliding back to meet yours.

You tilt your head, curious, a smile still ghosting on your lips. "What’s that?"

"That your break is over," he says, holding out the file across the desk, tone smooth but with the tiniest lilt of playfulness only you would catch. “And you need to go back to work.”

You glance at the file, then back at him, lifting a brow like you’re considering the offer. He’s in full supervisory mode now, except for the way he’s watching you too closely, his expression too fond.

You lean forward slowly, drawing it out, your hand hovering just short of the folder. "I think I’ll be alright," you murmur, feigning confidence, "my boss seems to have a soft spot for me."

The moment your fingers brush the edge of the file, he pulls it back with the smallest shake of his head, his mouth twitching again at the corners. Not quite a smile, not quite not, either.

"That might be true," he says quietly. "But don’t push your luck."

Aaron holds your gaze for a moment longer. Then, as if he just can’t help himself, he pushes up from his chair and rounds the desk in one fluid, practiced motion. You track him with your eyes, but your body stays still, waiting.

He stops in front of you, close enough that the scent of his cologne settles into the air between you. With that same maddening composure, he places the file in your lap, fingers brushing your thigh just enough to make your pulse skip.

“You’re not above paperwork,” he says softly, but the words are barely finished before he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your lips.

It’s the kind of kiss that feels like it costs him something to keep it brief.

But you aren’t finished. You tilt your face up before he can pull away fully, catching his jaw with your fingertips. You press back into him, just a little longer, a little deeper. His breath hitches, hands tightening against the arms of your chair like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to stop or pull you closer.

Hotch barely has time to blink before the knock comes.

You spring apart like teenagers caught in the act, both of you straightening instinctively—him taking a full step back, you smoothing the front of your shirt as you rise from the chair, face composed but pulse racing. You know you're standing too close, close enough that the air still feels warm between you, and for a second, neither of you moves.

Then the door creaks open.

Emily leans halfway in, eyes flicking from Hotch to you. She's not smirking, not yet - but her brow does lift, just enough to say: Interesting.

You clear your throat lightly, stepping aside as if you hadn’t just been kissing your boss at his desk. “Thanks for going over that file with me, Hotch,” you say, voice clear, maybe a little too deliberate. “Really helped.”

 “Of course. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Emily’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer. “JJ’s rounding everyone up in the conference room.” she says lightly.

You nod, making your way to the door with a quick “Got it,” and Emily steps back to let you pass. She waits a beat, then glances back over her shoulder at Hotch.

“Everything alright in here, sir?” she asks, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth now. 

Hotch’s expression doesn’t shift. “Just going over case material.”

Emily hums noncommittally, clearly unconvinced but not pushing it. “Right. Very thorough, I’m sure.”

You catch the look she shoots you as you walk side by side down the hallway. You don’t say anything, and neither does she. But you know she knows. Or at least suspects.

2.

The case, as a lot of them are, is long and hard.

Cruelty that sinks into your bones and stays there, no matter how many hours you spend scrubbing it out under fluorescent lighting. You found the unsub and you brought him in, but no one really feels like they won.

The jet is quiet on the way home, lit only by the occasional blink of overhead lights and the low hum of the engines beneath your feet. You sit in the back corner by yourself, turned toward the window, cheek pressed lightly against your knuckles. It's dark out, nothing but clouds and sky and your own reflection staring back at you, tired and smudged at the edges.

At first, it was the usual: Morgan with his headphones in, head nodding slightly to some beat no one else can hear. Reid halfway through a dog-eared paperback. Emily curled sideways with her jacket for a pillow, Rossi sipping quietly at a scotch.

Aaron sat at his usual spot, paperwork spread neatly across the table in front of him. His pen scratched steadily for a while, methodical as ever. But even that faded eventually.

Now it’s just you and him.

Everyone else has drifted into sleep, slumped shoulders, legs stretched awkwardly into aisles, exhaustion settling over the cabin like a soft blanket. You hear Reid murmur something in his sleep and shift, but otherwise, the silence is heavy. Restful.

You’re so deep in thought you don’t hear the soft creak of leather as Aaron rises from his seat. Don’t notice the subtle hush of movement as he crosses to the kitchenette. The sound of a mug being set down, water pouring, the paper rustle of a teabag unwrapped – all of it folds into the white noise of the flight, lost beneath the whirring engines and the thick fog in your mind.

He moves the way he always does, like he knows time will wait for him. Like even gravity might hold off for a second, if he asked it nicely.

When he finally comes back, you only register him when the cushion beside you shifts under his weight. The faint scent of chamomile and citrus drifts upward, followed by the gentle clink of ceramic placed on the small table in front of you.

You blink, slow, as you turn your head.

Aaron’s watching you – not with concern, exactly, but something gentler. Something steadier. A softness in his eyes that no one else on this plane ever gets to see. You’re not sure they’d believe it if they did.

He glances at the tea, then back to you.

“I thought it might help,” he says, voice low, barely threading through the quiet.

You look down at the mug then back at him. “Thanks,” you murmur. Your voice is hoarse. You hadn’t realized how long it had been since you spoke.

There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again, even more gently this time.

“You alright?”

You nod instinctively, but then shake your head, just once.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just reaches over, his hand brushing against yours. When your fingers curl around his, his thumb sweeps across the back of your hand. He doesn’t ask for more. He never does. He just holds you like that, quiet and steady.

You both sit there for a while, the silence stretching long again.

You sip the tea slowly, the heat grounding, the taste comforting. His shoulder rests against yours, warm and solid, and neither of you moves away.

“I hate that it still gets to me,” you say finally, not looking at him. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

His hand squeezes yours.

“I hope you never do,” he says, quiet but steady. “The day this stops getting to you is the day you’ve lost the part of yourself that makes you good at this, sweetheart.”

You don’t respond, but your grip tightens slightly around his, and he feels it. You know he does.

The tea is still warm in your hands when your eyelids start to slip. You don’t fight it. Not when his shoulder is right there, solid and warm.

You’re barely awake when he leans in, the press of his lips to your temple so light it could almost be imagined. But it’s not.

So you sleep.

-

When you wake, the world feels dim and weightless, the hush of descent in your ears, cabin lights low but brightening gradually. You blink against the dry air and shift slightly, realizing two things in the same breath.

Aaron is no longer beside you.

And you're warm. Too warm, actually.

You glance down to find his suit jacket draped across your front, heavy and crisp and unmistakably his. It’s folded in that way he does everything: precise, considered, like the act of keeping you comfortable matters more than anything else. The scent of him clings to the fabric – clean laundry, faint spice, and something uniquely his that you could pick out of a crowd without trying.

You’re reaching to smooth it over your lap when movement draws your attention. He’s walking back to the front of the jet, toward the files he’d left abandoned hours ago. The light overhead catches against the curve of his jaw, the familiar line of his shoulders. And just before he sits, he turns.

His eyes find you instantly.

You hold it for a second, that look, storing it somewhere behind your ribs where all the quiet, important things live.

Then you catch motion from the corner of your eye.

Spencer’s awake, sitting sideways in his seat a few rows ahead, blinking blearily behind his glasses. His book is open in his lap, but it’s clear he hasn’t read a word in a while. He’s looking between you and Hotch, his brows slightly furrowed, like he’s working a problem he doesn’t have all the variables for.

Thank god his genius brain takes a few minutes to start up after a nap.

You straighten a little, clearing your throat and nudging the jacket higher on your lap like it’s perfectly normal for your boss’s clothes to be draped over you mid-flight. Then you turn to Spencer with the airiest voice you can muster:

“Spence, what have you been reading?”

It works, somewhat.

He blinks, focusing on you as his brain shifts tracks. “Oh. Um.” He lifts the book like he’s only just remembered it’s there. “It’s a comparative analysis of the evolution of moral frameworks in isolated societies. There's this fascinating case study–”

You smile, nodding as you listen, letting his words fill the space. It’s enough to distract him, at least from whatever observations he was starting to piece together. And it's more than enough to keep your thoughts from drifting back to the warmth still lingering on your skin, or the weight of that kiss you’re still not entirely convinced you didn’t dream.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Aaron settling back in with his files, expression calm but unreadable again.

3.

It starts with a lull in the afternoon, one of those rare moments in the bullpen when the cases are filed, reports are done (mostly), and the coffee's gone lukewarm but no one wants to get up to fix it. The low hum of keyboards and the occasional rustle of paper fills the air, a kind of peace, however temporary.

You're halfway through your third report of the day, pen uncapped and mouth twisted in concentration, when Morgan leans across the short wall of your desk, drumming his fingers lightly against the divider.

"So, what’s the deal with you?" he asks, casual but too pointed for it to be offhand.

You blink at him, glancing up from your paperwork. "Clarify, please."

He grins like he’s been waiting for you to bite. “I’m just saying. We’ve known each other how long now? Three years? And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you even flirt with anyone.”

“Maybe I’m just selective,” you say without looking up, though the smirk tugging at your mouth threatens to betray you.

Emily’s head pops up from the other side of her monitor like a meerkat. “Selective or nonexistent? Because Morgan has a point. You’re attractive, smart, not a serial killer—what gives?”

Across from you, Reid glances over with a tiny frown, clearly confused as to how this became the topic of conversation. "Are we ranking coworker eligibility now?"

“No,” you say, “we are not. They are.” You gesture at Morgan and Emily with your pen. “And I don’t date because I’m too busy.”

“Too busy?” Emily echoes, incredulous. “Come on, you make time for what matters.”

You give a noncommittal shrug and flip a page in the file you’re reviewing. “Maybe nothing’s mattered enough.”

Morgan huffs. “You’re telling me no one’s even caught your eye lately?”

You barely have to think to keep your expression neutral, your tone light. “Nope.”

There’s a rustle of movement behind you, a door opening at the far end of the bullpen. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Hotch stepping out of his office, file in hand, brow furrowed with that familiar look of concentration he always wears when he’s mid-thought. He glances around the room, then straight to you, like instinct. Like muscle memory.

You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel the moment he finds you. You feel it like a current, like the way your shoulders relax half a degree before you can stop them.

“Really?” Morgan presses, watching you too closely now. “No one?”

You glance up, keep your voice calm. “You ever try scheduling a date between a cross-country manhunt and a twelve-hour flight delay?”

“You think we haven’t?” Emily snorts.

Hotch’s footsteps pause just outside the group’s periphery, and you feel him hovering there — listening. You’d bet money on it.

“Well,” you say, flicking your pen across the page as if it’s just any other day, “I'm perfectly happy as I am now.”

Hotch moves finally, continuing toward the conference room, his voice low and even as he passes.

“Briefing in ten.”

He doesn’t look at you as he says it, not directly, but his hand brushes the back of your chair lightly. So lightly it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t already watching too closely.

You don’t move. Just nod. “Got it.”

The moment he’s out of earshot, Morgan narrows his eyes at you. “That was weirdly… cordial.”

“Maybe he’s just in a good mood,” you reply, deadpan.

Emily mutters, “Which would be weirder.”

But they let it drop, mostly because the briefing’s about to start, and because the day’s quiet never lasts long. Still, Morgan gives you one last look before turning toward the conference room.

4.

The morning sunlight filtering through Aaron’s bedroom is soft and pale. It falls in golden streaks across the sheets, the hardwood floor, and the line of his bare shoulder where the covers have slipped down during the night.

You shift slowly, your leg sliding along his under the covers, your face still tucked into the space just below his collarbone. His hand is still resting low on your back, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin like he’s mapping you in his sleep.

“Are you awake?” you whisper, voice thick with sleep.

“Mmm,” Aaron murmurs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into your cheek.

You smile, eyes still closed. “Five more minutes, Handsome?”

“That’s fine,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice even before you feel him press a kiss to your temple. “You got it.”

You shift again, curling closer, and he chuckles quietly at the way you practically climb on top of him. He smells like sleep and shampoo and the detergent you’ve secretly switched his sheets to without telling him — because the old ones smelled like hotel soap and starch. These smell like home.

“God,” you mutter, “can’t believe we have to work today.”

Aaron hums, his hand still steady on your back. “We can’t be late again.”

“We won’t be, you’re so dramatic.”

“We won’t be,” he repeats, more teasing now. “Yeah, right.”

You lift your head, finally, meeting his sleepy brown eyes and a smug smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here you are,” he says, tugging you forward by the back of your neck, slow and easy, until your lips meet his.

The kiss starts soft – sleepy and unhurried – but quickly deepens, his hand sliding up under your shirt, the weight of it grounding you. You sigh into his mouth, shifting to press him deeper into the pillows, and he lets you, his other hand sliding along your waist like he’s not ready to let go yet either.

Eventually, unfortunately, he does pull back, eyes flicking open again.

“If we don’t stop, we’re going to be very late,” he says, voice low and a little ruined now.

You kiss the edge of his jaw in retaliation. “That sounds like a you problem.”

He groans, but he’s already sitting up, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

He tosses you a look over his shoulder and leans down for one last kiss, slow and deliberate, before he gets up and heads to the shower. He pauses in the doorway, looking at you swaddled in his sheets like you’ve been dropped there by some vengeful sleep deity.

“I’ll be ten minutes.”

You whine softly, rolling over dramatically. “You’re abandoning me, cruel man.”

“You’ll survive, honey,” he says, smirking as he disappears into the bathroom and flicks on the water.

You stay in bed for another few minutes, eyes closed, completely content. You can still feel the press of his lips on your neck, still smell the citrus of his aftershave lingering in the sheets.

And then his phone rings.

You groan again, dragging yourself upright. The screen lights up—JJ.

Your heart skips, just slightly.

You let it ring out.

A few seconds later, your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You don’t even look before answering.

“Hey,” you say, clearing your throat. “What’s up?”

“We’ve got something,” JJ says. “Need everyone here, as soon as possible.”

“Okay. I’ll be ready in fifteen.”

“Thanks. I already tried Hotch, but he didn’t answer—can you try calling him?”

You blink. “Oh—yeah. I’ll, um… I’ll let him know.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough.

JJ’s voice is too casual when she says, “Thanks.”

And then, just as you’re about to hang up, you hear it.

“Honey?” Aaron’s voice, muffled but unmistakably clear, drifting out from the steamy bathroom. “Do you know if I left my belt on the—?”

You fumble to hang up the phone.

Too late.

There’s a beat of silence on JJ’s end. You can practically hear the way her eyes narrow.

You clear your throat again, face hot. “I—um. I’ll pass it along.”

“…Sure,” she says slowly. “See you soon.”

Sure enough, when you get to the office later that morning, JJ barely glances up from her folder.

“Morning,” she says sweetly. “You two sleep well?”

You don’t answer.

Aaron – your ever-collected, ever-disciplined Aaron – freezes just long enough to give the entire game away.

JJ just smiles.

And keeps reading.

5.

You’re hunched over a map of the city, elbows on the edge of the conference room table, red and blue pushpins scattered across the surface like confetti from a very grim party. Spencer leans over your shoulder, pointing at the area just north of the river.

“I’m telling you,” he says, tapping the map with the end of his pen, “the pattern holds if you factor in the population density from the census before the most recent one. It’s consistent with a comfort zone radius, even if it doesn’t look like it at first glance.”

You nod, squinting at the outline of streets and intersections. “So the unsub’s older, maybe? Operating off memory instead of current data? That would explain the anomaly in the last dump site.”

“Exactly. I mean, he might even be—” Spencer pauses, leaning closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “—using a mental map that hasn’t updated since he lived here, assuming he moved away and came back. Like visiting old haunts.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s depressingly poetic.”

He grins. “A lot of serial killers are.”

You’re just about to reply when the conference room door swings open harder than necessary.

Hotch.

His expression is tight, jaw clenched, eyes sharp and tired in that dangerous way that means he’s too deep in it. His gaze sweeps over the map, the markers, and then the two of you. His eyes linger on the way Spencer’s leaning in, innocent enough, but close..

“Is this part of the profile?” he asks, voice clipped.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“The conversation,” he says, straighter now. “Does it have anything to do with the case? Because if not, maybe we can stay focused.”

Spencer pulls back immediately, blinking. “We were just discussing—”

“I’m not interested in discussion. I want results.” Hotch doesn’t raise his voice – he never really does – but the tone alone is sharp enough to make Spencer recoil slightly. You feel your spine stiffen automatically.

“We are working,” you say, slower now. “We’ve been narrowing the comfort zone down to two square miles. The pins—”

“I don’t want excuses,” he cuts in. “If you’ve got something, put it on the board. Otherwise stop wasting time.”

Then he turns on his heel and walks out, the door snapping shut behind him like a slap.

The silence he leaves in his wake is thick. You glance at Spencer, who’s looking down at the map like it just personally betrayed him.

“Okay,” he says quietly, “that was… intense.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, pressing a palm to your forehead. “He’s been like this all day.”

It’s not a lie. The second the briefing started, Hotch had been on edge, pacing too much, correcting people mid-sentence. You knew the case was getting to him, and you knew what it meant when he got like this – when his control frayed and he lashed out not because he was angry, but because he was terrified of making the wrong call. Of losing someone.

But knowing that didn’t make it easier to be on the receiving end.

Especially not in front of everyone else.

You’re still rubbing your temple when Morgan appears beside you.

“Hey,” he says, nudging your shoulder. “You got a second?”

You nod, rising slowly as Spencer gives you an apologetic look and turns back to the map. Morgan leads you out of the conference room and down the hall, away from the rest of the team.

When he stops, he crosses his arms and leans against the wall like he’s gearing up for a talk. You groan internally.

“I know that look,” you say. “And I don’t like it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Then stop making me use it.”

You fold your arms, mirroring him. “What?”

“You know what,” he says. “Hotch is being a dick. To everyone. And I know he’s stressed, I know this case is brutal, but it’s getting in the way.”

“I agree.”

He tilts his head. “Okay, so talk to him.”

You blink. “What? Why would I—”

“Because he listens to you.”

Your stomach flips. You hope to God it doesn’t show on your face.

“I’m not magic, Morgan.”

“No,” he says, voice low but pointed. “But you’re the only person he hasn’t completely snapped in half yet.”

You snort. “He just bit my head off in there.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “but he look too happy with himself after.”

You roll your eyes, trying very hard not to let your expression crack. “That’s a stretch.”

He just gives you a look. The kind that says don’t bullshit me, I have eyes.

You stare at him, exasperated. “Why does everyone assume I can fix it just because I—”

You stop yourself before you say love him.

Morgan doesn’t blink. “Because you calm him. He has a soft spot for you”

You sigh, slumping against the wall beside him. “Fine. I’ll talk to him. But no promises.”

He smiles, finally, clapping a warm hand to your shoulder. “I’ll take it.”

You wait until he disappears back into the conference room before you head down the hallway, toward the local precinct’s makeshift office where you know Hotch has holed himself up.

You’re already rehearsing what you’ll say: something about how his tension is bleeding into the team, how he needs to remember they’re on his side, how he can’t fix this case by destroying himself from the inside out.

But when you reach the door, it’s cracked just slightly – and inside, you see him.

