The unsub sat shackled at the table, hunched but humming—this low, breathy sound that made your skin crawl as soon as the heavy door shut behind you. You moved just slightly behind Hotch, and his presence blocked the man’s view of you for a moment.
But the second you stepped to Hotch’s right and sat down, the unsub locked in. Like he’d been waiting for you. Your breath hitched—barely—but it was enough. He noticed.
“Agent,” he greeted, smiling at you, not Hotch. “You’re prettier in person.” Hotch’s eyes cut to you immediately, picking up on the freeze in your posture. He turned back to the man, jaw flexing. “You already know that comment’s not going to help you.”
The unsub didn’t blink. Just stared at you. Your badge. Your neckline. Your hands. “Do you wear that lipstick for the job, or for me?” he asked, smile widening.
Hotch didn’t wait—his fingers snapped toward the one-way mirror. “Tighten the restraints. Now.”
Two guards came in instantly. One placed a firm hand on the unsub’s shoulder, forcing him down as the other jerked the cuffs tighter around his wrists, metal biting into skin. He flinched but didn’t yell. Didn’t even wince. His eyes were still on you, hungry, assessing.
You inhaled, then exhaled carefully. He wanted a reaction. You didn’t give him one. Until you had to lean forward and push the file across the table.
That’s when he moved. Just a shift. Just a lean. But it was deliberate—his face closer to yours than you liked, enough that your own twisted in disgust before you could stop it.
“Stop,” Hotch said, his voice dark, deadly. His tone was enough to freeze the unsub in place. Still, the bastard smiled. “You’re not gonna let her talk for herself, Agent Hotchner?”
Hotch reached forward and took the file you’d opened, flipping it toward the unsub himself. His broad shoulders shifted, moving slightly in front of you again.
“She doesn’t need to,” Hotch said. “I already know what you are.”
“She’s better than the others,” he purrs. “You see it too. That’s why you walked in front of her. Like a shield. That’s sweet, Agent Hotchner. She deserves someone strong.”
You barely resist the urge to snap back. But Hotch’s hand reaches out—under the table—and briefly brushes your knee. A silent signal: Don’t react. Let me handle it.
“Why would I look at those,” he rasped, his voice low and oily, “when I’ve got her to look at instead?”
You froze. Hotch’s fingers twitched near his pen. His tone stayed flat. “That’s not how this works.”
“I already know all about her,” the unsub continued, still smiling. “She runs at five-thirty in the morning. Orders that lavender tea at the café across from the field office. Drives a black bmw. License plate ends in... seven-two-nine. Right?”
Your blood ran cold. You didn’t answer. You didn’t move.
Hotch stood abruptly. “You’re done.”
“No,” the unsub said, eyes still locked on you, smile growing. “I’m just getting started.”
Hotch was already at the door, signaling for the guard again. You stood slower, trying not to let the nausea show.
“You’ll speak to me,” Hotch said, voice a dark, contained growl. “Not her.”
“She’s the one I’ve been thinking about.”
“She’s not the one you're confessing to.”
“She’s the reason I started.” The unsub grinned, wild and victorious. “And she’ll be the reason I finish.”
You stood so fast your chair scraped backward, screeching against the floor.
Hotch turned to you instantly. “Agent,” he said quietly—his voice gentle now, only for you. “Step out.”
“I’m fine,” you said too quickly, jaw clenched.
His eyes searched yours for a beat longer than necessary, then nodded once.
The unsub chuckled. “Cute. Like a guard dog. I bet you like it when he barks for you.”
Hotch moved before you could blink. He was on the table, both hands planted, leaning in so close his voice was practically in the unsub’s ear.
“Say one more word about her,” Hotch growled, “and I will make sure your sentence includes solitary until you rot.”
Hotch’s hands were still flat on the table, his broad shoulders locked in tension. He didn’t move until he was sure the man’s mouth would stay shut.
“Guard. Get him out,” Hotch snapped, low and lethal.
The unsub laughed as the door slammed open behind you again. “You’ll think about me, sweetheart,” he called as they dragged him backward, wrists still bleeding from the restraints. “When you’re alone. When he’s not around to protect you.”
“Let’s go,” Hotch muttered under his breath to you, not even glancing back at the unsub again. His hand grazed your lower back as you turned—protective, firm, grounding.
You walked out together in silence, the door slamming shut behind you, drowning out the last of the unsub’s twisted chuckles.
“Hey,” he said gently, his voice lower now, quiet. “You okay?”
You blinked. “Yeah. Just... hate how he looked at me. Like he knew me.”
Hotch nodded slowly. “He’s been watching. We found photos in his storage unit. Some were taken last week.”
Your stomach dropped. “Of me?”
Hotch hesitated. “Of your apartment. Your car. A few of you in your running gear.”
You swallowed hard.“I had no idea—”
“That’s not your fault,” Hotch said firmly. “He’s good at hiding. That ends now. I should’ve gone in alone.”
You turned toward him, surprised. “Why?”
His jaw tightened again. That same damn muscle. “Because I saw the look in his eyes when you walked in,” he said, stepping closer, voice low. “And I knew exactly what he was thinking.”
Your heartbeat stuttered. He paused, then stepped just a little closer.
“You shouldn’t go home alone tonight.”
That surprised you. “I wasn’t planning to.”
His brows lifted just a fraction. “Good. Because I wasn’t going to let you.” That made your heart skip. Not because of what he said—but how he said it.
“I’ll stay at a hotel,” you murmured.
He paused, then offered, “You could stay at mine.”
You looked up. His expression didn’t change. He wasn’t playing. Wasn’t flirting. It wasn’t about that. It was about keeping you safe.
“…Okay,” you whispered. “Yeah. That’s probably best.”
His shoulders eased slightly.
And it wasn’t long before you found yourself standing in the hallway just outside his bedroom door, suddenly uncertain.
Hotch stepped behind you again. Close. Just like in the interrogation room.
“I’ll take the couch,” he said, already reading your hesitation.
“No,” you said quickly. “You don’t have to.”
He paused. “I want you to feel safe.”
“I do,” you whispered, looking back at him. “With you.”
“I’ll get you a shirt,” he murmured.
A moment later he returned and handed you a long, soft cotton t-shirt—gray, plain, worn thin at the collar.
You took it with a grateful smile and went into the bathroom.
When you came out, you were swimming in the shirt. It hit halfway down your thighs. Your legs were bare. You had never felt so exposed in something so modest.
Hotch was already lying down, propped on one elbow, the comforter pulled up around his waist. He wore a black t-shirt and soft plaid pajama pants. You had never, in your life, seen him so…human.
You climbed in slowly, tentatively. His side of the bed was warm. Yours felt cold.
It was awkward. Weirdly awkward.
And that’s when it hit you. A sudden, absurd giggle bubbled up in your throat.
Hotch turned toward you, brow furrowed. “What?”
You bit your lip, grinning. “Nothing. It’s just—” You gestured vaguely at him. “Seeing you like this—in actual pajamas—? It’s adorable. I’m sorry, I can’t unsee it.”
He stared for a beat, expression unreadable. You swallowed hard, worried you might’ve crossed a line.
But then—then—he smiled. That small, rare curve of his lips that made you feel like the only person in the world.
“Don’t twist my words,” you warned, still smiling. “You’re intimidating as hell at work.”
“But not now?”
You looked at him—really looked—and swallowed hard. “No. Now you’re…”
Your voice faltered.
Hotch’s hand lifted slowly, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.
“Safe,” you whispered. “You feel safe.”
His fingers didn’t move from your face. “I want you to feel safe,” he said softly. “Always.”
You exhaled shakily. “Even now?”
“Especially now.”
He curled it around your waist and slowly, slowly pulled you into him.
His body was so warm—heat radiating off him like a furnace—and you exhaled the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. His chest was solid, his hold careful. Too careful. Like he didn’t trust himself.
You nestled into him, your nose at his shoulder, cheek resting against the soft cotton of his t-shirt. You smiled against him.
“You’re tense,” you whispered.
“I’m not,” he said immediately.
“You are, Hotch,” you laughed. “Your arm feels like it’s trying to protect the nuclear codes.”