Elbows on the desk. Head in his hands. Shoulders tight.

You stop. Because for a second, he doesn’t look like the man who barked orders ten minutes ago. He looks… tired. Scared. Like all of this has sunk too deep under his skin.

You raise your hand, knock softly.

His head lifts instantly. The second he sees it’s you, something in his face softens. He sits back slowly, composing himself, but it’s too late. You’ve already seen the unraveling.

You step inside and close the door gently behind you.

“Hi,” you say quietly.

He looks up at you, exhausted. “If you’re here to tell me I’m being an asshole, you don’t need to. I already know.”

You blink. Then let out a slow breath. “Okay. Well, that saves me a speech.”

He leans back, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Or Reid. Or anyone.”

“I know,” you say gently, stepping closer. “But they don’t.”

He nods. Doesn’t argue. Just looks at you like maybe your presence alone is enough to let him breathe again.

After a beat, he says, quieter: “I’m afraid we’re going to miss something. That someone’s going to get hurt. And I’m pushing too hard because I don’t know what else to do.”

You step in front of him now, between him and the desk, and crouch just enough so you can meet his eyes. Your hand slides over his where it rests on his knee.

“Then let us help you,” you say. “Let me help you.”

His eyes search yours, and for a second, there’s nothing but the space between your breaths. Then he nods, barely.

You squeeze his hand once. “Come back in. Apologize. Let’s get this guy.”

His lips twitch, just slightly. “You’re bossy when you’re right.”

“And I’m always right,” you reply, and lean in to press a fleeting kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It lingers a second too long.

You pull back and then you hear it.

A cough. Somewhere behind you.

You turn just in time to catch Rossi in the doorway, brows lifted, a coffee in each hand.

He arches an eyebrow. “This is cozy.”

You freeze.

Hotch just sighs and mutters, “Dave...”

Rossi grins. “Learn to lock a door, Aaron.”

He winks and disappears down the hallway before either of you can respond.

You look back at Aaron.

He looks like he’s aged ten years in ten seconds.

“He already knew, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, honey.”

+1.

The call comes in fast. Too fast.

One minute you’re clearing a low-rise apartment complex with Morgan and Emily on your six, the next, there’s shouting, an unexpected backdoor escape, a scuffle, the unsub slipping through hands you thought were ready to catch him. You see the knife before anyone else does.

You don’t think. You move.

And then–

White-hot pain.

It's sharp and sudden, flaring across your side as the unsub lashes out and the blade sinks in just beneath your ribs. You hit the ground hard, knees scraping against cracked linoleum, and your breath punches out of your lungs before you can even process the impact.

You hear shouting again – Emily’s voice, Morgan’s, someone barking for medics – but it’s all underwater now. Muffled. Warped. The adrenaline is already fading, replaced by a nauseating chill that starts at your fingertips and crawls inward.

You press your hand to the wound and it comes away slick.

Shit.

Morgan’s face looms above you next, eyes wide, voice sharp. He’s pressing down on your side with both hands, trying to slow the bleeding.

“Stay with me,” he says. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, you hear me?”

You want to answer. Want to reassure him. But your lips feel slow, and your mind is already spinning sideways.

Then there’s another voice. Quieter, rougher, but sharper than a knife through fog.

“Aaron—she’s hurt bad.”

You don’t see him at first. You only feel the way Morgan shifts to let someone else take his place, the way the air changes as Aaron drops to his knees beside you, one hand immediately replacing Morgan’s at your side.

He’s pale. Jaw locked so tight it looks painful. But his eyes, his eyes are wild. 

“Hey,” he says, too calm, too quiet. “Stay with me.”

You blink up at him, trying to smile. “Wasn’t... planning to go anywhere.”

His expression cracks. Just barely.

You feel his hand slide up, cupping your cheek like you might vanish if he blinks.

“You’re going to be fine,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a promise. It sounds like a plea.

Your fingers twitch, reaching for him. He catches your hand like it’s instinct, like he was already halfway there.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Aaron shakes his head once, fierce and immediate. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

But you’re already fading, the pain morphing into something floaty and distant. You don’t know when the medics arrive. You don’t hear the sirens. You just feel Aaron’s hand in yours, tight and shaking slightly.

And the last thing you register before your world goes black is the sound of his voice – no longer calm, no longer careful – shouting your name.

-

You wake up to beeping.

Soft, steady, mechanical. A rhythm that feels like it’s been there forever, lulling you in and out of something thick and dark.

It takes a minute before your eyes crack open.

The hospital ceiling is blurry, too white, and the lights overhead are too bright. Your mouth is dry, your throat worse.

You shift, barely, and that’s when the pain comes.

Dull but deep. A throb just under your ribs, blooming out slow and insistent like a warning bell. Your face twists in a grimace, and a sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.

Instantly – instantly – there’s a hand on yours.

Not a nurse. Not a doctor. Not one of those brisk, impersonal touches meant to check your vitals and vanish again.

No. This is different.

This hand is warm. Familiar. Fingers wrapping around yours like an anchor.

You blink again, and your vision clears just enough to see him.

Aaron.

Slumped forward in the hospital chair, suit jacket discarded on the back of it, tie loosened but still intact. There’s stubble on his jaw, more than usual, and deep bruises under his eyes, like sleep gave up on him days ago. His hand is clasped in yours like he never left your side.

Because he didn’t.

He feels your fingers twitch and bolts upright, the chair screeching slightly beneath him.

“Hey,” he breathes, and it sounds like the first time he’s spoken in hours.

You try to smile. It’s weak. Pathetic, probably. 

“Hey,” you rasp.

His eyes flick over your face, wild with relief and something else, still settling behind his ribs.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says, voice thick.

You squeeze his hand—or try to. “I scared me.”

That gets a half-laugh out of him. It’s broken, but it’s there.

You take a shallow breath, testing your lungs. “What happened?”

“You lost a lot of blood. The knife missed anything vital, but barely.” He swallows hard. “You were in surgery for two hours. They had to give you a transfusion. You’ve been out for almost a day.”

Your brows lift slowly. “Wow. Overachiever.”

Aaron exhales, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

You’re quiet for a second, watching him. The tightness in his shoulders, the rawness in his voice. You reach for him again, slower this time.

“I’m okay,” you say softly, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand.

Aaron doesn’t move at first. Just watches you like he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, like if he lets himself believe it, the universe will punish him for the audacity.

You blink at him again, taking in the state of him now that your vision’s steadier. The wrinkled shirt, the undone top button, the half-drunk cup of coffee sitting cold on the bedside table. The dark smudges under his eyes make him look so sad.

“You haven’t left,” you murmur.

It’s not a question.

Aaron shakes his head once. “Didn’t want to.”

You arch a brow. Or try to — it feels more like a flutter of effort than expression. “Aaron... have you even gone home? Or... showered?”

His silence is damning.

“Have you slept?” you push, and your voice cracks halfway through, too dry, too rough.

“I don’t want to leave you here by yourself,” he says simply.

“Aaron.” You pause until he meets your eyes again. “I’ll be fine. Just for an hour. Go... sort yourself out.”

His jaw twitches. “What if you sleep and wake up again and I’m not—”

“Then I’ll be annoyed for five minutes and then I’ll fall asleep again,” you cut in. “Seriously. I don’t need a guard dog.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

So you lean your head back against the pillow and muster your most unimpressed tone: “If you don’t go, I’m going to ask Rossi to make you.”

As if summoned, there’s a knock at the door and a familiar head peeks in.

Rossi.

Followed by Morgan. Then JJ. Emily and Reid right behind. Garcia’s holding a bouquet that’s half her height and bright enough to sear through the fluorescent lighting.

“You rang?” Rossi says with a knowing look, already striding toward the bed.

Aaron stands stiffly, caught in the headlights.

“Perfect timing,” you murmur, letting your gaze flick toward Hotch. “Rossi, can you do me a favour?”

Rossi crosses his arms. “Of course.”

“Make him leave for, like... forty-five minutes. An hour. Long enough to eat and shower. Or sleep. Whichever comes first.”

Aaron huffs through his nose, not quite a protest, but not agreement either. Rossi doesn’t wait.

“You heard the patient,” he says, already taking Aaron by the elbow like it’s a done deal. “Come on. I’ll even buy you real coffee.”

“I’m not—” Aaron starts, but Rossi just tightens his grip.

“You’re not doing anyone any favors walking around looking like that. She’s safe. We’ve got her.”

And somehow, it’s that —the weight of trust in Rossi’s voice— that finally gets Aaron to nod. He squeezes your hand once more, like he’s leaving behind something vital, and then lets go.

“I’ll be back,” he says.

“I know,” you whisper, and you mean it.

Once he’s gone, the rest of the team crowds in, careful and gentle.

JJ brushes a hand down your arm and gives you a smile that’s equal parts motherly and relieved. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Join the club,” you rasp, eyes flicking toward the IV in your arm. “Ten out of ten. Would not recommend.”

Morgan chuckles and drops into the chair Aaron vacated. “You still managed to take the guy down. Stab wound and all.”

“I just slowed him down. You all did the rest.”

“You gave us the opening,” Emily says softly. “That’s more than enough.”

Garcia sets the flowers down by the window and nudges the edge of your blanket with uncharacteristic caution. “When you’re better, I’m throwing a movie night. And you’re not allowed to say no.”

“I’ll be there,” you whisper. 

Emily clears her throat and tips her head toward the door, where Aaron disappeared minutes ago.

“For what it’s worth...” she says carefully, her voice low and sincere, “we’re really happy for you both.”

JJ nods, smile gentle. “Seriously. It’s not exactly shocking.”

“We’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Garcia adds, her voice half a stage whisper, half delighted confession.

“You should’ve seen him when they wheeled you into surgery,” Morgan murmurs. “He looked ready to rip the whole ER apart just to stay with you.”

Your heart trips a little. You shift your gaze to the doorway, even though he’s long gone from sight.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you say softly. “It just... did.”

“No one ever means to fall,” Rossi says from the hallway, returning with two coffees in hand. “The good ones just catch you.”

You smile again. This time, it doesn’t hurt quite so much.

“Thanks, guys.”

JJ squeezes your arm again. “Rest. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

And as you drift back down into the syrupy quiet, surrounded by the warmth of your team and the promise that he’ll be back —soon, always— you believe it.

[littleslaywrites]

this is aaron hotchner btw.

[deeninadream]

just found out some insanely devastating news in real life. so now i guess its time to read some x reader fics.

[hargreeves-duncan]

⎯⎯ KINKY LOVE

visual is for vibes only, reader’s appearance is nondescript!

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: hotch doesn’t appreciate you writing up your not-so-fictional fantasies about him

warnings: SMUT - MINORS DNI, mean!dom!Hotch, spanking, age gap, power imbalance, ‘sir’ kink, edging, grinding (fingers, clothed and unclothed)

word count: 3.1k

a/n: the fanfic writing makes this kind of meta and i rewrote this a million times because i wasn’t sure about it but, nevertheless, enjoy some filthy hotch thoughts!

Working at the BAU could be intense. That was a fact.

It seemed that, as the days went on, the cases were getting worse. Any faith you had left in humanity was becoming increasingly hard to maintain as you encountered the minds of people whose crimes you never thought would be possible.

Recently, you and Garcia had found an unorthodox way to relieve the stress: Writing ridiculously out-of-character, over-the-top fanfiction about your coworkers.

The nonsensical half an hour of your day that you got to spend with your painfully colourful friend, writing all sorts of strange, fictional things was enough to offset the nightmares of yours that were becoming increasingly more frequent.

It had started out harmlessly. Reid as a seductive vampire. Morgan rescuing a (suspiciously blonde and colour-loving) damsel in distress from a burning tower. But lately you’d gotten reckless.

Your contributions were becoming too specific. Too real.

“Let’s see… who shall be our victims today?” Garcia hummed, fingers dancing across her keyboard.

You leaned in, squinting at her screen. A sly smile tugged at your lips as you noticed a very specific name that had yet to make the cut, “You know who we haven’t done yet?”

Garcia’s eyes scanned the ridiculous list of file names - ‘Reid’s Recurring Romance’ and of course, the infamous ‘Morgan’s Midnight Mission.’

Her eyes lit up as she looked back at you, “Hotch.”

Maybe you had selfish reasons for pointing out his absence but you couldn’t be blamed.

The two of you had been seeing one another for a few months now. In secret.

Hotch’s divorce had been finalised and one thing had led to another. It had only been a matter of time. Your feelings for him had been there for a long time, lingering and simmering beneath the surface.

Waiting for their time to boil over.

One drunken night had sealed your fate. You belonged to Aaron Hotchner.

But you couldn’t tell the others, even if you wanted to.

There was the age gap and the power imbalance and the fact that he was your superior. The whole situation was far from HR-approved.

You’d decided that, if you wanted to keep each other, as well as your jobs, secrecy was the only option.

The thrill of sending him fuck-me eyes from across the conference table, knowing full well there was nothing he could do in public gave you a bigger kick than you cared to admit.

And as much as he pretended to be frustrated by it, you knew better. You knew exactly how much he relished in the tension.

How, when he came home to you, he’d unwind and take it all out on you until the early hours of the morning.

It was addictive.

And maybe that’s why, when you and Garcia sat down to write, you didn’t spare any details.

The way his breath hitched when you whispered sir in his ear.

The way his large hand always cupped the side of your head when you swallowed him whole.

Things that could easily read as fantasy, but you knew, better than anyone, that they weren’t.

“Okay, how do we start this?” you laughed softly, huddling closer to Garcia and resting your hands on her shoulder as she opened a new document.

Without even looking back at you, Garcia began frantically typing. She read aloud as she wrote:

Y/N lingered in the doorway of his office, her blouse clinging to her frame. She could feel the tension in the air, tightening like a coil, bound to snap at any second.

“Pause,” you tugged gently at her arm, raising a brow, “Why is it me that’s seducing him?”

Garcia smirked over her shoulder, “Would you rather he seduce you?”

You gave her a pointed look, though the smile tugging at your lips gave you away, “You know that’s not what I meant, dearest.”

She sighed, folding her hands over her stomach with mock patience as she answered, “My sweet, I chose you because the two of you clearly have the most chemistry in this office.”

You opened your mouth to protest.

“Ah!” She raised a perfectly-manicured finger, effectively cutting you off, “Don’t even think about denying it.”

You rolled your eyes, but she was dangerously close to figuring you out. You needed to keep your cool.

Except couldn’t hide the nervous wobble in your voice as you admitted, “Fine, maybe there is a little something there.”

Garcia smiled like she knew exactly what she was doing, before diving back into her keyboard, “It’s settled then. You’re our femme fatale, my dove.”

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ Y/N purred, draping herself over the chair, opposite him.

Hotch’s eyes darkened. He stepped around the desk, close enough for her to taste the danger in the air, with his every calculated step, ‘Agent,’ he murmured, his voice a gruff warning, ‘You know this is against protocol.’

You watched over her shoulder and squinted, reaching out to stop her, “He wouldn’t say it like that.”

Garcia blinked up at you, letting out a surprised laugh, “Excuse me?”

You shrugged, “Just…”

You fumbled for a way to excuse the reason why you knew exactly how Aaron would behave if he had you locked away in his office.

He was controlled and level-headed at the best of times. But around you? His restraint dwindled very quickly.

“I mean, you’ve seen the way he gets when he has to talk to people. He’s blunt but he’s not so clinical about it.”

Garcia tilted her head, one eyebrow arched and a grin that could rival the cheshire cat on her face, “Wow, okay. Someone’s been paying close attention.”

“It’s called character consistency, Penelope. Do you want realism or not?”

Garcia chuckled, “Realism, Miss Method Writer. Give it to me.”

‘You’re making this difficult,’ Hotch said, his voice barely eking above a whisper. His eyes never left hers, locked in a standoff, ‘You know what this could mean.’

That sounded more like the man that you knew.

He’d said those exact words to you your first night together.

‘You’re making this difficult.’

You’d been determined. A hunter with one target - Aaron Hotchner. The whiskey burning in your veins had given you the confidence to straddle his lap, like you’d imagined so many times before, and dare him to push you away.

He hadn’t.

How could he when you looked so delicious with your thighs bracketing his hips? Or when he’d spent almost every night thinking of you, with only his hand and the memory of your voice to keep him company?

“This is really good…” Garcia giggled, nodding approvingly as you brainstormed, “I’m thinking we go down the sexy punishment route…”

Unbeknownst to either of you, however, in his own office, Aaron Hotchner had paused mid-sentence on a call, distracted by the sound of your hushed voices echoing down the corridor.

“…Yes, I’ll review the file,” he said into the receiver, but his eyes were narrowing towards the cracked door of the tech lair, analysing the sounds.

Girlish shrieks of laughter.

Then, his name.

Followed by a very audible, “Punish me, sir.”

His jaw ticked. His head practically snapped around the doorframe.

“Hotch?” the voice on the phone repeated, slightly static.

He blinked, lips parting, “Right. Sorry. I’m gonna have to call you back.”

And, without another word, he ended the call, already rising to his feet.

He strode to Garcia’s office purposefully, folding his arms across his chest as he reached the doorway.

You didn’t hear him.

You were still laughing, leaning against Garcia, like the two of you were teenage girls gossiping at a sleepover, not federal agents at Quantico writing smut about your boss.

“Yes, and we have to use the verb ‘growled’ at some point. How could we-“ you looked up and froze.

Hotch was standing there, watching you both with an unreadable expression. His gaze flitted between you and the monitor.

You could feel your stomach drop.

Garcia’s hands froze on the keyboard.

You instinctively shifted to block the screen, but it was pointless. It was too late. He’d heard (and seen) everything.

“Agent.”

You blinked, “Sir, I-“

“My office. Now.”

He turned and walked away, without waiting for a response.

Garcia’s mouth hung open in silent horror as she looked up at you, whisper-yelling, “What’re you going to do? You don’t think he’d fire you over this, do you?”

“I don’t know!” you said in reply, throwing your hands up as you cast a glance at Hotch’s retreating figure, “I’m about to go find out, aren’t I?”

Having disappeared inside of his office, you were left with no option but to follow Hotch down the hall.

Suddenly, you’d forgotten how to walk. Your chest was tight. You felt like you didn’t know how to breathe.

Your mind raced as you tried to remember how to stand like a normal person. His door clicked shut behind you.

Your eyes locked onto the back of his head as he moved towards his desk. He didn’t sit. He didn’t speak.

Instead, he braced both hands on the edge of his desk, spine straight, his head bowed in an attempt to collect himself.

You were terrified.

You’d had close calls before. You knew how rocky things got between you afterwards.

How would he react, knowing you’d been sharing, and writing, sexual fantasies about him with another member of the BAU?

Aaron’s jaw tightened once again. The air between you felt thick. You’d didn’t dare to move.

“Why would you share something like that?” he said, his knuckles taut and bone-white, “With Garcia? With anyone.”

“What were you thinking? It doesn’t feel like you truly realise what‘s at stake here.”

He didn’t think you understood your relationship. And, by desfile, him.

The words stung like a slap.