His chest rumbled faintly in amusement. “I’m trying to be respectful.”
You smiled wider. “You’re letting me cuddle you. That’s pretty respectful.”
He didn’t argue that.
You tilted your head up slightly, looking toward the sharp line of his jaw in the dark.
“I’m not gonna combust if you relax.”
He didn’t say anything, but the arm around your waist loosened just a little. He exhaled—and the tension in his chest eased. Just enough to make you feel it. You took your chance.
You reached up slowly and ran your fingers through his hair.
At first, he flinched—just a twitch, barely noticeable. But then he stilled, letting you continue.
Your hand moved lower, smoothing down over his chest, then his shoulder, until it found one of his hands resting on his stomach.
His huge hand.
You picked it up gently, letting his fingers relax in your grip.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low.
You cradled his palm and gently cracked one of his knuckles.
He winced. “That hurts.”
You looked up, mock-pouting. “You’re supposed to say thank you.”
He chuckled. “For joint pain?”
“For your nerves. You’re all… balled up like a stress knot.” You moved to his other hand, gently stretching each finger. “And this one? This one’s the button-pushing hand. I bet it’s tired from dealing with assholes all day.”
He huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
You tilted your head and reached up to brush your fingers through his hair—soft, thicker than it looked at work, with the faintest wave. He looked down at you, stilling completely under your touch.
“You’re really bad at relaxing,” you whispered.
“And you’re really good at tempting me,” he said softly.
You leaned in again, closer this time, your legs brushing. His arm came around you slowly, tentatively, drawing you toward his chest until your head rested just below his collarbone.
You exhaled shakily. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, voice low and quiet. “Just… not used to this.”
You tilted your head to look at him. His expression was unreadable in the low light, but his jaw was tight.
“Your hands,” you said quietly, lifting one of them between your palms. “They're so big.”
His brows lifted slightly. “That a problem?”
“No,” you said, voice dipping. “It’s hot.”
He huffed a soft laugh, but his thumb rubbed lightly across your side. You turned his palm over and started gently cracking his knuckles again. One by one. Each pop was soft, and you smiled as you moved to the next.
But when you got to his index finger and pressed just enough—
“Mm—hey,” he winced, pulling his hand back slightly. “That actually hurts.”
You blinked. “Seriously? You wrestle unsubs to the ground, but you can’t handle me cracking your knuckles?”
“I don’t wrestle people who sneak up and break my fingers.”
You laughed again, more relaxed now, and leaned in close enough that your nose brushed his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you said with a smirk. “You’re so delicate, Hotch.”
He turned to look at you, and this time, he was smiling. Really smiling. Barely-there dimple, soft eyes, warmth radiating from him.
“You think I’m delicate?”
“I think you’re secretly a marshmallow,” you whispered, inching even closer. “All this serious FBI Alpha Male stuff is just an act.”
He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, gaze dark and quiet and far too intense for the softness of the moment.
You swallowed. Suddenly very aware of how close you were. Of his hand on your waist. Of the warmth between you. Of the ridiculous oversize shirt that was definitely not a barrier. Not now.
“Is that what you really think?” he asked, voice so low it made your skin prickle.
You tilted your chin up slightly, your lips dangerously close to the line of his jaw. “Maybe.” Your hands in his hair, soft and uncertain, pulling him in closer. Your lips brushed again, then again—until it turned into something real. Something deep and needy and so full of everything you hadn’t said.
Hotch shifted, rolling you gently onto your back, his body hovering over yours, held up on one arm.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured against your cheek.
“I’m nervous,” you admitted, voice cracking just slightly. He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, gaze dark and quiet and far too intense for the softness of the moment.
Your heart stuttered. Your legs shifted, thighs tightening as you accidentally ground your hips slightly against his under the covers.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, grip tightening.
You surged up into him, kissing him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he slid a thigh between yours. His weight was comforting, grounding—and yet, your whole body felt like it was floating.
He pulled back slightly, lips brushing yours. “Tell me if you want to stop.”
“I won’t,” you whispered. “Not with you.”
Hotch’s mouth found your neck—slow and reverent, dragging warmth down your throat as he settled between your legs. His hands roamed cautiously under the hem of your borrowed shirt, palms warm and rough on your bare skin.
You moaned softly as his thigh slid between yours, pressing.
“You have no idea what it did to me,” he whispered into your skin, “hearing him talk about you like that.”
“I hated it,” you breathed. “I wanted to claw his face off.”
Hotch laughed. “That’s my girl.”
The words hit you straight in the core—made you shiver.
His hands moved beneath the shirt he’d given you, sliding along your bare thighs, up to your hips. When he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath, his breath hitched.
“Jesus,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to look down at you. “You’re not wearing—?”
You flushed. “Didn’t feel like it.”
In one fluid motion, he sat up, his arms wrapping around you, mouth claiming yours again—hotter, hungrier now. You let him take the lead, let him slide your shirt up over your head and toss it somewhere off the bed. The way he looked at you then—like reverence, like worship—made heat pool between your legs.
“You’re beautiful,” he rasped, fingertips ghosting down your spine. “So fucking beautiful.”
You gasped when he leaned forward, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, tongue flicking over it before he sucked—slow, teasing, patient. One hand moved between your legs, fingers brushing you just enough to feel the slickness there.
He tugged his waistband down just enough to free himself, and you gasped at the sight of him—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.
You reached down and gripped him, guiding his head to your entrance. The first brush made both of you groan.
The second his tip slid through your slick. “Fuck, sweetheart—look at you.” Hands tightening around your hips.
You lowered yourself slowly, inch by inch, your thighs trembling at the stretch.
“That’s it,” Hotch growled. “Take your time. I’ve got you.”
Once he was fully inside, you sat still for a second, breathing shallowly.
He brushed your cheek again. “Look at me.”
You did—and that’s when it changed. Because there wasn’t just lust in his eyes. There was something far deeper. Something that told you this wasn’t just sex for him.
You whimpered and leaned forward, hands braced on his chest, and the shift in angle made stars flash behind your eyes. He pushed up into you now, shallow, controlled thrusts that made your clit drag just right with every motion.
Your thighs trembled as you moved, your breaths turning into gasps. He sat up slightly, arms wrapping around your back, and you clung to him as you moved together.
“I’ve never…” you breathed against his neck. “I’ve never felt like this with anyone.”
He stilled inside you, holding you tight. “That’s because they didn’t deserve you.”
You clutched at his shirt. “But you do?”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze dark and reverent.
“I’m going to earn you,” he said. “Every day.”
Your heart cracked open. You kissed him with everything you had, hips rolling down onto him again, chasing that high, and he let you ride it out, guiding you with soft praise and firm hands and that warmth—God, that unshakable, grounding warmth.
And when you came, it was with his arms wrapped tight around you, his voice in your ear, whispering that you were safe.
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if you fancy it, i would loveee a fluffy hotch fic!! maybe with injured reader and him just being doting and sweet. thank you! 💗💗
this request is from like nov, sorry it took so long!! <3
Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader ✩ 628 words
“You’re being so dramatic, Hotch.”
He grumbles something unintelligible in response, focusing on making you the tea he’s decided you so desperately need.
The ice pack pressed to your eye has begun to melt, cold droplets trailing down your wrist and soaking into your sleeve. You probably do look a bit pathetic, but Hotch’s reaction still feels wildly out of proportion.
You haven’t gotten much out of him in the time since you were hit to now, just small murmurs of things under his breath and a steady, guiding hand on your upper arm as he manoeuvred you away from the rest of the team. It was such a small thing, really. The precinct was already cramped, and with all of you packed inside it was practically inevitable. So a rogue elbow to the eye isn’t really such a strange thing to have happened.
Hotch finally turns back to you, crossing the room in two long strides with a mug in hand. He stops closer than necessary to set it down, and once he does, he doesn’t step away. Instead, he gestures toward the ice pack.
“Let me see.”
“I’m fine, Hotch.”
“Let me see, please.”
“I’m really fine. Promise.”
He ignores your dismissal, instead reaching out to take the ice pack away from your eye himself and taking your hand in his as he pulls it away.