They hung heavy in the room. Hotch’s usual calm, measured demeanor was quickly deteriorating, replaced by a storm you hadn’t ever seen before.

“You wanted to get under my skin? To cause me problems?” he asked, holding up a hand, his voice rising, “Well, congratulations. You have.”

You swallowed hard, fiddling with your fingers like somehow they might save you, “I wasn’t trying to-“

“Yes, you were.” he snapped, the edge to his voice growing sharper, “And now you’re going to tell me exactly what you wrote.“

“What?”

“You heard. I want to hear it,” he said, stepping even closer.

“Because, if you’re going to write about me like that, then you better be brave enough to say it to my face, Agent.”

This was unmarked territory. You weren’t sure if this was punishment or foreplay.

Maybe it was both.

When your voice finally returned, it came out hoarse:

“Where do you want me to start?”

So, you showed him. You didn’t just recite the words, you became your fantasy.

You reentered the office and pressed your back against the doorframe. You let your eyes linger on his lips, then back up to meet his gaze.

“Sir,” you breathed sultrily, making Hotch’s own breath hitch.

You spread your legs deliberately, just wide enough so that he could catch the faintest glimpse of your panties beneath the hem of your skirt.

You knelt at his feet, eyes wide and pleading, and uttered those devilish words:

“Punish me, sir.”

The carefully controlled man you knew was slipping away right before your eyes, replaced by something raw and ravenous.

His hand came down, cupping your face in a tight grip, tilting it up to look him in the eye, “You put us at risk when you say things like that.”

“I know,” you whispered, “But I mean them.”

Hotch’s gaze locked onto yours, studying you, before his voice grew deeper. His patience was hanging on by a thread.

“Turn around,” he said.

You obeyed. Your palms landed on the edge of his desk as he stepped behind you.

“You understand how reckless this is,” he said, his breath slightly uneven, “You’re part of my team. You know what’s at stake. We can’t-“

He cut himself off with a frustrated groan, “And yet you keep doing it. Why?”

You stayed quiet. He wasn’t asking you. He was asking himself.

He pushed your skirt up slowly, almost reverently, exposing the soft skin of your thighs.

He bent you over the polished wood, his hand pressing firmly between your shoulder blades to hold you in place.

Then, his other palm came down, hard, against the back of your bare thigh.

The sharp sting rippled across your skin and you gasped, but you didn’t pull back.

He paused, rubbing his hand over the spot, briefly, just enough to soothe, before he struck again.

“Count,” he said, voice even once again.

You took a sharp intake of breath, “One.”

He struck again.

“Two.”

Hotch leaned in, close enough that his breath touched the back of your neck, “If you’re going to tempt me like that in my own office, Agent…”

“Then you need to understand what it means to be held accountable.”

“For what, exactly?” you huffed, resting your weight on your forearms.

His eyebrows shot up, and a brief, dry chuckle escaped him, “For what? Sweetheart, do you ever listen to a word that I say?”

Another sharp slap landed against your thigh.

“Three,” you sighed softly, heat already beginning to pool between your legs, “And… not always. Sometimes I get distracted.”

His thick fingers dug into your skin, kneading away the sting just enough to heighten the ache. Your mind wandered to what else his fingers could be doing…

Another slap.

“Four.”

“You think I haven’t noticed how you look at me? At board meetings, on planes, where anyone can see?”

His hand slid down from your shoulder to your hip, fingers pressing firmly into your skin, grazing past where you wanted him most.

“You do it because you know it drives me mad, and because you know I can’t do anything about it.”

He straightened his back, towering over you, “Well, tonight, I’m going to show you what it feels like… to be left on the edge of what you want, over and over again… until it becomes unbearable.”

“Because that’s the only way you appear to be able to learn.”

With one precise motion, he flipped you over, pressing you firmly against the desk. Your thighs cried out in protest as they were forced against the wood, but you didn’t dare complain.

Hotch’s hand, which had been trailing almost absentmindedly, moved deliberately between your thighs. His fingers brushed firmly against your clit through your panties, rubbing in circular motions.

“Tell me, Agent,” he said lowly, “How long do you think you can last… like this?”

Your body trembled, thighs instinctively clenching around his hand. You began to rock slowly against his fingers, eyes falling shut as you sighed, “Not very.”

“Good.”

His fingers never faltered, their steady rhythm pushing you closer to the edge, without even touching skin.

Then, Hotch stopped just short, letting the tension coil tightly inside of you, and then dissipate again.

“You’re going to hold it. When you can come, it’ll be on my terms. Do you understand?”

His eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of hesitation. When all you could offer was a soft whimper, his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your underwear and tugged it down to your knees.

He pressed a kiss beneath your ear, breathing heavily now that his fingers had free rein, “You will learn control tonight, Agent. Even if it kills you.”

One palm settled firmly on your back, holding you upright, whilst his fingers dipped teasingly between your slick folds.

You whimpered, hips arching toward him, off of the desk, “Aaron…”

But his fingers only traced lazily over your lips, barely brushing your cunt, never quite giving you what you wanted.

“Not yet,” he murmured against the shell of your ear, “You begged for this punishment, Agent. Now you’ll learn what it means to wait.”

Your breath hitched in desperate need and mounting frustration. You pressed back harder against his hand, craving more, needing the release.

But Hotch was relentless. His control was absolute. He slowed his pace, then stopped completely, leaving you trembling and aching with an unsatisfied desire.

You groaned out loud, barely resisting the urge to stomp your foot like a petulant child.

“Behave, Y/N,” he said coolly, wiping his fingers on your thigh without even glancing up at you, “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be punished?”

You shook your head with a broken sound, somewhere between a whimper and a protest.

“No?” he echoed mockingly, “Then how do you apologise, sweetheart? How do you make it stop?”

“You know the answer, honey. Tell me.”

Your breath was shaky, you struggled to steady it. Every nerve in your body screamed for release, but Hotch’s unwavering gaze held you captive.

“I’m sorry. For testing you. For crossing the… metaphorical line.”

His large hands squeezed your hips gently, laughing softly to himself, “Thank you.”

But he made no move to place his hand back where it had been. To relieve you. Instead, it rested at your side.

Would it make you a dick to say something? To ask politely, ‘Hey, please put your fingers inside of my pussy!’?

Hotch seemed to notice your internal dilemma.

“I’ll deal with you properly when I get home,” he mumbled, smile audible, as he kissed your lips in a quick, but tender, peck.

“What?” you gaped at him, clutching his forearms, “You’re just going to dismiss me? Back to work?”

“I am,” Hotch nodded, his lips tugging into a rare smirk, “If all goes well, I will see you at 17:00 sharp.”

“You’re horrible.” you groaned, shoving him away from you halfheartedly.

He merely laughed, placing a strong hand around the curve of your waist and pulling you back to him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey. I’ll make it up to you.” he promised with a grin, pressing a warm kiss to the delicate skin at the side of your neck. You shivered at the contact.

“No, I’m back to work mode now. Fuck you.” tou sighed dramatically, crossing your arms and glaring at him.

“Fuck you, who?” he raised an eyebrow at you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Fuck you, sir,” you shot him a sarcastic smile over your shoulder as you headed towards the door.

“That’s what I thought,” he patted your ass and opened it for you, tilting his head down towards yours, “Besides, I did tell you I was going to teach you to be patient, honey.”

You only grumbled in reply.

He lowered his voice, his eyes on you and you only, but now acutely aware of the other agents passing by, “I love you.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the warmth in your voice as you replied, “Yeah, yeah, love you too.”

One thing was for sure, it was going to be a long four hours.

[absolutelyb4tty]

Happy Birthday || SR, AH

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!gf!reader x Aaron Hotchner Category: Smut 18+ Summary: It’s your birthday and your boyfriend organizes a surprise for you. Word Count: 7.3K

CW: Spencer Reid/ fem!gf!reader, porn with maybe plot, established relationship, ENM, threesome, kink dynamics, BDSM, soft dom Spencer (#battyisasubmissive), lowkey mean dom Hotch, biting, praise, size kink, impact play, breath play, double penetration, anal play, p in v, Spencer is a whiny bitch as always, oral (m/f receiving), degradation, dirty talk, use of ‘good girl’, hickies, reader is fem and wears dresses and lingerie, ooc Spencer and Hotch A/N: It’s my birthday!! As a gift to myself here is a completely self indulgent fic that might not be nice for anyone but myself. This is with middle seasons Spencer/Hotch because I love them. Spencer and reader are in an enm relationship because…same…and I wanted to write it lol in this one Spencer and reader are in a dynamic and go to kink events together so Spencer wears a cutie little mask to protect his FBI man identity. Of course I had to use that pic of Hotch for my first time writing for him!

Not proof read and hella rushed, sorry

Masterlist Previous Fic

Spencer had known about your crush on Hotch for a long time. It wasn’t exactly a secret but you still played dumb whenever he teased you about it, a telltale flush crossing your face every time. What had made this interesting was one night, when at a kink club a few towns over.

As you both made your way through the club, you barely wearing anything and Spencer in his usual sharp suit, with a mask to protect him from being recognized, something caught your eye. There was a man at the far corner of the club, talking to a woman in puppy ears and a collar, wearing a hood, that seemed eerily familiar. Spencer worked a very important job so he wore something to conceal his identity, you however, worked a regular job and didn’t care much about being potentially recognized by coworkers or anything. The only downside to this, that neither of you had thought about, was the risk of running into one of your boyfriend's coworkers and having them recognize you. You had a keen skill for recognizing people, even when you couldn’t see their faces, and your first instinct when you saw this man was, “that’s Hotch.” As you stare at him, the man turns around and visibly freezes. You know in your gut that you’re right even if his face is obscured by the hood pulled tightly against his features. You can still recognize his eyes and his body, and you know that Hotch knows what you look like.

There were rules in the community about outing, so you didn’t want to just go up and ask him if you knew each other and violate consent. Instead, you inconspicuously leaned over towards Spencer and lowered your voice. “Psst, do you recognize that guy over there, the one talking to the puppy,” you whisper. Spencer's eyes move around the room without moving his head as you continue walking until you can see him pause slightly. “The one wearing the half hood that’s staring at you,” he whispers back. “Yeah,” you pause to give him time to give you an answer but when none comes you continue your thought, “they kinda look like Hotch.” Spencer stops walking at that, looking down at you so his face’s turned away from the man. “Why would he be here,” Spencer was obviously nervous now. “Probably the same reason we’re here,” you laughed slightly, also nervous but less panicked because if he’s here then obviously he won’t care too much that you’re also here. “But Hotch wouldn’- he isn’t- I-,” Spencer stuttered, obviously shocked at the possibility that his boss was like the two of you and he never noticed. “Remember that time he accidentally called me a good girl and I couldn’t make eye contact with him for like a week,” you glanced back at the man to see him look at Spencer one final time before turning away from you both. “Well, what if it was in a fatherly way or something,” Spencer was scrambling for anything to disprove your theory. “Do you think it was though,” you eyed him, waiting for him to crack. “Nooo,” he whined, turning to continue walking, making a wide turn and guiding you away from the man. You both retreat to the far end of the club and after that night the incident was forgotten.

Hotch seemed off the next time you saw him but you and Spencer agreed to never discuss it unless he prompted it, so you didn’t. You had assumed Spencer had never discussed it with him and had probably forgotten about it as much as he could.

That had been months ago at this point and it was now your birthday. You and Spencer had spent all day out in the summer sun as you went through activity after activity that your boyfriend had planned. The bookstore, lunch outside, the planetarium, and so on. You knew there was another surprise planned for that night and that it was something you needed to prepare for. Spencer had gotten your permission to include another person in your dynamic, something you’d done before to fulfill one of your fantasies, and had told you this would be completing a bucket list item for you both. Whoever it was had done all the necessary prep, testing and negotiations and whatnot, and it would be a complete surprise for you. Your mind went to the woman you’d met at an event months prior. Both of you thought she was cute and when Spencer successfully got her number you’d expected she might reappear in your lives around this time.

All the information Spencer had given you was that anal would be involved and you should prepare accordingly. As part of preparation, you'd spent part of the day with a clear heart shaped plug tucked snugly inside you, you’d only revealed this to Spencer partway through one activity and he’d been practically vibrating in anticipation since then. He kept shooting you looks and lingering stares when he thought you couldn't see.

Your final stop was to a lingerie store you frequented. Spencer had picked out something for you and wanted you to try it on before taking it home with you. You picked up the neatly folded set and walked into the dressing room as he went to pay, only pausing a second to lean down and whisper to you, “just keep it on, y’know to make sure it’s comfortable. Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable tonight.” You listened, sliding your dress over the set once you were satisfied with the fit. The set was a black lace three piece with panels of pvc-like material in places. The bra, panties, and garter belt all matched your aesthetic flawlessly and you were proud of your boyfriend for picking such a perfect set for you.

On the ride home Spencer’s hand was practically glued to your thigh, rubbing soft circles into your skin just above the border of the stockings you wore. You slump into your apartment, weighed down by shopping bags, and beeline for your bed. You drop your items and flop onto your bed face first, satisfied and exhausted. You can hear Spencer moving around behind you before you feel him unzipping and removing your boots. You whine slightly as he slides your jacket off your arms, “today was so good, but I’m so tired.” “Do you still have it in you for your last surprise, baby,” Spencer asks softly. “Oh yeah,” you laugh lightly, smushing your face into the soft covers of your bed, “I just gotta chill before she gets here. You said we’re meeting up later tonight, right?” “I guess I’m early,” says a familiar voice behind you. You flip yourself around on the bed to find someone you hadn’t expected standing over you. Aaron Hotchner.

“Wha- I- what is,” you splutter, shocked by his presence. “Surprise,” Spencer says in a singsong way. You look back and forth between the two, still gobsmacked, as you try to come up with something to say. “He started the conversation while we were at the bar after a case a while back and we decided to wait and surprise you,” Spencer smiles down at you. “It was you at the club,” you squeak, pointing in an excited accusation at Hotch. “Yeah,” he almost grins in response. “Are you okay with this? Spencer implied you’ve had a little crush and this would be a good birthday gift. Honestly, I must admit that the affection is mutual, but I didn’t know about your,” he gestures between you and Spencer with one hand, “arrangement.” You nod frantically, a flush spreading across your face.

At your consent, Hotch moves forward and sits next to you on the bed, resting one hand on your thigh as he looks up at Spencer for his input. “We should probably let you relax for a minute,” Spencer says, looking down at you, clearly ready to fuck your brains out the second you say you’re ready. “I’m good,” you giggle slightly, anticipation building, “ready when you guys are.” With that, Spencer gets on his knees to be on your level and kisses you hard. His lips are on yours and you can feel yourself heating up at his touch. Spencer’s hands bury into your hair and you wrap your arms around his neck as he deepens the kiss. Hotch rubs tense circles into your thigh as he watches, you can hear him breathing as the tension builds. Spencer breaks the kiss and looks at Hotch. Before you have time to follow his gaze, Hotch reaches out and grasps your chin gently, turning your head to face him as he leans in to kiss you.

The kiss is soft at first, gentle, like he’s scared you’ll change your mind. To break the tension, you lick his bottom lip lightly, asking for entrance, silent communication that you do want this. It’s almost like a switch flips in him. He lets you in and suddenly he’s tilting your head back to kiss you harder and gripping your thigh like you’ll run away. The kiss is deep and hungry, like he’s been waiting for this. The thought that he’s been as absorbed in you as you’ve been in him sends a thrill through you, straight to your core. You subconsciously spread your thighs apart slightly and he accepts the unintended invitation.

A deep groan comes from him as his finger tips brush against your soaked panties. “You’ve been waiting for this, huh,” Spencer chuckles as he reaches up to start removing your dress. Hotch bites down on your bottom lip, lightly, but enough to elicit a moan from you. One of his large hands slides around the back of your neck to pull you closer while the other toys with you over your underwear. He finally pulls back, looking at you with a slight flush on his face and lust in his eyes. Him and Spencer stand up, grabbing your hands and pulling you with them. They take turns helping remove your clothes and kissing every inch of skin that’s revealed as they go. Your neck, your shoulders, your arms, your stomach, your hip, your thigh, and whatever else they can reach. The touch of their soft lips and wandering hands sends a quiver through you, you’re lost in the sensation of being absolutely worshipped by two beautiful men at once.

“Wow,” you hear Spencer whisper. You open your eyes, that you don’t even remember closing in your bliss, to see what he’s reacting to. Spencer and Hotch are staring at you, taking in the sight of you in your lingerie. “You picked this out,” Hotch points generally at your outfit, “I really underestimated your taste in lingerie, Spencer.” There’s a small laugh from both of them. “Y’know, I saw this on the website but it’s even better than I imagined in person,” Spencer’s eyes haven’t left you once.

You almost feel more exposed than usual with them just observing you like this. Spencer reaches out and spins you to face the bed before lightly pushing you to lean over it. You rest your hands in the soft blankets and try to not blush too hard knowing that the men are definitely just staring at your ass now. You arch your back slightly, trying to show off for them more, and you hear one of them suck in a breath before their hands are on you again. Spencer’s hand traces over the globes of your ass softly and you can hear the clinking of a belt somewhere behind you. Spencer tucks a finger under the lace of your underwear, pulling up slightly to put pressure on your clit. “You look so good, baby,” he groans.

Your underwear is pulled to the side, the sudden air cooling your wetness and sending a cold wave up you. The cold is almost immediately replaced with the warmth of fingers. Spencer slides between your lips, collecting your wetness, before pulling away. You whine at the loss of contact and turn slightly, just in time to see what he’s doing. Spencer is kneeling behind you, just about eye level with your cunt, and Hotch is leaned forward towards him. He’s got his fist wrapped around his cock, pants undone just enough to release himself and not quite enough for you to get a good view of his length, and he’s leaning forward to take Spencer’s slick fingers into his mouth. You watch his lips wrap around Spencer’s fingers, tasting you on him, and he closes his eyes in bliss. Your face is beet red, this being possibly the hottest and most flustering thing you’ve ever seen, and you can feel your whole body heating up. “Mmh, you taste so good, sweetheart,” Hotch moans as he releases Spencer from his mouth. Your eyes meet and you practically melt, turning away quickly to save yourself the embarrassment of how red you are right now, and you hear him chuckle slightly behind you. “I think she’s a little flustered Spencer, maybe we should give her a distraction.” Spencer snickers in response, “good plan.”

He licks a wide stripe up and over your folds, eliciting a loud whine from you as you shove your face into the blankets you’ve been leaning over. Your head is suddenly pulled up off the bed by your hair, you see Hotch is now standing next to you, holding your head up. “Don’t do that, I want to hear all the pretty noises you make,” he yanks your head back slightly harder and rests his other hand under your chin to help hold you up. Spencer laps at your core, paying special attention to your clit, as you squirm under Aaron’s hold. Spencer presses down lightly on the base of the plug with his thumb, flustering you further. “Ohh fuck, Spence,” you whimper. Hotch’s eyes watch you as your face tenses and relaxes in sync with Spencer’s ministrations. You squeeze your eyes shut tight as he latches onto your clit, sucking it between his lips and teasing you with the pressure. You let out a moan, loud and high pitched, and you feel Hotch’s grip tighten. “Angel, I want you to sit on my face,” Spencer gently wipes some of you off his face, backing away from you. “Mmf, okay,” you whimper, already missing his lips and tongue on you. Hotch releases you and helps you turn around where Spencer is laying on the ground. “Wouldn’t this be easier with you on the bed,” you laugh softly. Spencer glances up at Hotch, “this’ll be better, trust me.”

You hold Aaron’s hand as you lower yourself over Spencer, placing your knees on either side of his head. Spencer immediately wraps his arms around your thighs and pulls you down onto his face. You sigh in ecstasy as he starts toying with your clit right away, his tongue making lazy circles around it before dragging down towards your entrance and back up again. You let yourself make as much noise as you want to, moaning and whimpering at the pressure building in your core.

You get lost in the feeling, so lost that you don’t immediately notice Hotch taking his place in front of you. You feel your hair being pulled again, as he forms it into a makeshift ponytail behind your head, and you open your eyes. You’re met with a beautiful sight, his hand wrapped around his cock as he lines it up with your mouth. It’s big and girthy and you wonder how you’ll fit it inside your mouth. “Open up for me, baby,” his voice is dangerously low, igniting a certain part of your brain in need. You listen dutifully, opening your mouth and sticking out your tongue for him. He steps closer once you’re settled, you can feel the heat radiating from his inflamed cock. He taps himself against your tongue, “so obedient for me.” You wrap your lips around him, looking up through your eyelashes as he stares down at you in awe. You begin moving back and forth with ease, applying suction just enough to tease him, and swirling your tongue around him occasionally. He groans deep in his throat and lets his head fall back slightly. You reach up to wrap your hand around the part of him you can't quite reach immediately and he twitches at your touch. Spencer is panting and whimpering under you, still being particularly attentive to your clit, as one of his hands snakes under your thigh. He presses one finger into you and you jolt at the sudden contact, careful to not tighten your jaw around Hotch. Hotch huffs out something close to a laugh, “ah, ah, careful now.” You respond with a “‘mmph” that you hope sounds defiant and bratty in your defense. He starts to move his hips, his hands still holding your hair for you, and fucking into your face. It’s slow at first, to not overwhelm you, but as you let him in deeper and deeper he starts to pick up the pace. “Oh fuck, just like that, so good,” he moans. You clench at the sound and you feel and hear Spencer let out a satisfied giggle. He adds a second finger inside of you and continues pumping in and out, occasionally bumping the ridge of the plug that’s still inside you. You feel so good and adored that it’s almost overwhelming.

Hotch and Spencer both speed up their movements as you moan around Hotch. The feeling of him filling your mouth while Spencer attacks you with his fingers and tongue is almost too much. Aaron’s grip on your hair tightens, “mmph, god yes, let me use that pretty little mouth.” His head is thrown back in pleasure, your eyes watering from the intrusion and saliva runs down your chin, as he groans and moans loudly. “You want me to cum in your mouth,” he pants, voice deep and rough. “Mhm,” you try to communicate, unable to nod your head in his hold. He looks down at you again, an almost sinister smile on his face, “you look so gorgeous on your knees for us, I can’t wait to use that wet little cunt.” The praise is overwhelming, your climax sneaking up on you as Hotch lets out a guttural moan and paints your mouth white. You clench around Spencer’s fingers as he works you through it. Once you’ve come down from your orgasm enough, he slips his fingers out and helps lift you off of his face. You feel your boyfriend's warm breath fan over your inner thighs. “Still doing good,” he pants. “Mhm!”

Hotch pulls himself from your mouth as you swallow what he’s given you. Despite the saliva and cum spilling down your chin he kisses you hard, tasting a mix of you both as he does. He breaks the kiss, standing back to his full height, and reaches to take your hand in his. You shakily stand up and Hotch pushes you down to sit on the bed. Spencer rises from the floor to kiss you again. His mouth is warm and you can slightly taste yourself on him, the kiss is gentle but passionate.

You suddenly remember that while you and Hotch have cum, he hasn’t. You reach down and press your palm against the bulge in his pants, setting off a chain of whimpers as you rub against him. His tongue dances against yours as you feel the bed dip behind you. Spencer grabs your wrist, pinning the hand you were kneading him with to the bed, he uses his other to hold your hair up off the back of your neck. As soon as your hair is lifted you feel a second pair of lips on your neck. Spencer’s mouth moves down to your jaw and continues his actions on the opposite side as Aaron. You feel warm and floaty, the men taking over your senses as they lavish you in kisses and licks and nips. You can feel the men shifting around you but can’t quite tell what they’re doing as your eyes are closed in bliss.

Suddenly Spencer is pushing you back. You let him, and are met with the muscular and bare chest of Aaron. Sandwiched between his thighs, you rest against him and realize he is fully bare, you feel his cock is already hard again as it presses against you. Spencer backs away and you open your eyes to follow him only to immediately be guided into Hotch. His index finger presses against your jaw, forcing your head to turn, until your lips make contact. You can hear shuffling from Spencer but the feelings of the kiss and Aaron below you is distracting. “Mm,” moans Hotch before releasing your lips, “look at your pretty little boyfriend.” He gestures with his head and you turn to watch Spencer undress with him.

“Um, I feel like I should be putting on more of a show for you guys if you’re gonna watch,” Spencer laughs, swaying his hips as he undoes his belt. You giggle as he unbuttons his pants and begins sliding them down. He’s already lost the shirt, wiggling in what you think might be an attempt at seduction, and pulls down his underwear finally. His impressive cock swings freely and you find your laugh cut off by the mesmerizing sight. “Oh you got her now,” Hotch chuckles lightly as he mocks you. Spencer makes his way back over to the bed, chuckling at the flush spreading across your face from their chiding, and slides your underwear the rest off the way. He hooks his hands under your knees to press your legs open. One hand wraps around the base of his cock, and you expect him to fuck you, but he doesn’t. He leans forward and kisses you again, almost immediately pressing his tongue to your lips to ask for entrance, and slots his cock between your folds. He thrusts, up and down, hitting your clit with every upward motion. You shiver at the stimulation and kiss him harder.

Aaron unclasps your bra and slides it down your arms, discarding it on the floor somewhere. Two rough, strong hands find their way to your breasts. Hotch returns to kissing along your neck, shoulder, and collarbone as he toys with you. He takes each nipple between his thumb and forefingers and rolls them gently before tugging slightly, causing you to wince. He smirks against your skins and tugs again, this time harder. You whine into Spencer’s mouth and he begins moving faster against you. Hotch squeezes you roughly and just when you expect him to let go and move on, he flicks your nipples harshly and lightly bites your shoulder.

You moan loud, muffled by Spencer's mouth, as the feeling shoots through you. He chuckles against your lips, “you like that, Angel?” “Y-yeah,” you mewl while Hotch pinches and twists your nipples. “You want more,” your boyfriend teases, a look of mischief in his eyes. “Yes p-please,” you try to get how close you are to begging across with the look in your eyes and it only seems to ignite him more. “How much more, sweet girl?” He’s still rubbing himself against you, but now at an achingly slow pace. You want to reach down and fuck yourself with his cock but you know that’ll just lead to him denying you more pleasure. “As much as you’ll give me,” you finally reply, looking down at where his body touches yours. “Oh yeah? You hear that Hotch,” he laughs. “Loud and clear,” replies Hotch with a smirk. “We’ll give you what you want, but you have to be good,” his eyes darken, a clear command to listen and behave. You nod frantically, ready for whatever he’s willing to give you.

Spencer takes one more slow drag down through your folds before notching himself at your entrance. You breathe in deep, anticipating the incursion and intensity of what’s to come as the men watch you. When you meet Spencer’s eyes again, he finally presses forward. You gasp at the delicious stretch, pleasure engulfing you. You can sort of sense Hotch over your shoulder and you know he’s watching, eyes locked on where you’re being filled. He, having stopped what he was doing to watch the beautiful way Spencer takes you, resumes teasing your breasts. Spencer moves slowly, letting you feel every ridge and vein as he goes, a low groan leaving him as he moves.

“Oh f-fuck,” your hand grips the sheets next to your body. Spencer leans down and kisses along your collarbone, stopping to nip and suck softly as he moves up one side of your neck towards your mouth. Once he feels you’ve been warmed up well enough, he slowly drags out of you until only the head of him remains inside. He then pushes all the way into the hilt. “G-god,” he breathes against your swollen lips. He begins to move faster, pumping in and out of you, watching for your reaction with his brows knotted together in a silent whine. He uses one hand to press your left leg up against your chest, pressing into you deeper and sending your eyes rolling up to the ceiling. Hotch chuckles over your shoulder, “you like how he feels inside you?”

“Mhm,” you nod, squeezing your eyes shut as Spencer bumps against the plug that is still inside you, sending a bolt of pleasure shooting through you. “How’s it feel, baby,” he ends his sentence with a kiss to your shoulder. “G-good,” you moan. “Aww, you can do better than that, can’t you,” his hand snakes up over your chest to reach your throat. His fingers wrap around you, fingers pressing up against your chin, tilting your head back so you can look him in the eye. “I- um so good- fuck- it feels s-so good,” your grip on the sheets tightens, pressure building in your core, the focus from both men being too much for your already flustered self. “It’s a little early to be so out of it,” Hotch laughs, accenting his words with a hard squeeze of your soft skin. The hand that isn’t holding your face to look at him glides down your stomach until he reaches your clit. He softly circles it with two fingers, pulling out a whine from deep in your chest, and you try to turn to hide your face from him. His grasp is harsh, pulling your face back to his, “look at me while I make you feel good.”

You clench around Spencer at the intimidating words. “Oh fuck,” Spencer moans, his head dropping to just over your chest, “keep talking to her like that, please.” “Oh yeah,” his eyebrows shoot up, looking between you and Spencer, “you like it when I’m controlling?” He huffs out a laugh and presses against your clit harder. In tandem with Hotch’s teasing, Spencer’s hips speed up, he starts hitting deeper and harder inside you. You whimper, the fire inside you burning hotter and hotter by the second, to ground yourself, you take one hand and drive it into Spencer’s hair. His soft curls wrap around your fingers, you tug slightly as you try to maintain eye contact with Hotch. Spencer whimpers in your hold, the pulling at his scalp distracting him from his goal to only tease you. His breath on your skin causes you to shiver despite its warmth.

Hotch makes dizzying circles around your clit, occasionally pausing to pinch or deeply press against it. You feel his lips make contact with your shoulder again, just before he bites down on your supple flesh. You shriek, throwing your head back as you squeeze your eyes shut. He gently licks over the spot followed by an earnest kiss, “you okay?” You nod furiously, the sensations in your body clouding your mind enough that you don’t trust actual words to come out of you trying to respond verbally. “Good,” he chuckles darkly, “because I’m not sorry.” With that he bites you again and you squirm against him. The ache and pull in your core heightens, you clench around Spencer, bracing for the impending crescendo. You don’t notice it, as your head is thrown back and your eyes are shut, but the men share a look, like a secret code between them. What you do notice, however, is them stopping. Spencer stops moving, Hotch lifts his fingers off you and releases the grip his teeth had on you, and they sit to watch you intently.

You whimper and squirm, trying to fuck yourself on Spencer’s length, but all you get is a bruising hold on your hips from Spencer. “What the fuuucckk,” you whine, glaring at your boyfriend who’s still inside you. “We can’t have you getting tired before the main event,” Spencer pants out a laugh. “That wouldn’t be any fun, now would it,” Hotch’s voice is dark and whispered against the shell of your ear. “What’s the main event,” anticipation grips your heart, it beats faster as you await whatever your fate tonight will be. “You’ll see,” Spencer replies, leaning down to kiss and lick at your nipples as he does. It sends little shocks of electricity through you and you twitch around Spencer. He slowly pulls out of you, you groan at the loss.

Suddenly, Spencer is grabbing your arms and flipping you over onto your stomach, causing you to squeak slightly as you land. “Hey,” you half shout before Hotch’s strong hands grip your hips. He lifts you up to your knees and holds you there. You shoot him a confused glance over your shoulder but he just stares at you, his deep eyes hungry are full of something almost sinister. Spencer’s warm palms brush against the curve of your ass. He spreads you open, warm breath against you, and makes a satisfied humming noise.

“I think this is the wettest I’ve seen you in a while, Angel. You liking all the attention,” his gaze burns into you even though you can’t see him, you know what he’s looking at. After a beat Hotch raises his hand and brings it down hard on your right side, snapping you out of your daze with a yelp, “he asked you a question.” You nod slightly, “y-yes, I like it.” “I knew you would,” Spencer’s voice is surprisingly strict, you can tell he’s worked up by the scenario you’re all in. Seeing you like this always drives him crazy and today he’s struggling to control it. He presses against the base of the plug and you cry out. “You ready,” he asks, the harshness from his tone gone, for now. “Mhm,” you nod, glancing at Hotch again, but his eyes are glued to your ass.

Spencer grips the base of the plug, slowly sliding it out of you. The feeling makes you moan louder than expected, you almost feel embarrassed until you hear Hotch’s groan. “That’s just beautiful,” Spencer whispers up at his superior. “Absolutely,” his grip on your hips tightens involuntarily. They start to whisper, you can’t quite make out what they’re saying besides Spencer asking, “which one do you want?” You sit there patiently, kept in the dark on the plan and buzzing with anticipation. After a few moments, you feel Spencer lift off the bed to walk somewhere. When he comes back you hear the click of a lid and feel the cold wash of lube squirted onto you. “What’s your safe words, pretty girl,” he mutters as he spreads lube on himself. “Red and yellow,” you reply, flushing at the thought of Hotch knowing what safe words you and your boyfriend use. Somehow it feels more intimate to you, even despite having his cock in your mouth earlier. “Good,” he smirks behind you.

“Y’know,” Hotch starts casually, “when you blush, the rest of you turns red too.” Spencer laughs, “isn’t it adorable how flustered she gets?” “W-what do you mean,” you demand over your shoulder. “I mean,” he’s condescending, “I couldn’t even see your face and I knew you were blushing because your shoulders, and your neck, and even your ears turn red too.” “Oh,” you reply. Spencer had never told you that before. Maybe you weren’t as inconspicuous as you’d thought. Hotch releases your hips, you drop slightly after having relied on him to hold you up and not expecting him to let go. His grip is immediately replaced by Spencer’s. He slides his hands up and around your chest. One hand grabbing each shoulder and pulling you up to rest against his chest. He seats you so you’re able to grind on his cock, but before you do, Hotch moves in front of you. Spencer lifts you again, notching the head of his cock at your entrance, and Aaron moves forward. Your pussy flutters in excitement at what’s about to happen. Hotch tilts you forward, his hands holding under your thighs, and rubs the head of his length through your folds until he reaches right where you need him.

You all sit there for a moment, breathing each other's air and just existing, mentally acknowledging that things are changing between the three of you. After a moment that borders on too long, you start trying to grind, the barely there touch of them too tempting for you. Spencer notices first and gently taps Hotch’s hand that still rests on your right thigh, signaling that you’re ready.

When Hotch and Spencer had discussed your birthday gift they had decided that, even though they’re both dominant, Spencer would take the lead on timing and the flow of events since he knows you best. At Spencer’s signal both men start to press forward.

The feeling is overwhelming. It starts as a simple invasion enveloping the whole space in between your thighs, but as they continue to press into you the pressure builds. They feel much bigger than anticipated. You obviously had seen how big they were, and you were well acquainted with Spencer’s size, but your gauge must have been off. You noticed Hotch was a bit thicker than Spencer but not nearly as long and figured that wouldn’t be much of an issue, but with both of them at once? You were stretched to your limits. It was a heavenly feeling, the slight burn as you try to accommodate them both, the pulse and throb coming from them, the heaviness in your core as your body releases all kinds of happy chemicals. You are so distracted that you almost miss their reactions. “Fffffuck,” Spencer’s head falls forward onto your shoulder. “Holy shit,” Hotch’s voice is low, almost animalistic, as he feels you for the first time. You let out a high moan, your head lolling forward slightly as you squeeze your eyes shut. As they both bottom out you whimper softly and lean forward against Hotch’s form. They pause for a moment to let you adjust, the feeling is amazing but also a lot to take in at once. You let yourself relax, trying to not tense around them so you can properly enjoy the feeling.

After giving yourself some time, you pipe up, “g-green.” “Are you sure, we can wait a min-,” Spencer starts, obviously panting and awaiting the go ahead. “Spence,” you moan, “green.” With that he starts to slide back out of you, slowly tugging on the bundle of feeling in your gut. When he has pulled out, except for the very crown, he begins to slide back in and Hotch makes his move. He begins to pull out, passing Spencer as he does so you don’t have a moment of feeling empty. “O-oh fuck,” you moan, wrapping your arms around his neck to cling to something and center yourself.

Without noticing, you tense around them eliciting deep moans that make your walls flutter. “This was so worth the wait,” Hotch mutters against the side of your head. Their movements overwhelm every other sense, you’re completely lost in the moment and you never want it to end. Once Spencer feels you’ve adjusted enough, he starts to pick up the pace with Hotch following his speed. You let out a loud moan, “oh my god Spence,” your thighs start to shake from the all consuming pleasure wracking your body. “I know, I know pretty girl,” he whispers, kissing the nape of your neck, “you’re doing so good for us.” “You were really holding out on me,” groans Hotch, “I didn’t know you had such good cunt that you like to just share with people. We should’ve had that talk forever ago.”

You turn your head up slightly and start kissing Hotch’s neck gently. He jolts in surprise, “aw look at that, you like it when I talk about you like you're not here? Or do you just like it when I compliment that pretty pussy of yours?” You flush at his words, the lack of professional talk and composer jarring to you after knowing Hotch for so long. You nip him lightly, smiling when he groans. “Fuck, you’re such a good slut,” he grips you harder, beginning to move faster. “She’s wanted you for so long,” Spencer laughs, “you should see how she gets when you accidentally say something too suggestive to her.” “Oh yeah,” he slides one hand up your body, “I bet it’s adorably pathetic.” “Completely,” Spencer pants, “I mean, just look how fucked out she is right now.”

The men chuckle at you, but you can’t find it in yourself to be offended, the condescension is actually enthralling.

Hotch’s hand finds your jaw and pulls you up, interrupting your plan to kiss his neck until your lips fall off. You whine and try to turn your head away from him but he just holds you tighter. “Are you gonna show me how pathetic I can make you act,” his gaze is intense, burning into you and igniting something deep inside you. Now moving at a regular pace, Spencer reaches around you to find your clit. Moans and whimpers tumble out of your lips as Hotch stares at you, your eyes dart around trying to avoid his fiery look. Spencer pushes on your almost over-sensitive clit and you almost scream, shutting your eyes tight.