“Aaron…” you murmur, watching him take in the sight of you. You understand his concern, you really do. Hotch has been your boss for years now and that comes with a professional concern anytime anyone on the team is injured. This is different. More recently Hotch has become Aaron to you, your sweetheart. Your kind, generous Aaron who you’re halfway to loving already. That’s who’s standing in front of you now.
Hearing his name, his first name, seems to soften the sharp edges of his face. The near permanent frown fading to give way to soft concern.
“Sorry,” he says, raising his free hand to run his fingertips over the contusion forming around your eye. “You’re gonna have a nasty bruise, honey.”
Honey. You smile despite yourself. All the pet names in the world felt rather saccharine before they were falling from Aaron's lips.
“Can’t look any worse than when I had the flu a few weeks ago.” You shrug.
“That’s true enough,” he teases, amusement flickering in his eyes.
“Aaron Hotchner!” you laugh. “You’re not supposed to agree with me. You’re supposed to say I was still so very lovely. Or something like that.”
“You were still so very lovely.”
He stays smiling down at you, not the full grin you might get at home but enough for now while his mind is still halfway on the case, taking in the fact that you are absolutely fine. His eyes slowly pull away from you and towards movement in the window behind you. While you wish you could stay in this little bubble forever, black eye and all, you know that there's still an unsub to be caught and people to try and save. You watch the stern mask fall back over Hotch’s face, preparing to get back out there.
With a quiet sigh, you stand, brushing imaginary dust from your trousers.
“Do me a favour?” Hotch asks, eyes still trained on the glass.
“What?”
“Keep icing your eye.” His eyes flit back to you before leaning down to peck your cheek once he’s sure no one will see his momentary lapse in professionalism.
“Yes, sir.”
He huffs, shaking his head in response while brushing past you to the door of the breakroom. Before he’s far he calls over his shoulder.
“Let's get back to work, Agent.”
You’ll find yourself counting down the minutes until he calls you honey again.
summary: when your apartment became a swimming pool, aaron decided it's his problem. the resolution became permanent.
tw: lowkey slow burn, jack being jack, sexism at the end.
authors note: I finally found out why I couldn't post it last night. Please be kind. Tried something new here style wise. Let me know how you like it.
word count: 5.6k
masterlist
HIGH TIDE CAME (and brought you in)
The first sign that something was wrong was the water dripping from the ceiling.
At first, you ignored it.
After spending twelve hours chasing an unsub across three counties, your brain felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. Every muscle in your body ached. Your shoulders were tight from hours spent in a cramped SUV, your feet hurt, and there was a dull headache forming behind your eyes that promised to become a full migraine if given the chance.
You dropped your go-bag beside the apartment door with a heavy thud, kicked off your shoes, and headed toward the kitchen in search of coffee you absolutely did not need but desperately wanted.
The apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
Then—
Drip.
You paused. A frown tugged at your brow.
Drip.
The sound echoed faintly through the room.
You glanced around the kitchen.
Drip.
This time, you looked up.
A single drop of water fell from the ceiling and splattered against the countertop.
For a second, you simply stared. Then you sighed.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
Another drop followed.
Then another.
Within thirty seconds, the occasional drip had become a steady trickle. Within five minutes, it was practically raining inside your apartment. Water streamed down the walls and pooled across the hardwood floor. The ceiling bulged ominously overhead, swollen with trapped water that looked seconds away from collapsing entirely. Panic and exhaustion made for a terrible combination.
You spent the next hour alternating between swearing, dragging furniture across the room, and desperately trying to reach your landlord.
Towels covered every available surface.
Buckets appeared from closets you hadn't opened in months. A mixing bowl from your kitchen ended up catching water in the middle of your living room.
By the time the emergency maintenance crew finally arrived, your apartment looked less like a home and more like a disaster zone.
The verdict wasn't encouraging.
A pipe had burst in the apartment above yours.
Water damage. Extensive repairs. Several days at minimum. Possibly weeks.
You stared at the maintenance worker as if he had personally offended you.
"So I can't stay here?"
The man winced apologetically.