“Look at him,” you hear your boyfriend whisper against your ear. You open your eyes again and meet his, he’s still watching you intently, a soft flush across his cheeks and a look of bliss creeping onto his face. “You like the attention I give you, don’t you?” “Mhm,” you nod your head stiffly in his hand. “You like how I look at you when you wear those tiny skirts and low cut dresses,” he practically growls in his attempt to suppress a moan. “You like how I think about bending you over and marking you as mine every time I catch you staring at me,” that time it is a growl. The sound makes your body feel like it’s vibrating, tugging at the well of pleasure in your core. “You like how I could tell you were desperate to have my cock inside you, or did you think I was too stupid to notice how you look at me,” he questioned harshly. You hadn’t really thought you were being obvious, you hoped you just came off as awkward, but now that you’re thinking about it you definitely could see how he’d figure it out. “Y-you knew,” you gasp as he slides against that soft spot inside you. “Of course he did,” your boyfriends laugh is breathy as he continues to fuck into you.

Your eyes dart away from Hotch’s gaze, but he simply adjusts you so you’re looking at him again. “Don’t get all shy now, show me how much you want me, even if we all know,” he drags his thumb up the side of your face harshly, stopping it to rest on your bottom lip. You obediently open your mouth, swirling your tongue around the digit before closing your lips around him. “That’s a girl,” his voice rumbles through your chest, low and inviting. Spencer’s hand comes up to rest against your throat, just under Hotch’s. He squeezes, gently at first, then with more force until your face feels warm and your brain feels fuzzy. He lets up and just keeps his hand in place, the promise that he might do it again making your body feel electric. You start to try moving your hips back against them as you feel the building pleasure threaten to overtake your body.

“Look at her, so greedy,” Spencer chuckles, squeezing your throat again. “So greedy, it’s honestly pitiful,” Hotch replies. “You’re being much more obedient than usual, maybe I should let our friend here use you more often,” Spencer whispers next to your ear, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Spence-,” you whine around Hotch’s thumb, unsure if you’re trying to say yes or no to the proposition. “Oh yeah? You’re being good just for me,” Hotch’s voice is husky with pleasure. “I think you scare her, Hotch,” Spencer tries to hide the moan in his voice. “Aw, do I scare you, baby, you think I’m going to hurt you or something,” he maneuvers your face up and back just to show he can do whatever he wants to you. “Ya’ know, I think she wants you to hurt her,” Spencer releases his grip again and you gasp. “I think so too,” his gaze darkens, “you want me to hurt you, baby?” You try to nod, whimpering slightly as Spencer thrusts into you particularly hard. “Good girl,” he growls. With that he tightens his grip on your jaw and twists your face away from him, exposing your collarbones better. Spencer shifts slightly to give him better access before beginning to choke you again. Aaron leans down and bites you hard, you nearly scream as everything finally crescendos.

The pleasure that’s been building up in you this whole time all crashes against you. A wave of bliss overtakes you and you tighten and pulse around them. Your whole body stiffens as your thighs and arms shake, the fire they lit inside you finally consuming everything as white hot pleasure shoots through you. “Holy f-fffuck,” Spencer’s breath hitches. “God, that sweet pussy is so tight,” Hotch growls, teeth still pressing harder to your skin.

You’re so overwhelmed by your body’s reaction that you don’t realize you’re almost screaming. “A-Aaron,” you practically wail. His body stiffens at the sudden utterance of his first name. “G-god,” he moans almost to himself, a quiet acknowledgment that he’s not ever letting this experience go. Your head lolls back onto Spencer’s shoulder, breathless and blissed out, you feel their paces growing sloppy as they reach their own ends. “Look at how cock drunk she is for us,” Hotch chuckles darkly. “So beautiful,” Spencer pants, “I’m so close, Angel.” Hotch grunts, seemingly in agreement, as his hands around your jaw and waist tighten. You whine, overstimulated and satisfied, squirming subconsciously to escape their punishing pace. “I know Angel, just hold o-on for a second longer,” Spencer grunts. “You can take it,” Aaron urges you on, “be a good slut and take it, we know you can.”

With a final deep thrust that leaves you keening under their touch, you feel warmth unfolding inside you as they cum. You feel every pulse and throb from them as they fuck you through their orgasms. Hotch collapses forward, hand sliding back down your body as his forehead makes contact with your shoulder, panting hard. Spencer kisses your neck slightly in between heaving breaths. You sit there, soaking in the moment, feeling floaty and warm.

Spencer rubs your throat where he’d been holding as he starts to ease out of you. “I’m gonna go get you a towel Angel,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head before sliding off the bed. Aaron eases out of you, soothing over your hair when you wince from the feeling, and scoots you off him. He gently lays you down on the bed, “you did so good sweetheart, that was amazing.” Spencer returns with the towel and starts to help you clean up. Hotch rubs comforting circles into your thighs when he notices them still shaking slightly.

As the men help to make you comfortable you think to yourself, “best birthday ever.”

[rauspberries]

ㅤㅤDON'T LOVE YOU YET (BUT PROBABLY WILL)!

summary: days are hard, but they get a bit easier when aaron hotchner is around. pairing: prosecutor!aaron hotchner x paralegal!reader. their masterlist. tags: afab reader, cigarettes & smoking, high stress, soft fluff, guaranteed hidden flirting, r is broke, r also does not know how to handle emotions, hotch is a protector/caretaker & r doesn't know how to handle it, their first date (finally), making out word count: 3.7k notes: i was having a really bad day when i wrote the beginning of this and it's spiraled, however it is still very much just self-insert.

You should’ve known the minute you woke up with a crick in your neck that this day would be a horrible day. Followed by the way your hair wouldn’t work with you, the random closure of the exit you took everyday for work leading to you being twenty minutes late, the coffee pot being completely empty when you got to work and then not filling up before you were swept away to handle an interview. All signs that you should’ve faked being sick and laid in your protective bubble of a bed.

Two hours into your shift, your eyelids felt like lead and you had just glanced at your email to find every bill you were struggling to pay, laid out like the worst present. Six hours left before you could hide from the bad storm in the safety of your home.

Every pity party at your desk is interrupted by a rap of knuckles on the doorframe of your office. A lawyer’s head pops in and everything personal washes away with the tides of busy work. Writing up contracts, delivering research, organizing evidence, it blissfully took up every bit of space. Nothing could go wrong when you didn’t have time to think about it. 

Four hours before your shift ends, you settle in the chair across from Aaron’s for your lunch break, one leg draped over your knee as you pluck at a sad-looking salad with your nails. Your nose wrinkles as you pick out a wilted piece of spinach, examining the darkened color curiously before tossing it onto the abandoned plastic lid on your boss’ desk.

“I would pay you to throw that away,” he rumbles from the other side of you, still writing diligently on the legal pad on his desk. As soon as your eyes raise to glance at him, he’s peeking at you through the strand of hair draped over his forehead, brown eyes flickering to the plastic container in your lap before back at your face. “Seriously. I think you might get E-Coli or something if you eat that. I can’t have my best paralegal out for a week. Or worse, more.”

With a scoff in an attempt to brush off the heat rising to your cheek and ears, as you’ve never been able to take praise, especially from him, you scoot down further in the plush seat, stretching your legs out. “Would you still pay me sick leave if I didn’t listen to you?” A curved brow raises as you pick out a particularly soggy leaf, discarding it along with the others.

Aaron lets out a sound of amusement, setting his pen down and leaning back in his own seat. His arms cross over his chest, the fabric of his button-up (void of a jacket today, the only good thing you have going on) stretching across his biceps and chest. For a moment, you worry that a button’ll pop off and hit you in the eye. For another moment, you wonder if it would end you and this miserable day. “By the looks of it, you won’t have enough to eat after picking through it.”

Sighing, you toss the salad onto his desk with just enough force to get your point across, crossing your own arms in a tantrum. “You’ve ruined my lunch with talks of E-Coli,” you accuse half-heartedly.

This time, you’ve pulled a rumble of a laugh out of his lips, his head shaking as he sits forward again to continue working. “Go get something else to eat. We’ll pretend you’ve been working in here the entire time.” He dismisses you with a wave of his pen-grasping hand, not even glancing up from the papers in front of him. 

For a moment, you just stare at him. It’s kind to allow a lunch break to go on longer just because the lunch you had “brought from home” (bought at the gas station) wasn’t up to par. However what Aaron doesn’t know is that the money in your bank account is currently saved for your electricity bill, your Ubers to work and to buy scarce groceries to make bland meals to last you until paycheck day.

Rather than go into a tangent about how student loans and DC rent were burning an everlasting hole in your pocket, you nod and stand up. You carry your salad all the way to your office, knowing that Aaron wouldn’t crawl out of his own until way later in the day. In the silence of your closed door and the dim lighting of the cheap lamp on your desk, you pick out everything wrong about the salad and eat the rest of it.

As the sun goes down, so does your mood. You try to find the joy, to keep your head up, but the thoughts crawl in when you don’t expect them and knock you down again.

Two hours before your shift ends, you end up on the roof, a cigarette pack shuffling in your hand as you lean against a wall. You’re not a smoker, never have been. Every part of you despised every part of them. The smell that lingered on your clothes long after being in the presence of them, the drymouth that followed every puff, the way the smoke seemed to cling to the lining of your lungs long after your cigarette had been disposed of, a reminder of the way they could destroy you if you let them consume you long enough.

But stress had a way of bringing the worst habits to the surface. Your nails were already chewed down to the cuticle, your room was a mess back at home, you couldn’t remember the last time you had done the full extent of your skincare routine. What was another thing that’d only have bad consequences in the end?

Two gentle fingers pluck out a single cigarette, placing it between your lips as you close the pack and shove it back into your bag. You grab your lighter, ready to seal your fate (for yet another time in your life) as a stress smoker. A seasoned flick of your thumb has the flame jumping up, consuming the end of the cigarette with an audible sizzle. 

Before you can think about what anyone would say, chapstick-coated lips close around the end before you inhale. The smoke becomes more than air, becomes tangible, coating the inside of your mouth and your trachea before curling around in your lungs like a heavy cloud. The buzz of the nicotine makes your eyes close, not wanting to see the way the world spins for just a brief moment.

“Didn’t take you as a smoker.”

Your eyes shoot open like a child caught with their hand in the candy jar, shoulders jolting. Your grip loosens around the cigarette, tempted to drop it to the ground, but they’re expensive and you can’t bring yourself to let go of it. Slowly turning to face Aaron, you cross your arms defensively over your chest, careful to not press the cig against your clothes. “I’m not.”

He huffs out a laugh, stepping closer. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his slacks, shoulders back and head tilted up. You know him well enough to know that he’s exhausted, even if he’d never admit it, the lines on his face deep with reminiscence of stress. “The cigarette in your hand tells a different story,” he responds. A quick tip of his head towards your hand has you huffing, head shaking.

“Stress habit,” you grumble in response. As he gets closer, your head falls back against the cement wall of the bulkhead, eyelashes fluttering as you look up at him. For a moment, you’re taken back to being pressed up against the side of his car, thick fingers curled into your hair and his tongue in your mouth. Talk about one way to ease your stress.

Aaron stands in front of you for a moment before he sidles beside you, shoulder brushing yours. He faces the stretch of the city and yet he stares at you, nose wrinkling just a smidge every time his eyes find the cancer stick stuck between your fingers. “What do you have to be stressed about?” he asks. It’s not condescending, like there’s no way you could have anything to worry about. It’s curious and genuine. 

As well as he means it, the question still makes you bring the cigarette back to your lips, blowing the smoke away from him. “A lot,” you answer truthfully. 

He takes that as the only answer he needs, nodding. There’s a stretch of silence, the sound of thrumming engines and faint chatter coming from the street below and settling between the both of you. “Do you want to talk about it?” he questions.

“No,” you say. And it’s left at that. No more prodding, no more pushing. 

Aaron knows that you mean what you say, that you’ll talk whenever you want to talk. And if he really wanted information from you, he’d know how to get it out of you. But this is personal, fragile, and while he’s had you on his mind since you got hired and his tongue in your mouth, he knows there’s not really space for him to crawl into your entire soul just yet. He’ll get there, because he’s a patient man who knows what he wants and exactly what has been brewing between the two of you, but for now, he waits.

His arm stretches out in front of you to pluck the cigarette from your fingers, and you let him. He tosses it on the ground before stamping it out with his foot, ensuring it's in pieces by the time he’s done with it. Then, his hands reach out to grab your biceps, pulling you into his chest and curling his arms around you to keep you there.

You sink into his touch, cheek pressed against where his heartbeat thrums, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt like he’d make any attempt to pull away. He lets you sit there until your shoulders relax, breath brushing against the top of your head from where his mouth hovers at your hairline. Once he can feel you pulling away, he drops a sincere kiss to your forehead, palms rubbing at the sides of your arms soothingly.

“No more cigarettes,” he says quietly. And then he’s gone, a black suit jacket disappearing behind the corner of the bulkhead. You watch him go before dipping your hand into your bag, grabbing the flimsy bright-colored box hidden in there. As you head back into the office, following his footsteps, you toss the cigarettes into the closest trash can before getting back to work.

Five minutes before your shift ends, you knock on the door of Aaron’s office, stepping inside at the soft call of his voice. His head raises as you crack open the door, pen in his hand like usual. Despite the whole ordeal on the roof, he looks at you patiently, no pity – just curiosity. The line between superior and underling is back, a professional bubble that didn’t reach to the rooftop.

Shuffling on your feet, you clear your throat. “I’m about to head out. Do you need anything?” Although he almost never needs anything at all, you pray he doesn’t change the routine today. You’re exhausted and hungry and tired of it all. 

As predicted, and to your delight, he shakes his head. “I’m okay, thank you. I’ll be heading out soon myself.” Then, after a moment of staring at you, he leans back in his chair. “Hold on.”

Stretching out his legs to reach into his pockets, he slides out his wallet, peeling it open with a flick of his thumb. Without blinking, he pulls out a couple of bills before holding them out to you. “To get yourself dinner,” he explains. Deep brown eyes find yours, a conglomerate of multiple things swimming in them. A cautionary dare to tell him no, an empathetic warmth of wanting to take care of you, a longing of wanting to go get dinner with you. 

Of course, the latter two are lost on you, especially with the way your mouth falls open in surprise. “Oh, Aaron -”

He interrupts you with a singular shake of his head, standing up out of his seat. Walking around the desk, he grabs one of your hands with both of his own, warming them up and darkening the blush on your cheeks. Two of his fingers unfurl four of yours, sliding the cash into your palm before folding them closed. 

His eyes don’t leave your face once. “Get yourself dinner. Use the rest for whatever you need.” He’s insisting, tone firm and stern look solid. Offering it up like a suggestion when, in reality, he’d never back down. Taking care of you was never something that was optional, not to him. He’d cover it up with a silly quip about how you were the best damn paralegal that’s ever stepped into his office, but it was an excuse for that fine line you had crossed but never spoken about. 

Unable to find the words to say, or at least any that were appropriate to say to him as your boss, you just nod. Aaron stares at you for a moment, trying to find any evidence of doubt on your face, before he nods, uncurling his hands from yours and returning to his spot behind his desk. 

Without another word, you step out of his office, standing just out of sight of his doorframe. Your lips press together tightly, the pink of your mouth turning white, as you slide the paper between your fingers. Checking your watch, you realize that it’s two minutes after your shift ended. 

Aaron Hotchner, at this moment, is not your boss. He is a prosecutor that is working and you are a woman that just happens to also be a paralegal.

Stepping back into his office, you take a deep breath before speaking. “Do you want to have dinner with me tonight? Just… at my place. Takeout. Small.” You’ve lost the ability to speak in full sentences by the time it comes out, brow furrowing in a small pout at how dumb you sound. Asking a man to dinner had never been hard before, but Aaron Hotchner steals the words out of your mouth.

At first, he looks surprised. Then, the corner of his lip curls up slowly, sprouting into a gorgeous and tad bit cocky smile. “It’s a date,” he responds.

Two hours after your shift, you’re standing in the middle of your living room, looking around and making sure nothing’s out of place. No clothes tossed in a random corner from getting too hot, no sticky spots on your coffee table from a spilled drink, no dishes piled in your sink. Aaron had seen you at your worst, drunk and messy and exhausted and hungover, either at work or afterward, but you hoped that a clean apartment at least made you look slightly better in his eyes. He knocks on your door exactly ten minutes after his message that said he was fifteen minutes out, making you worry about his safety on the road. With shaky hands, you open the door, giving him a soft smile that only grows once you see the bags of takeout in his hands. “I was supposed to get that with your money,” you huff.

“I don’t see the issue,” he responds quickly. As you step aside, he moves around you, stepping into your apartment for the first time. After a brief look around, he looks at you for instruction before following you into your kitchen. “I spent my money and you’re eating it. It’s essentially the same thing.”

Peeling open the plastic bags he had carried it, you work on pulling out the cartons out as you shake your head. “Yes, except now I have two twenty-dollar bills burning a hole in my wallet because they don’t belong to me.��� Turning around, you open your silverware drawer to grab a few forks. 

Aaron works on opening the containers, rumbling in laughter. “Don’t know what you mean by that. If they’re in your wallet, sounds like they’re yours.” A brow raises as he turns around, back pressing against the counter as he watches you move about the kitchen.

“Aaron,” you warn. 

Rather than respond, he just grins at you, the twitch of his brow giving away his cockiness, that Aaron Hotchner always gets what he wants. And you prove him right with a heavy sigh and a lingering glance over each sharp feature on his face.

There’s a moment of just staring at each other. You both look a bit different outside of work, a little bit messier. Aaron’s changed into a simple t-shirt and dark jeans, his hair mussed from a long day, his face a bit softer. You’ve changed into a crewneck and loose shorts to get comfortable, hair falling over your shoulders in loose waves from a tight braid you had kept all day and make-up gone. There’s a collective thought that falls over the both of you – you could get used to this.

After a clearing of his throat and a mutual agreement that the food would get cold if you stood there any longer, the both of you move into the living room. Rather than sitting on the couch, you settle on the floor with your knees beneath the coffee table. Conversation flows easily, as it usually does between the two of you, filling your usually-quiet apartment with laughter and small talk.

Pulling your knees to your chest, you set your chin down on your knees and give him a soft smile. “Thank you for coming,” you murmur softly. Heat is already blooming on your cheeks at just saying that, yet you continue. “This is way better than curling up in my bed all day.”

He gives you a soft smile, one reserved for when he’s unable to take a compliment, setting down his takeout container. “Thank you for inviting me,” he responds. “I’ve wanted to do this for a while.”

“This?” you ask.

“This,” he responds. His hand raises, gesturing between the two of you. “You and me, to just be us instead of a prosecutor and a paralegal.” He seems to struggle with the words, face furrowing and Adam’s apple bobbing with a swallow. 

Instead of pushing, you nod. Lowering your knees to cross your legs, you lean your head against the couch behind you. You take him in, domestic look and all, and wonder if his heart beats the same nervous beat as yours. The urge to kiss him is tantilizing, pulling at every part of you, but he’s only been in your house for  about an hour and half or two. Aaron scoots closer as if sensing what you need, knee brushing yours, a touch that reminds you that this isn’t coincidental, but mutual. Without prompting, he speaks again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Biting your bottom lip, you contemplate it for a moment. If this is the right time for a big reveal, to spill your guts. Looking at his face, so gentle and sincerely curious, you find your answer. 

Before you can think about it, you spill it all. The stress about student debts, of paying an apartment you once shared with a boyfriend and now handle all on your own, of law school mixed with a full-time job. You don’t even notice the emotion building up behind your eyes and nose until Aaron’s hand is raising, a calloused thumb brushing away a tear on your cheek, letting the touch linger as his pinky curves under the line of your jaw.

It’s addictive, the constant silence that falls over the both of you. The stretch inbetween words as you figure out what’s the best thing to say, if there’s a line drawn and if you can cross it without too many repercussions. Unsaid words hang in the strained way Aaron looks at you, lips tight and the lines around them even tighter.

As usual, he doesn’t provide pity. He knows that’s not what you expect. You’re selfless enough to wallow in the misgivings of your own life, too aware that things could be worse, and are for other people. You’d shoulder every bad thing that happened to you and still apologize when it overtakes you.

But you don’t have to. He’s selfless enough to take it from you.

“Can I kiss you?” Aaron murmurs, the words followed by a heavy exhale, like he’s been holding it in for ages. Because he has. Because even when he kissed you outside of the bar, it hadn’t been enough – for all he knows, it never would be.

Your throat closes like you’re allergic to love, leaving you to nod dumbly as you lean into the hand on your cheek. 

And as much as you expect it to be gentle, tentative, he proves you wrong. He strikes like a viper, lips enclosing yours before you could blink. Your eyes shutter close as you sink into him, a hand landing on his thigh as you let the gravitational pull between the both of you take over. His hand curls around to thread into your hair, angling your head back, like there’s a need to prove to you that he knows how you deserve to be kissed.

Aaron’s other hand curls around your back and you move in sync, rising up on your knees until you can slide on his lap, strong hands finding your hips. Everything is buzzing, every sound muted. There’s a push up of his hips, a pivot of your own, a soft gasp in the very limited space as his teeth catch your bottom lip before he swallows the sound with another bruising kiss.

A petulant whine is ripped from your throat as he pulls away, head dipping forward to chase his lips before he gives you a warning squeeze with his fingertips. Your nose brushes his cheek as you pull your eyes open, looking just as dazed as you feel. His chest is heaving, his hair mussed, and he’s never looked prettier.

“Are we doing this?” he asks. 

This. The both of you. Together. Again, you nod, too stunned to speak. His brow quirks, a soft command to speak what you want, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Yes.”

[mytearsricochetm]

safe heaven

Pairing: aaron hotchner x f!reader

Summary: when aaron struggles with feeling like he deserves you, you're quick to remind him how much you love him.

Warnings: implied age gap, hurt/comfort, established relationship

Word count: 915

requested by @dilfsbeforedeath

You were curled up on the couch, wearing one of Aaron's old FBI shirts and watching some cheesy rom-com while you sipped a cup of tea. You were waiting for Aaron to come back from his latest cause, he had texted you earlier saying that he was fliying back today.

You knew something was wrong with him before you even saw him.

The second he opened the door and stepped inside it felt like the air had thickened with tension. You heard the rustle of him taking off his jacket and shoes before he stepped into the living room.

Normally he would've smiled at the sight of you wearing one of his shirts–maybe make a dirty comment or just kissed you breathless. But today you didn't get any of that.

You placed your tea on the coffee table as he walked up to you. He didn't say anything, just sat down next to you.

Without thinking it twice, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and gently pulled him in so he could rest his head on your chest. "What's wrong?"

He still wouldn't say anything but you could feel his breath getting shaky. Aaron always struggled when it came to opening up so you knew you'd make things worse if you pushed. So you just held him and waited for him to be ready to talk.

You two lay there, limbs tangled together as you ran your hands through his hair. Then he finally said something.

"Why are you even with me?"

You furrowed your eyebrows at that. You wanted to tell him how much you loved him–that you were so in love it hurt sometimes. But you knew he had more to say, so you waited.

"I mean... I'm old, I have a kid, my job keeps me away more often than not..." He sighed. He didn't cry often, but now you could see the corners of his eyes fill with tears.

"You deserve better."

You shook your head and cupped his face in your hands, slowly lifting his head so he would look at you in the eye.

"Baby, you're everything I've ever wanted. You think I care about your age? Or the fact that you have a kid? Or that your job bothers me?"

You didn't let him answer, determined to get through his head and make him see how much you loved him, even when he didn't think he deserved it.

"I chose to date you even after I learned all that about you. How could I not want to date someone like you? You're kind, smart– probably the most selfless person I know."

"But i'm-" You shook your head, not letting him continue. You knew he was going to say– that his job kept him away.

"You know I don't care about your job. Even if it keeps you away sometimes, you're still here when it matters. You take care of me, spoil me, listen to me when I talk nonsense."

His expression softened, a few tears slipping from his eyes. You wiped them gently with your thumbs as you started peppering kisses all over his face– his forehead, the side of his jaw, the tip of his nose, his cheeks and finally, his lips.

He kissed back instantly, his lips moving against yours like you were the most precious thing he had ever held. His arms wrapped around your waist as he pulled you to sit on his lap.

When he finally pulled away he rested his forehead against you, his breathing a little shaky from the kiss. "I love you." He whispered, his eyes were still teary. But this time it wasn't from sadness but from all the love he felt for you.

"I love you too."

Thanks for reading. Please reblog and/or comment if you liked it. Requests are open 🩷

[syena-journals]

This Love

Summary: Hotch makes you realize you’re worth more than someone’s maybe Tone: soft, possessive Warnings: mentions of neglect, self-worth Word count: 0.3k

I never had an accurate role model for what love truly is.

I took scraps and called it home. I learned to tiptoe so the glass wouldn’t break. I learned to talk myself out of my emotions for the sake of keeping peace.

I always imagined life would be quiet — filled with silence, quick flower runs, and softness. But instead, I grew used to the thorns in my throat at night when I couldn’t sleep. I grew used to the emptiness that came from unanswered texts, from days of wondering if I was too much or not enough. I grew used to the routine: you’ll get an answer when I answer.

I was five when I started imagining my wedding. Twelve when I started worrying what if the person I married hurt me. Seventeen when I started doubting if I’d want to get married at all.

And now, at twenty-three, I stand hand in hand, clad in white and sparkling in pearls.

Hand in hand with him.

Aaron Hotchner.

The man who stole me away from my darkness, who looked at my stitched-together version of love and tore it apart, telling me I didn’t have to live like that. That I deserved more. That I deserved him.

I feel my grip tighten around his hand. I’m afraid if I let go, I’ll wake up and find this was another daydream I built for myself to survive.

His thumb brushes the back of my hand, firm and grounding, like he knows exactly what’s running through my head. Like he can hear the old ghosts screaming that I don’t belong here.

“Don’t,” he says softly, leaning down so only I can hear him. His voice is steady, unshakable. “You’re mine. You’re safe because you’re mine.”

It’s not a plea. It’s not even a reassurance. It’s a fact.

And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m clinging to scraps.

For the first time, I believe him.

[happiest-hotch]

Slip Up

You're beyond tired.

It's hour 26 of a child abduction, and you have not slept since the phone call came in at 3am yesterday.

And no one has even suggested stopping. Reid has already pointed out multiple times that the odds aren't in your favor, but no one is ready to give up on a 7-year-old girl. Her parents were refusing to leave the station, despite JJ trying to persuade them to get some rest in a hotel.

You're barely thinking as you walk towards the kitchenette of the local precinct, in serious need of another cup of coffee. The cold AC blasting on your face is the only thing that's helping you stay awake.

Aaron's already standing there, stirring his own coffee, and you basically walk right into him. It actually happened to be his bed from which you dragged yourself out of at 3am. Absolutely no one, besides the two of you, was privileged to that information.

"You doing okay?" You ask him gently. Even though it's been a while, cases like this are still sensitive for him.

He gives you the slightest nod. "Coffee?" He offers exactly what you want.

"Please." You reply, standing with your back to the countertop, looking back into the boardroom filled with evidence.

He places a delicate hand on your waist, moving you left to grab a cup for you. When he positions you back to the right, he kisses your temple- a move that has become like a reflex after spending hours cooking in his kitchen together.

It takes you a minute to register what has actually happened as you watch him make you a perfect coffee. The rest of your team appears to be much more alert, which you discover when you face forward again.

"Uh, Aaron?"

He's clearly out of it as well to be slipping up like that, at work, of all places. Six months you had been seeing each other and you'd never gotten close to slipping up.

You watch his side profile drop as he realizes what he's just done, in full view of the team. "Everyone just saw that." He admits.

"Everyone did." You confirm, looking at each team member's stunned and amused faces. "No way we can keep this under wraps now."

"At least they'll be courteous enough to wait until we're back at Quantico." He half-hopes, half-assures you.

"Oh, but you know who's in Quantico." You warn him, accepting it with an amused smirk.

[mrs-kmikaelson]

Universal Truth³

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader Summary: After the core truths of your relationship are called into question, you and Aaron work to find the truth that you can still believe in. Warnings: ANGST! d1 grovelling (i hope), mentions of home invasion, aftermath of trauma, references to foyet arc and haley's death, cm-typical cases, complicated relationships, one reference to ep where hotch crashes his car Words: 5.4K

Series Masterlist | CM Masterlist | Navigation

a/n: this is the end, friends! i hope you enjoy!

You woke up screaming. That happened a lot, but you didn't like to acknowledge that truth very much.

Footsteps hurriedly sounded, then your bedroom door opened, sending light from the hallway into the room. Your chest fell up and down rapidly, but you still squinted, seeing Aaron standing in the threshold with worry written all over his face.

He didn't say anything. He always waited for you to calm down first, which you appreciated. Only when you wiped all your tears did he finally ask, "Are you okay?"

It was a stupid question, no matter how softly he asked, but it was the only thing he could say. Hoarsely, you responded, "Yes." Just like always. But one of these days, you might just say no, and he was waiting for it. Not in a malicious way, but in the way of a man who just wanted to hold his woman. 

You wouldn't let him.

He always stood in the doorway after that, as if your mind would change and you would ask him to hold you. You wanted that, too, despite denying yourself of it. It's why you wrapped your arms around yourself, even though you weren't cold at all. 

You held your ground. "I'm fine, Aaron."

He stared at you like he could unravel you with his eyes. Profiler. He didn't believe you. But he wouldn't dare question you on it. Instead, he nodded. "Okay." His gaze went downcast as if to spare you from seeing the defeat, and then he lightly closed the door.

As soon as he was gone, you let out a shaky breath. Aaron didn't say I love you when he checked in on you, and that was upon your request. It hurt too much to hear.

Albeit, being in this house in two separate rooms hurt all the same. He gave you the master bedroom while he slept in the guest room. He woke up before all three of you anyway, so there was no worry of Jack seeing and wondering why you weren't sleeping together.

It was difficult to explain to an eight-year-old. Even more difficult to explain to a band of profilers when the sparkly ring on your finger seemed to disappear.

You pulled your necklace out from beneath your shirt, fiddling with the ring hanging from the chain. A sigh left you. Of course, all this had to happen at the height of your relationship.

But then again, you knew the saying as well as anyone. It had become a universal truth.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

— 

"Taylor Swift on the line, speak now or forever hold your peace!"

You lightly snorted at Garcia's opening as Morgan responded, "You're on speaker, babygirl. Do you have anything on the victim's last whereabouts?"

Penelope glanced over at you, so you took over. "Yes. Sarah's credit card was last used at a grocery store, similar to Vicky. I'm assuming this means your unsub's a family man, or that he can blend in well with the crowd. Pen and I are combing security footage now to see if we can find anyone looking sketchy."

A new voice started over the line. "I agree with your assessment. Thank you, Y/N."

Your breath got caught in your throat. Of course, being on speaker meant Hotch was there. He was still your boss, you still had to talk to him—you still did talk to him—but not without this awkward silence first. 

He would compliment you, tell you something about doing a good job. Then, the team would glance between you, like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even Penelope went quiet during your interactions. But you tried your hardest not to make it weird for everyone else.

"Uh, no worries. I sent you guys the store's address, so... we'll be off now." Just like that, you clicked the red button on the phone, ending the call. 

You turned back to your computer right away, trying to avoid Garcia's pitying eyes. Softly, she said your name. "Y/N/N—"

You cut her off, "It's fine, Garcia." Your voice was a little too sharp to mean it, but after a few seconds of staring at you, she dropped it, turning back to her computer.

It's fine. It's fine. It's fine.

If you said it enough, maybe it'd become the truth.

—

A ringing pulled you out of your sleep. You blinked your eyes open, reaching for your phone.

Groggily, you said, "Hello?"

You were met with JJ's voice, apologetically telling you that you had a case. You glanced at your bedside table, where a picture frame of you and Aaron stood next to a clock. It read 5:31 AM. 

You sighed, rubbing at your eyelids. "Okay, I'll be in soon."

You quickly got up and got dressed, haphazardly putting on whatever was closest to you and trying not to graze your bullet wound. It was fully healed, but you could still feel phantom pains that you'd rather ignore. The therapist Aaron ordered for you thought it was unhealthy, but you didn't care much for either of their opinions on the matter.

You opened the door to the room, finding him standing right on the other side. Your body roughly jerked, and you immediately slapped a hand over your heart. "Fuck, Aaron, you scared me."

Despite looking sorry, you still caught the gleam in his eye. It happened whenever you said his name— only when you were tired, and only when you were at home. 

"Sorry," he said. "But we have a case."

"I know. JJ told me."

"Well, I've called Jessica, and she's on her way." Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him starting to rub his forefinger against his thumb. Automatically, you tensed, already sensing the direction this was going in. "I thought we could drive to the office together."

You exhaled a breath, searching for a way to put what you wanted to say in the nicest terms as possible. You really were trying. "No, I should probably drive myself, since you'll be leaving anyway."

He shrugged. "The case is local. And Garcia can drive you home later." You knew that. That used to be your whole routine when he left for cases before; you tried to find any opportunity to spend more time together. Driving to work together was that opportunity.

Was.

At that small reminder, you pursed your lips into a smile. "I should probably leave before Jess gets here."

His face immediately fell, causing a stabbing sensation in your heart. You pushed past him so you wouldn't have to see it.

"Y/N—"

"Sorry, Hotch, I've gotta go." You tried to keep the bite out of your voice, but it wound up there, anyway. If anything, you were grateful for it, because it got him to stop talking. Which was good because, the more he talked, the foggier your brain got.

You picked up your bag from the couch, half-glancing at the mantle as you did. You could remember a picture frame that used to sit there—of you, Aaron, and Jack all smiling. 

You looked away promptly, remembering exactly when that picture frame broke.

Symbolically, you knew the glass wasn't the only that thing that shattered.

You slung the bag around your shoulder a bit rougher than you needed to, and then you were out the door without another word.

— 

Since the case was local, the office was fully populated with the BAU. You still managed to avoid Hotch as best as you could, swerving past him whenever he tried to speak to you, leaving the room when he did.

This was your latest of attempts at trying to hide away from him, standing before the washroom mirror just so that you could avoid whatever conversation he was trying to have with you.

Since your accident, you'd learned that Aaron would go to any lengths to talk to you, including masking his intentions with work. Like psych evals you didn't want to have. Asking you about pain. Please drop the file off in my office. You'd resorted to e-mail.

You took a shaky breath, gripping the counter with shakier hands. You're fine. You're fine. You're fine. You're—

The door opened mid-chant. Expecting Garcia, you shouted, "I'm fine."

"Are you?" Not Garcia.

You spun around with furrowed brows, finding Emily standing behind you. Her gaze came with an edge, cutting away at you with surgical precision. Like you were still a subject lying on an operating table and she was profiling you to see how long you'd last— if you'd last.

"Yes," you confirmed. You crossed your arms defensively, trying to re-direct. "What is it? Is there a new development in the case—"

"Please, Y/N, stop it about the case for just a second." She held a hand up to your face, looking exasperated, like you were suggesting something outlandish. To you, this entire exchange was outlandish.

Your brows only knitted further together. "I'm confused. We are on a case."

Emily's lips parted and then closed as if she was stopping herself from saying something. Then she took a step closer to you. "Y/N, I know. We all know. But you bury yourself in the work like it's the only thing you see."

Your jaw ticked. "We're the BAU, Prentiss. I'd say we're all workaholics."

She scoffed. "And then there's that. Closing yourself off, distancing yourself from the people closest to you." You took in a breath as sudden guilt rushed through your veins. Emily's expression softened. "Y/N, what's going on? You almost died, and you're not even talking to Hotch—"

You swallowed, feeling a lump grow in your throat. "Emily—"

"You're not wearing your ring anymore—"

"Emily, please stop." Your voice cracked. Abruptly, you turned your back to her, trying to wipe away the tears before they could fall. They kept falling, anyway. "You don't get it," you breathed.

Her hand rested itself on your shoulder. You met her gaze in the mirror, finding determination staring back at you. "So help me get it."

You don't know why exactly you did it, but the words were spilling out of your mouth before you could stop them, re-telling every aspect of the argument right to when Hotch left. All the things you'd kept inside were now making their way out into the open, things you tried to repress but couldn't.

When you were done, sobs were wracking through your body, your shoulders shaking.

Emily was quiet and motionless throughout your explanation, save for the hand on your shoulder. Then, suddenly, her low voice cut through the silence. "I'll kill him."

You sniffled, "Emily—"

"No, how dare he?" You turned back around to face her, seeing a fire brewing in her eyes that rivalled unit chiefs across the bureau. "To say you aren't needed? That you aren't Jack's mother? Over that? Does he have any idea what you do for this team, for your family?"

"I don't know, I just—" you paused, rubbing a hand over your face. Your head felt fuzzy. "It's been a long time since it happened. And then the—" you searched for the word, having a hard time phrasing it. "the accident. It's been a lot. Maybe I should just get over it."

Emily's response was immediate. "No. Absolutely not. What he said to you was unacceptable, Y/N. You have to know that."

"Of course, I know that. I just—" Again, you stopped yourself, sighing. The words escaped you. At that moment, what you felt was beyond words.

Emily, fluent in many languages, seemed to be able to translate your feelings perfectly. Her eyes softened. "You love him," she said.

You responded without having to think about it. "Yes."

You loved Aaron Hotchner more than the hurt he made you feel.

If there was any universal truth, then it was that.

—

You opened the door to Aaron's office, asking, "You said you had an urgent matter, Sir?"

Any other time, he would've accused you of being teasing, but neither of you needed to be a profiler to tell you were trying to distance yourself with honorifics. Hotch didn't dwell on your phrasing, opting to nod to the seat in front of his desk with serious eyes. "Please, take a seat."

You hesitated. This could've easily been another ambush. But at work, you didn't have the right to just refuse your boss when he was outright asking you to do something. And you weren't a child.