"I wouldn't recommend it."
You laughed once. It sounded slightly unhinged.
"Fantastic."
Apparently being exhausted wasn't enough.
Apparently the universe had decided to make a point.
The moment the maintenance crew left, you collapsed onto the one remaining dry corner of your couch and rubbed both hands over your face.
The apartment smelled damp already.
The air felt heavy. Water still dripped somewhere in the background.
Your home no longer felt like home.
And that realization hit harder than you'd expected.
Your apartment wasn't anything special. The furniture didn't match, half the decorations had been purchased during sleep-deprived online shopping sessions.
But it was yours.
It was where you came after difficult cases.
Where you could finally stop being an FBI profiler and simply exist.
Your phone buzzed.
You pulled it from your pocket.
Aaron Hotchner.
Briefing at 0700. Be prepared to present victimology findings.
You stared at the message. Then at the water dripping from your ceiling. Then back at the message.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, the sound bordered dangerously on hysteria.
Before common sense could intervene, you typed:
Small problem.
The reply came almost instantly.
Define small.
Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched.
My apartment is currently trying to become an indoor swimming pool.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Are you safe?
The question caught you off guard.
Not What happened?
Not Call your insurance company.
Just—
Are you safe?
Something warm settled unexpectedly in your chest.
Yeah. Just kinda homeless.
Several seconds passed before your phone rang.
You answered immediately.
"Are you injured?"
The concern in his voice stopped you cold.
"No."
A brief pause.
"Good."
The single word was calm and controlled.
Yet underneath it, hidden beneath years of discipline and professionalism, was unmistakable relief. You leaned back against the couch.
"I'll figure something out."
"Such as?"
You opened your mouth but nothing came out. Because the truth was you didn't have a plan. Hotels cost money. Your apartment was flooding. Your car was currently sitting dead in the BAU parking lot waiting for a mechanic.
And it was almost midnight.
The silence stretched, the kind that made people confess things.
Finally, Aaron spoke again.
"Your car is still in the parking lot?"
You frowned, confused.
"How did you know that?"
"Morgan mentioned it."
Of course he had. Morgan knew everything.
"Yeah."
Another pause.
"Pack a bag."
You blinked.
"What?"
"Pack a bag."
"Hotch—"
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
Your heart stumbled unexpectedly.
"What are you talking about?"
"You need somewhere to stay."
His voice remained steady, matter-of-fact. As if this decision had already been made.
"I can get a hotel."
"With what transportation?"
You opened your mouth and closed it right after.
His silence felt suspiciously like victory.
"Sir, seriously," you said. "I don't want to impose."
"You won't."
"But—"
"You are not sleeping in a flooded apartment."
The firmness in his voice left little room for argument.
Then it softened. Just slightly.
"And you're not wandering around D.C. at midnight looking for a hotel."
Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten.
Like the thought genuinely bothered him.
You looked around your ruined apartment.
At the puddles.
The soaked carpet.
The overturned furniture.
Part of you knew he was right.
The other part was painfully aware that Aaron Hotchner was offering to let you stay in his house.
The thought alone was enough to make your stomach twist.
"Twenty minutes."
Before you could argue again, the line disconnected.
You stared at your phone.
Somewhere between the burst pipe, the broken car, and Aaron Hotchner deciding your housing crisis was now his responsibility, your day had become significantly more complicated.
And somehow, despite everything, the knot of anxiety in your stomach had loosened just a little.
Because for the first time all evening, you weren't dealing with it alone.
You managed to pack two bags before the knock came.
Clothes.
Toiletries.
A handful of books.
A laptop.
Enough essentials to convince yourself this was temporary.
Nothing more.
The knock sounded exactly twenty minutes later.
Not twenty-one.
Not nineteen.
Twenty.
You shouldn't have been surprised.
"It's me."
You opened the door.
Aaron stepped inside.
The cool night air followed him.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
His eyes swept across the apartment immediately.
Assessing.
Cataloging.
Taking in every detail.
The water damage.
The damp carpet.
The collection of towels spread across the floor.
The exhaustion written plainly across your face.
You appeared in the bedroom doorway, blowing a loose strand of hair from your eyes.