Like you were trying to prove something, you sat down in the chair in front of him. It was only when you were right in front of the desk that you noticed the brown paper bag placed on top of it.

Your eyes narrowed. "What's going on?"

Aaron wasn't deterred by your tone. "We're going to eat lunch together."

The sigh that left you was full of exhaustion. "Hotch, I told you. I need time."

"You've not been eating properly," he stated, making you look up at him. He looked stern and resolute, telling you you're not leaving this office without having to say a word. "So don't focus on the together part so much as the eating part." 

You clenched your jaw. "Fine."

Aaron opened the bag, starting to take the food out. "It's your favourite," he commented. You noticed the tiny traces of hope in his voice.

You glanced down at the containers. Then, you nodded. "It is." 

Your favourite food. A tiny truth embedded into truths too big to tackle.

So you focused on that truth and avoided all the others.

—

"Momma, can I have ice cream after dinner tonight?" 

You pause chopping carrots for just a second, glancing up at Jack before glancing over at Aaron whose expression betrayed nothing. You looked back down at the vegetables like you'd never looked up at all. "Sure, bud. As long as your dad agrees."

It was a new development: Jack sometimes calling you Mom, sometimes calling you by your name. You had no issue with it either way. The kid had no idea how it tugged at your heartstrings. Aaron, on the other hand, did.

'Mom moments' didn't happen often when he was around. But whenever they did, the word lingered in the air, interspersing between the two of you in a big mess that you didn't know how to clean.

You didn't dare look up from the cutting board, but you heard Aaron respond, "If you eat all your veggies, I don't see why not."

"Awesome!" 

Jack ran off after getting approval, leaving you and Aaron all alone. Not too long ago, being around him made your heart race. Now, it still did, but for completely different reasons.

You tried not to show how affected you were, turning around and tossing the carrots into the pot. You hoped he wouldn't talk to you, but your prayers hadn't been being answered much.

"You know, he asks you first because he knows you'll always say yes," he said. The atmosphere in the kitchen felt heavy, but his voice was light and easygoing. Nothing about this was easy for you.

You wiped your hands with the cloth on the counter, and then, on a whim, you turned around to face him. There he was, on the opposite side of the island. The last time you were positioned this way, he was telling you that you weren't Jack's mother and then walking out the door. Turning a golden doorknob that haunted your nightmares.

That night gave you a lot of bad memories, yet you remembered the argument the best.

This time, you said his name to catch his attention. "Aaron, I'm not trying to replace Haley."

He was quick to reply, "I know that." He was quiet, like he always was, with conviction lying under his voice. That same conviction was in his eyes as he tried to make eye contact with you. "I know that. And I know I haven't done a good job of showing you that, but I do."

He stood up from the barstool and made his way around to your side of the island. You let him.

And when he tried to put his hands on your arms, you let him do that, too.

"Y/N, words can't describe how sorry I am for ever accusing you of that," he said. "You could never replace Haley, and that's not what you've tried to do. You've raised Jack in a way she would adore. You have given him the love she wanted him to have. And you have protected him the way a mother would. She is his mother, but that does not negate your place in his life."

You didn't know when the tears started building in your eyes, but they did. Too afraid that they'd fall, you just settled for, "Okay."

Aaron hesitated, like there was more he wanted to say. He did that a lot recently. Then, he said, "It doesn't negate your place in mine, either."

You swallowed and stepped back out of his hold, missing the way his face fell as you wiped at your eyes. Again, you repeated, "Okay."

It was all you could say.

You didn't have any better truths to tell.

— 

Stuck in the bat cave and surrounded by screens, you stopped what you were doing to rub your eyes. Your disliked your job most when it cause your head to pulse. You had already spent all night staring at screens, specifically ones in your mind that replayed the same nightmare over and over.

Garcia was off visiting Kevin, so you didn't feel like you had to hide how terrible you felt. It wasn't her fault for being so worried about you all the time, but you didn't have to like it. 

You were trying to get better. It was hard to do that when everyone kept looking at you like you were about to fall apart.

The sound of the door opening caused you to lift your head up back at the computer, your hand on your mouse like you'd been working the entire time.

You waited for Garcia to sit down, only she didn't. Instead, a cup of steaming coffee was placed beside you.

Your brows drew together and you looked up, finding Aaron standing right next to you. He stared down at you with a bit of concern and a little bit more love. 

"You didn't sleep well last night," he reasoned. He didn't mention that you woke up screaming again. Soft and a little cautious, like he knew you didn't want to talk about it. You didn't.

You glanced away from him, choosing to look at the coffee instead. Your voice was quiet, reflecting the quiet gesture. "Thank you."

He left the bat cave soon after, but you felt his presence all the same.

—

You gave Jack a grin through the rearview mirror as he got into the car. "Hey, don't forget your seatbelt, little man!" 

"I know, Y/N, I'm not a baby," the boy grumbled, doing as you said. Your smile just got wider; it wasn't lost on you that you really only smiled around Jack.

"Of course not, sweetheart."

You took the car out of park as soon as he was buckled in, driving away from his school. Jack rambled on about his day at school while you tried to guide yourselves to the ice cream parlour that he liked. You already clocked out of work, so you could take Jack out and then head home.

Your plan was to head home—that is, until a text from Garcia flashed across your screen.

Need all my favourite crimefighters back at the office ASAP!

Your fingers twitched nervously around the wheel. You glanced back at Jack, still talking about math and science projects and things Spener would have a ball about. You tapped the wheel, glancing back at your phone.

The smart thing to do would be to get Jack his ice cream, then take him to his aunt's. That was your initial inclination. But—

You don't get to bring him to his aunt. You are not his mother.

You exhaled a heavy breath through your lips, picking up the phone automatically. "One second, Jack," you interrupted him mid-rant. "Let me just call your dad."

You clicked on the first contact in your favourite, bringing the phone to your ear where you could hear your heart already thumping rapidly.

Aaron answered on the second ring.

"Honey?"

You took in a sharp breath at the pet name, forcing yourself not to pay attention to it. "Hi, Aaron." More tapping against the steering wheel. "Um, I have Jack now."

You could hear his confusion through the phone. "Okay. That's good."

"Yeah, but— uh," how were you supposed to phrase this? "Garcia said to come in. Do you want me to— do I bring Jack to Jess? I was going to get him ice cream first, but I can just— I can stay here, too. Garcia can hold down the fort just fine. Just—" you cut yourself off, realizing you were rambling. Blood rushed to your cheeks. "What do you want me to do?"

Aaron was quiet on the other end of the line, making you think the worst. Shouldn't have asked, shouldn't have— 

Finally, he spoke up. "You can still get the ice cream if you want, and then you can drop him off at Jess'. You—" he paused, sounding strained. "You don't have to ask, Y/N."

Your mouth opened and closed, unsure of how to respond. "Right. Okay, I'll, uh, see you at the office." You hung up before he could say anything else, letting out a breath once the conversation was over.

You took a glance at the mirror, putting back on your best smile. "Okay, bud. We're gonna go get your ice cream and then I'll take you to your aunt's, alright?" Jack nodded, prompting you to raise a brow. "Okay, now what were you telling me about the solar system?"

Jack continued where he left off, telling you about exploding stars and galaxies. 

And at that moment, you felt like the universe was a less complicated truth to understand than your relationship.

—

By the time you got to Quantico, you had just missed the briefing and everyone was packing up to leave. You were gonna head straight to the bat cave when Hotch's voice sounded, calling your name.

You looked up to see him standing on the landing. "May I have a word?" He nodded toward his office.

You pursed your lips, glancing to see the rest of your coworkers all staring at you. You resisted the urge to fidget, nodding and walking up the stairs to his office.

Aaron held the door open for you, closing it as soon as you were inside.

Carefully, you started, "Hotch—"

"I'm sorry."

You spun around and met his eyes effortlessly. He was already looking at you with a pool of sincerity in his eyes so large you could drown in it. Earnestness, guilt, and other emotions you'd rather not name.

Unlike that night when he spoke to you like a suspect, he now spoke to you like you were a case he believed in. He continued, "I am so sorry for what I said to you. For making you believe that you need permission to do your job. To do what is right for our son. And I am sorry for making you doubt your place in our life." He took a step toward you, but didn't move to touch you. "You're not some girlfriend of mine that needs to ask to take Jack to his aunt. You are my co-parent and the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. I'm sorry for ever insinuating otherwise."

Water welled in your eyes, and against both of your predictions, you grabbed onto his hands. You were grateful that he let you make that choice for yourself. But as soon as you did it, the floodgates opened. A tear raced down your cheeks because, God, you almost forgot what it felt like to hold his hand.

You never wanted to let go.

"Thank you, Aaron." You meant that, because you knew he meant it. "I know you're trying. And believe me, I'm trying too." Another tear fell. "I miss you so much. And I haven't given up on us. I just— it hurts. It hurts a lot, and I'm trying to figure out how to be in this relationship without feeling that."

He swallowed, resting his forehead against yours. He whispered, "I am so sorry for hurting you. I have no excuses for it." He paused. The only sound you could hear was your own breaths, intermingling together. "I love you so much."

A little laugh left you. It didn't hurt as much to hear. "I know." Pause. "I love you, too." 

He removed his forehead from yours, and you mourned the loss of contact. "Can we talk more when I get back?" There was that hope again, lighting up his eyes.

You couldn't say no this time. "Yes. We'll talk when you get back." You didn't want to avoid it any longer.

You would talk about the good truth, the bad truth, and all the truths in between.

—

You raced to the elevator as soon as you heard the team was back, your heart moving at an even faster pace.

The elevator doors opened and the team filed out, but the only face you could focus on was Aaron's.

The second he was within reach, you threw your arms around him, hugging him tightly. He hugged you back with the same fervour.

Your heart only slowed down when you realized he was real. He was real and he was alive. Alive and in your arms.

"Idiot," you muttered, your voice muffled by tears. You pulled back just enough to see his face and the bandage covering his forehead. Immediately, you shoved your head back into his chest. "How dare you let yourself get hurt before I've talked to you?"

He rubbed his hands over your back. "It was just a car accident," he said. Like that made it any better. Like you weren't on the line when he crashed into the unsub's car. Like your heart didn't stop then and there.

You exhaled. "Don't ever do something like that again, Aaron."

He kissed your head, and instead of getting angry, you leaned into it. "I'll try not to, honey."

You sniffled. You didn't know what you would've done if he wasn't okay. If he wasn't okay before your relationship could be okay.

You mumbled, "You really scared me, you know."

"I know. I'm sorry." It went unsaid that you'd scared him before, too. He didn't have to say it for you to know.

When you got shot, there was only one truth you wanted Aaron to know. So that's the truth you told him. "I love you."

He hugged you even tighter, and you reciprocated. As you hugged him for the first time in what felt like forever, the truth finally felt tangible.

"I love you, too."

—

Aaron was driving the two of you to work, like he had been for a few weeks. It was a big change, but you meant it when you said you were trying. You were both trying.

This relationship wasn't something you were willing to lose, and that truth was important to you. So here you were, trying. Trying to care for wounds and say the quiet truths out loud.

You furrowed your brows. "Aaron, you missed the exit."

He kept his eyes on the road, glancing at you for a half-second. "The case is in the suburbs. We're going to go meet with the victim's family first."

"Oh. Okay." Confusion laced through your voice, but you accepted his explanation. You didn't often go into the field, and if you did, you never talked to anyone. But you figured that Aaron was just bringing you since he had to drive you to work, anyway.

The drive wasn't to the victim's house wasn't too far away, only about 5 minutes from the office. It looked like an extremely nice neighbourhood, the perfect place to raise a family. It made you wonder what exactly happened to the people living there.

Aaron pulled into driveaway and got out of the car. Soon after, he was at your door, opening it for you. Your eyes widened a bit, but you concealed it, letting him help you out. "I'm coming in with you?"

"Yeah, it could take a while, so you might as well," he said.

With his hand on your back, he led you to the front door. He didn't knock or ring the doorbell. He just opened the door himself and walked right inside.

This time, you couldn't hide your shock. "Aaron!"

He didn't match your emotion, entirely indifferent. "Sh, sweetheart. Come inside."

You were too shocked to say a word. Aaron never used nicknames at work, and you couldn't imagine that he'd abandon that professionalism right as you entered a victim's home.

You stepped inside the house, looking around and waiting to see an appalled family staring at you. But there was no one there.

Your confusion only skyrocketed. You looked back at Aaron, questioning, "What's going on?"

He ignored your question. "So, what do you think?"

"What do I think?" You frowned. "Are you okay?"

He huffed a laugh through his nose. "I might have embellished slightly." He shortened the distance between you. "We're not at a victim's house."

"So whose house did we just break into?"

He sent you a soft smile. "It could be ours, if you want it."

Your world stopped. You glanced around in shock before looking back at him, your eyes wide. "Are you serious?"

Aaron grabbed your hands. "This is only one of the options," he said. "If you don't like this one, there are about five more lined up for us to look at."

Your eyes darted between him and the rest of the house. You couldn't stop looking. "This place looks like it costs more than my salary. A lot more. And then some."

"Don't worry about that," he told you, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. "Just worry about if you like it. Do you like it?"

"I— I love it." You were breathless. "But— a whole house? We have a house already."

He looked down for a second before looking back up at you. "I know. But you're not comfortable in it." You swallowed, and he stepped closer to you. "I know you're trying to suppress the memories, but it's difficult to move past something so traumautic. I don't want you to have to live in a house that doesn't feel like a home. Not if I can help it."

You blinked as tears gathered in your eyes. Aaron had seen you struggle with nightmares for months. He watched you avoid the living room. A profiler through and through, but more than that, he was the man who noticed the little things. He was the man who loved you. And you no longer had a single doubt about it.

"Aaron," a breathy laugh left you. "This might be the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me."

He smiled a real smile, the kind of smile that the rest of the world seldom saw. "So," he repeated, "what do you think?"

You smiled back at him. For the first time in a while, the smile reached your eyes. "I think... I love it." You removed your hands from his grasp, wrapping your arms around his neck. "And I love you."

His eyes softened. "I love you, too."

You leaned in, hugging him tightly. This house wouldn't fix everything, but it could give you a fresh start. It wasn't a clean slate; it wouldn't make you forget all that happened, but it could help you stop looking back. For once, you were looking forward.

You'd honour the truth of what happened the same way you'd honour the truth of what lied ahead.

You once had five simple truths. Now, you had one. It was faith that, no matter what happened, your family would pull through. Aaron believed in that just as much as you did.

One day, when you got married, you would hold that truth in the same light as your vows. It was a universal truth.

And neither you nor Aaron would ever forget it.

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guilty as charged | aaron hotchner

after hours au

after hours au

pairing: aaron hotchner x profiler!fem!reader summary: after over a year without any physical contact with you beyond professional aaron finds out that, unlike him, you’re not yearning quietly in celibacy, and he’s not particularly happy about it. content/tw: jealous!aaron, no really aaron is so petty in this he basically tries to sabotage your relationship, reader is (allegedly) in a relationship with moran’s friend word count: 1.5k a/n: just a small something <3 i’m sorry is that short, but this was sitting in my drafts for long and it fitted perfectly for what i want to do on the next part *villain laugh* dividers @uzmacchiato

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Aaron caught the exact moment the guy’s hand reached for your waist.

He had an awareness about his surroundings that not everyone else did, developed and improved by years on the duty. It was like his body sensed danger before his mind could register, and only took him half a second to react, scanning the room and clocking what’s wrong before one could get to the second syllable of “Mississipi.”

Of course, there was no particular danger of someone friendly touching you in the middle of a busy street, right outside a crime scene with about four to five police cars parked around it. But the fact that his gut wrenched and his blood warmed had to be an indicador, right?

What made things weird was that none of the officers flooding the street seemed to find anything wrong with the proximity – or lack thereof – between you and that guy, even though Aaron was never wrong about this type of thing.

But just in case, he didn’t step in. Just stayed planted on his spot, grabbing coffee from the coffee trailer parked on the other side of the street. He watched you attentively, paying attention for any trace of discomfort, ready to drop anything and step in.

“Sir.” someone called, snapping him away from his thoughts. He followed the voice, realizing his order was ready. Trying not to blush at being caught staring – not that the barista would ever understand who and why he was looking at, anyway –, he picked up the drinks and stepped outside the line, silently praying that the three other cops lining up behind him were distracted enough not to catch up on him.

Now, more humiliated than ever, Aaron was standing awkwardly a few steps back from you, holding your coffee order that you didn’t ask for, but sure enough would thank him with that ear-to-ear smile of yours that always made him feel like he saved the world.

Watching from closer than before, Aaron could see that there was, in fact, no danger in the situation. Which calmed him and stressed him more at the same time. You were laughing, overly fixing your hair and even touching his arm too.

If it weren’t for the steam of the coffee fogging up his glasses, he wouldn’t snap out of his trance and realize the only remotely dangerous situation was the way he was standing there like a creep, frowning like someone who had the right to.

Which reminded him: he had your coffee!!!!!! You liked your coffee hot. Steaming hot, if possible. So he absolutely had to step in, it was for a bigger cause. Almost smiling at his self-given excuse, he walked up close to you, stopping two feet beside you and your way-too-handsy friend, in a distance that none of you could pretend not to see.

“I got you coffee.” he handed you your cup as stoically as he could, trying too hard not to look like a lost puppy at the shelter doing tricks just so that someone chooses him.

In a complete disregard towards his attempts to remain unfazed, you turned your whole body to face him, your face morphing into that easy and grateful smile of yours, eyes sparkling and cheeks blushing, and with a single sentence made him soft like a marshmallow.

“Hotch, you’re a mind reader. Thank you so much.” you squeezed his hand that held out his coffee for you when you reached for it, making him want to press his lips together and try to blush.

While he was too busy cheesing like a teenager with a crush, you turned to the other man in front of you – oh yes, he was still there – and introduced him.

“Hotch, this is Charles. We met at Derek’s birthday party. Charles, this is Hotch, big boss.”

“I’m no big—”

“Big Boss Hotch, nice to meet you.” Charles – because apparently we’re naming it now – extended his hand to Aaron, not even caring if he was interrupting. After hesitating for only a second before taking the hand that just a couple minutes before was resting on your waist, he decided to be the bigger person and politely complimented Charles.

Then, without making any effort to make conversation, he turned back to you “I’ll wait for you back there.” he warned, silently hinting for you to worry. He nodded at Charles once and walked back to the crime scene, far from your line of sight.

Honestly, you didn’t have to worry. You were just making time, waiting for an answer from the FBI lab to keep checking your theory and keep processing the scene.

Much to Hotch’s relief, you didn’t pick up on it and soon after he left, you made your way back to his side, flipping over files and sipping your coffee in silence.

“He’s just a friend.” you said, out of nowhere.

“Hm?” he asked, trying to look unbothered enough by Charles to actually remember his name.

“Charles.” you cleared up, and he kind of hated how smoothly his name rolled off your tongue “We’re friends. Derek introduced us at his party, and insisted that I give him a chance.”

“Did he?” Aaron asked quietly, hoping it sounded more like ‘I’m a work colleague just making small talk’ than‘I will murder him’, which was exactly what he was thinking.

You nodded, writing something in a bright pink post-it and glueing it to a page you were reading. 

“Derek was right. He’s nice. We’re just getting to know each other.” he hummed in acknowledgement, sipping his coffee to hide his expression of discontent. “But it’s hard with this job.”

“I think it is almost impossible to date someone outside of the job.” he managed to say as casually as possible, not noticing how obvious it sounded until he heard it out loud.

Before he could manage an excuse, you laughed. He frowned, not knowing what exactly was funny about his humiliation.

“Right? They just don’t get it. And when we try to explain, it sounds like we’re in a cult of sorts.” you laugh again, like you were just two work colleagues befriending over their unsuccessful dating life.

Like it didn’t kill him just to hear about it.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Weeks later, Aaron finds himself in a restaurant along with Morgan and Rossi, who insist they, as bourbon appreciators, had to visit. Safe to say, Reid was glad to skip that one.

The place was reserved, lights were dim and the jazz band was exceptionally talented. It made sense David was such a big fan.

Lost in thoughts, Aaron subconsciously muted the conversation happening on the table, staring at the little stage further back at the restaurant, where musicists played. Ever since he found out you were dating someone, it was common to find him that quiet. Looking from outside, it would’ve seemed like he was playing close attention to the show, but his eyes were unfocused, blank as his expression. Which was just more of a reason for Rossi to invite him out.

David managed to keep his friend’s attention for most part of the night, but it was halfway though the second glass that notice Aaron was gone. Nonetheless, the night was too good and the drink was too strong for him to really notice.

What he noticed, though, was the way Hotch’s ears perked up like a puppy when he heard Morgan mentioning your name.

“... he claims that she’s being distant, and keeps bugging me to say something.”

“Are you going to?” Rossi asks, sipping on his drink.

“Nah. I don’t want to get in the middle of this. Besides, she’d probably bitch slap me as soon as I mention Charles.” he grins, and they both laugh.

Hotch shifts in his seat, trying his best to seem unbothered as he asks “Are they dating?”

David and Derek look at each other, trying not to show any signs of surprise at him finally joying the conversation.

“That’s what Charles is trying to find out.” Derek jokes “Apparently, she isn’t taking him seriously.”

It was like Aaron was possessed by a selfish immature twelve years old, because even though he had no business discussing your relationship with Charles, he suddenly caught himself speaking way before his common sense stopped his tongue.

“She said he’s a friend, and they were getting to know each other.”

“Really?” David asked, eyebrows shooting up.

“I mean, it was long ago.” he shrugged, “We basically talked about how hard it was to date someone that doesn’t understand our routine. It wasn’t a big deal, really. She seemed to like him.”

“Wow. That tells me everything I need to know.” Derek concluded, leaning back on his seat and nodding in silence, deep in thought.

Ignoring Dave’s knowing glances at his direction, Aaron resumed watching the band, trying as much as possible to pretend like he wasn’t feeling a kind of a mischievous and greedy monster celebrating inside of him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want you to be happy. He did, more than anything.

But was it wrong of him to hope you wanted him as much as he wanted you? To want you to think about him too?

Was it really a crime to want you all to himself?

after hours specific taglist @sleepysongbirdsings @midnghtprentiss @camihotchner @ilovefictionallmenn @circuskatt

[etclouie]

Happy one year blog-iversary! I wanted to request a build-your-own-NSFW fic for Aaron Hotcher, with lotus position, wiping away tears of pleasure, and in a motel room? Thank you !

title; nothings gonna hurt you baby (Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader)

build a fic choices; 1) lotus. J) wiping away tears of pleasure. ꒰ �� ꒱ a seedy motel room— from build an nsfw fic 

warnings; established relationship, bau!reader, smut, minors do not interact!!!, p in v, creampie, reader cries, soft!hotch, uh that’s it? (690 words)

one year masterlist | main masterlist

— thank you for celebrating my one year!!! | submissions are now closed

Aaron held you in his lap, your arms around his neck as you clung to him like a koala.

it was nice, soft and slow but nice.

your hips rolled slowly against his, moaning into his ear with every drag of his cock against your walls.

his hands held your hips, helping to guide your movements as he tilted his head to capture your lips in a kiss.

“that’s it baby”

he murmured, continuing to guide your movements while another moan bubbled past your lips.

each rock of your hips sent heat licking up your spine, causing your walls to flutter around him.

“easy baby, take it slow”

you nodded along to his words, continuing to move your hips in that slow pace, tangling a hand in his hair to steady yourself.

“i’ve got you sweetheart”

his hands stayed planted on your hips, his thumbs soothing back in forth in time with every roll of your hips.

the tension between you had been building up over the time you’d been away on this case, and now it was sending you hurtling towards your climax, embarrassingly quick.

but Aaron didn’t mind, he never did.

the head of his cock hit that one spot inside you over and over again, sending the coil winding impossibly tighter in your belly as you moaned out again.

“Aaron..”

he shushed you softly, tilting his head to kiss his way along your jaw until he found your lips.

the kiss was soft, as soft as it could be.

you gasped against his lips, your pace speeding up slightly as your climax danced within arms reach.

“gonna cum”

a groan fell from his lips at your words, his hands moving you against him over and over again until you toppling over the edge with a breathy moan.

“that’s it, there we go”

Aaron helped work you over the edge and through the throes of the aftermath, all while chasing his own climax.

it felt good, too good.

you gasped against his lips as his hips rocked up into yours, hitting that one spot over and over, sending a new wave of arousal spiking through your body.

his thrusts were sharp and purposeful, chasing that tightness only your cunt could provide.

“baby fuck!”

you moaned out, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck as you clung to him.

Aaron was already sending you hurtling towards another climax, your walls spasming rapidly and greedily around him, pulling a throaty groan from his lips.

“shit sweetheart, going to make me cum”

his words gave little warning before he was following you over the edge of pleasure, spilling himself deep into your warmth with a throaty groan.

a gasp fell from your lips at the feeling, the warmth spreading in your belly making the coil wind to it tightest once more.

“you gonna cum for me again?”

you nodded in response, rutting desperately against him as you chased your high, tears of pleasure threatening to spill.

it felt too good, the buzz of your previous orgasm still lingering in the air and your second orgasm dancing into your reach, it was too much.

all of it, all of the pleasure. 

with another buck of your hips, you were careening over the edge again, moaning lewdly while tears fell steadily down your cheeks.

“fuck, such a good girl”

your hips continued, wringing out every drop of your climax as your tears fell steadily, quickly garnering Aaron attention.

“hey sweetheart, it’s okay, i’ve got you”

he whispered, lifting his hands to wipe away your tears with his thumbs. his lips found yours in another soft kiss, and then another until your tears stopped.

carefully, Aaron moved to sit against the headboard, holding you against his chest while soothing a hand along the length of your back.

his lips pressed to the top of your head, pressing a kiss to the skin there before he whispered.

“it’s okay, don’t worry. i’ve got you sweetheart, will hold you like this as long as you need”

you rested your head on his shoulder, humming along to his words as he continued.

“nothings gonna hurt you baby”

reblogs are highly appreciated !

[theseventhdimension]

idk domestic Hotch x reader (like the Just Some Guy (in hotch’s kitchen)) but this time Hotch is stressed more than usual because reader is sick or like had an operation, accident, something akin to that and Hotch just wants to go home to them and take care of them but cases keep getting in the way so when someone on the team corners Hotch on why he’s so stressed and on his phone all the time they end up sending him home to take care of poor reader?

maybe Jack trying to be helpful by reading to reader or telling Aaron not to worry because he can just cook and make tea or something?

A Body in the Bed, A Man at the Door

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Gn! Reader

Word Count: 2.1k+

DNI: All are Welcome!

Author's Note: This request is like thirty days late im so sooo sorryyy, this is such a good idea though, Jack is so adorable.

For this I've made it so reader has had a surgery of some kind to help deal with their chronic pain. I've never had to deal with it personally, so I apologise if any of the details are unrealistic :)) This mainly follows Hotch and his feelings about 'leaving you behind', though.

As always, all feedback is appreciated!! Hope you enjoy ＼⁠(⁠^⁠o⁠^⁠)⁠／

Suit crisp. Eyes sharp. Shoulders squared like always. But underneath—fractured. Thin. Stretching himself across too many battlefields. Who else could it be but Aaron Hotchner?

His phone vibrated. Again. Did it actually?

He barely glanced at it this time—just a quick flick of his thumb across the screen. Nothing urgent. No missed calls. No medical alerts. No frantic texts from Jack.

Still. He stared for one second too long. His reflection ghosted back at him in the black screen. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

They’re home. In pain. And I’m doing nothing.

It had been that way since the surgery. The one that was supposed to help. To relieve some of the agony. The nerve pain, the mobility issues, the exhausting battle you fought every day just to exist without screaming. Hotch had done the research, stayed up nights reading medical papers with a highlighter and a stiff drink in hand. He knew the risks. The long recovery. The odds that it might help—but never cure.

And now you were home, post-op, battered and nauseous and hurting in ways that made your eyes dull and your smile ghost-thin. Trying not to cry when you shifted in bed. Trying to act like it was okay that he couldn’t stay.

“You need to go,” you’d told him, hoarse, hours after you’d been discharged. “They need you.”

The same refrain. The one that used to comfort him. Now it just felt like another nail.

He hadn’t responded—just kissed your forehead, tucked the blanket around your legs, and stood in the hallway longer than necessary, coat clenched in his fist.

Now he was here. Back in the bullpen. Working a case that wouldn’t crack. Watching minutes tick by like they were knives.

Garcia strolled in with her usual glittery confidence, heels clacking cheerfully against tile. “Okay, my crime-solving cupcakes, I’ve got a match on our weird-face man from the gas station. Not a squirrel, tragically, but definitely a nut. I’ll take what I can get.”

No one laughed.

Hotch barely looked up. “Garcia.”

Her name came out like a reprimand. Terse. Impatient. She froze mid-step, faltering just enough for Rossi to glance up from his file.

“…Okay then,” Garcia muttered, retreating toward her screens like a cat with its tail stepped on.

Spencer, trying to soften the air, offered a stat. “Given the spatial distribution of the crime scenes, we might be looking at a comfort zone model—if we overlay a standard deviation grid, we can triangulate—”

“Not now,” Hotch interrupted, snapping the folder shut with unnecessary force.

Reid blinked. His fingers stilled. He said nothing else.

I’m supposed to be calm. In control. The voice in the storm. But they’re lying in bed right now, unable to even make tea without Jack’s help, and I’m thirty miles away trying to profile a sadist instead of being what they need.

Hotch sat down too hard in his chair. The sudden creak echoed.

Emily narrowed her eyes at him. Her hands stilled on the case file, watching him like she’d been waiting for this moment.

Garcia glanced at her, eyebrows raised. Reid glanced between them, sensing the tension but not quite sure how to name it.

Rossi leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach. “You’re not yourself,” he said quietly.

Hotch didn’t answer. He rubbed a hand over his face, then down his jaw. He could feel the pressure building behind his temples—another headache on the horizon.

They’re home. Drugged up on post-op pain meds. Hurting. Alone. And I left them with a list of instructions and a kiss on the forehead like that made up for the fact that they can’t even get out of bed without wincing.

God.

His phone buzzed again. This time, real. A text from Jack.

Reader’s sleepy. I gave them the tea you made. Can I heat up the soup? PS. I think I’m a nurse now. :)

Hotch’s eyes burned. He looked away.

“Aaron,” Rossi said, stepping close, lowering his voice, “Strauss asked for a signature on that personnel realignment thing. Some admin nonsense. Thought you’d want to handle it personally.”

Hotch barely looked up. “That thing from last month?”

“Apparently she wants a new copy for the records. You know Strauss—every paper trail’s a ten-mile hike.”

Hotch sighed like he had knives under his ribs and stood without another word. Paperwork, at least, he could deal with. Something concrete. Something that didn’t feel like failing.

He followed Rossi down the hall, ignoring how Prentiss glanced up from her desk with something almost like relief in her eyes.

The office door shut behind them with a soft click.

Rossi didn’t go for the file cabinet. Didn’t pull out anything from his briefcase.

Instead, he turned, took one long look at Hotch’s face—the creases deeper than usual, the skin under his eyes grey with exhaustion—and motioned toward the office couch.

“Sit down.”

Hotch’s brows knit. “What?”

“Sit,” Rossi repeated, this time gentler. Less commanding. Like he wasn’t asking as a colleague. Like he was asking as a friend. As family.

Hotch hesitated. Then, slowly, he sat. The cushion dipped beneath him like it was waiting for this moment.

Rossi took the chair across from him, hands steepled, elbows on his knees.

“There’s no paperwork,” he said plainly. “Strauss doesn’t need anything.”

Hotch’s jaw flexed. A quiet beat passed.

“…You lied to get me in here.”

“I did.” Rossi leaned forward slightly, voice calm. “Because if I’d said this out there, in front of the others, you would’ve locked it down. Shut me out. And this conversation needs to happen.”

Hotch looked away, fingers curling against his knee.

Rossi didn’t push yet. Just watched. Waited. He’d known Aaron long enough to recognize when the armor was cracking, even if Aaron hadn’t yet.

“I’ve known them for, what—five years now?” Rossi started softly. “Since the wedding. Hell, even before that. You remember the dinner party? They were walking with a cane, barely out of a flare-up, and still insisted on helping clean the dishes afterward.”

Hotch’s lip twitched. A breath almost turned into a laugh. Didn’t make it.

“They’re strong,” Rossi said. “Too strong for their own good sometimes. Just like you.”

Silence.

Hotch rubbed a hand over his face, then down the back of his neck, fingers curling against the muscle like he could squeeze the tension out.

“They told me to go,” he muttered. “They always tell me to go.”

“Of course they do,” Rossi said. “Because they know how much this means to you. But come on, Aaron. You really think they want to be alone right now?”

Hotch didn’t answer.

Rossi went on. “They’re recovering from surgery. You said the pain’s been worse than expected. You’ve been checking your phone like you’re waiting for a call from God. You haven’t slept. You’re making mistakes.”

Hotch’s voice was tight when he finally spoke again. “I just… I hate not being able to fix it. I hate that I left them there like that.”

“And you think staying here, running yourself into the ground, is going to help?” Rossi’s voice was soft, but firm now. “You’re no use to this case like this. You’re not helping them. You’re not helping us. And you’re definitely not helping yourself.”

A long silence.

Hotch stared at the floor. Then the edge of his desk. Then the couch cushion beneath his hands. Finally, he looked up. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Voice small.

“What if something happens while I’m gone?”

Rossi stood. Walked over. Placed a steady hand on his shoulder.

“Then you’ll be there,” he said. “Exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

Hotch didn’t move for a long time. But when he stood, it was quieter. Less brittle.

And when he left the office—coat in hand, phone already buzzing—he walked just a little faster.

The house was quiet when Hotch stepped inside. Not silent—there was a faint hum of something bubbling on the stove, and he could hear the soft murmur of a child’s voice drifting from the living room—but it was the kind of quiet that pressed on your ribs. Like the whole place was holding its breath.

He hung up his coat and dropped his keys onto the entryway table, already loosening his tie. His chest felt too tight, like he hadn’t taken a full breath in days. Maybe weeks.

The living room light was low—sun filtering in through slatted blinds, warm and gold across the floor. You were curled up on the couch in oversized sweats, two pillows under your knees, a blanket haphazardly wrapped around your shoulders like armor.

Pale. Tired. Eyes glassy with the dull sheen of leftover painkillers. But trying—God, you were trying—to look okay.

You even smiled when you saw him. Small. A little lopsided. But it hit him in the chest like a freight train.

“Hey,” you rasped, voice raw from sleep or pain or both. “Didn’t think you’d be back so early.”

“I wasn’t,” Hotch said softly, eyes already misting. “But I came anyway.”

Before you could answer, Jack’s voice came from the kitchen: “Wait! Don’t sit yet! The soup’s almost ready!”

Hotch blinked, startled, as Jack—armed with a wooden spoon and a very stained oven mitt—peeked out from around the corner.

“I made it myself,” Jack said proudly. “Well, kind of. I had to Google what bay leaves look like.”

Reader chuckled—then winced, hand ghosting toward your side. The movement was small, but Hotch saw it. And it shattered him.

He crossed the room in two long strides and knelt beside you. His hands found your face gently, cradling your cheeks as if he thought you might disappear if he wasn’t careful.

“I should’ve come home sooner,” he whispered.

You leaned into his palm, fingers resting lightly over his wrist. Your eyes fluttered half-closed.

“But you’re here now,” you murmured.

And that was enough.

Hotch pressed his forehead to yours, just breathing you in, grounding himself in the smell of your shampoo and the warmth of your skin.

“Soup’s ready!” Jack announced from the kitchen, carrying the bowl like a sacred object. He beamed. “It’s only a little crunchy.”

Hotch pulled back just enough to give him a small smile. “That sounds… perfect.”

Jack placed it on the coffee table beside the tea he’d already brewed—lukewarm, probably over-steeped, but lovingly prepared.

Hotch sat beside you, arm around your shoulders, tucking the blanket more securely around you as he helped guide the tea to your lips. He brushed your hair back behind your ear with the same hand, fingertips feather-light.

You leaned against him, finally letting your body relax.

“Jack’s been reading to me,” you mumbled sleepily.

Jack perked up. “Yeah! I picked your favorite. The one with the lighthouse.” He retrieved the book from the armrest and held it up proudly. “I think it helps.”

Hotch’s throat caught again. He nodded. “Why don’t you start from where you left off?”

Jack did. He perched at the end of the couch, reading aloud with a kind of deliberate concentration that made Hotch’s chest ache. You blinked slowly, slipping in and out of consciousness, your hand tucked into Hotch’s like it belonged there.

When your breathing evened out and the book slid gently from Jack’s hands to the cushion, Hotch pressed a soft kiss to your temple and whispered, “Rest. We’ve got you.”

You didn’t answer, but your hand tightened just a little in his.

Later, in the kitchen, Jack stood on a stool washing a pot that still had traces of scorched something clinging to its sides.

Hotch leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching him.

“I told them not to worry,” Jack said quietly, without turning around. “I said we got this.”

Hotch swallowed. His voice was rough with emotion. “You did good, buddy.”

Jack turned, eyes uncertain but proud. “You’re not mad I tried to cook?”

Hotch stepped forward and pulled him into a hug, one hand cradling the back of Jack’s head. He held him there for a long moment.

“I’m not mad. You’re the best nurse anyone could ask for.”

Jack beamed into his chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They stood like that in the kitchen’s golden hush.

And when Hotch finally went back to the living room and sat down beside you again—blanket still warm, tea still unfinished—he let his hand rest over yours.

You stirred slightly. Eyes fluttered.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice like velvet through fog.

He smiled. Soft. Real.

“I’m here now.”