His gaze landed on you.
"Are you okay?"
The question was simple. But something about the way he asked it made your breath catch.
His voice remained calm.
Controlled.
Professional.
Yet beneath it lingered something softer, warmer.
Something that had nothing to do with Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner.
You shrugged.
"Just annoyed."
A pause.
"And tired."
His expression softened almost imperceptibly.
His eyes dropped to your bags.
Without another word, he crossed the room, picked them both up effortlessly, and headed for the door.
You blinked.
"That's it?"
He glanced back.
"What?"
"No lecture?"
A reluctant smile tugged at your lips.
"No speech about emergency preparedness?"
A flicker of amusement appeared in his eyes.
"I think you've had enough excitement for one day."
The warmth that spread through your chest caught you completely off guard.
You smiled despite yourself.
For the first time all night, Aaron smiled back.
Small.
Brief.
But real.
"Come on."
You followed him outside.
And despite the uncertainty waiting ahead, for the first time since the ceiling started leaking, you felt something suspiciously close to relief.
The drive there had been quiet. Not uncomfortable—just quiet in the way most things were with Aaron. Comfortable silence had always been one of his strengths. You sat in the passenger seat, watching the city lights blur past the window while exhaustion settled deeper into your bones.
At some point, the adrenaline from the flooding apartment had worn off.
Now all that remained was fatigue.
The kind that made your eyelids heavy and your thoughts slow.
The kind that reminded you you'd been awake far too long.
When Aaron finally pulled into the driveway, you stared at the house for a moment.
Aaron's house was exactly what you expected.
And somehow nothing like you expected at all.
Warm light glowed from several windows.
The porch light had been left on.
It looked welcoming.
Lived in.
Safe.
Something inside your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Because while you'd worked with Aaron for years, this felt strangely intimate.
The BAU knew Aaron Hotchner: Unit Chief, profiler, leader.
The man who always had a plan.
The man who somehow remained calm while everyone else was losing their minds.
But this wasn't Hotch's house.
This was Aaron's.
And for some reason, that distinction felt important.
Aaron grabbed your bags before you could protest.
You followed him inside.
The moment the door opened, warmth greeted you.
Not just physical warmth.
The kind that came from a home people actually lived in.
Family photographs lined the hallway walls.
A backpack rested beside the staircase.
A pair of sneakers sat near the front door.
Jack's drawings covered the refrigerator in colorful chaos.
There were magnets holding up spelling tests and crayon masterpieces.
A toy car sat abandoned beneath the coffee table.
The faint scent of garlic and tomato sauce lingered in the air from dinner.
Evidence of life.
Evidence of things Aaron never brought to work.
For the first time, you realized how carefully he separated those worlds.
His professional and personal life.
And somehow you had just stepped directly into the second one.
"The guest room is upstairs."
His voice pulled you back to reality.
"Thank you."
Aaron looked at you.
Really looked at you.
And something in his expression softened.
"You don't need to thank me."
"I kind of do."
"No, you don’t."
The sincerity in his voice surprised you.
For a second, neither of you looked away.
The air felt strangely still.
You were suddenly aware of how quiet the house was.
How close he was standing.
How tired you were.
You cleared your throat.
"I'll figure something else out as soon as I can."
A small smile appeared.
The kind of smile Aaron rarely showed at work.
"There isn't a rush."
Your stomach did something strange.
You chose to ignore it.
Then, after a brief pause, he added—
"And outside work, you can call me Aaron."
The words hit you harder than being invited into his house.
Your brain stalled completely.
"Oh."
The smile widened slightly.
"Is that a problem?"
"No."
Your answer came entirely too quickly.
"No. Not a problem."
A flicker of amusement appeared in his eyes.
"Good."
You swallowed.
"Aaron."
The name felt unfamiliar.
Dangerously personal.
Something unreadable crossed his expression.
Gone almost immediately.
"Get some sleep."
You nodded.
"Goodnight."
The guest room was simple but comfortable.
Clean sheets.
Soft lighting.
A neatly folded blanket at the foot of the bed.
You changed into pajamas, sat on the edge of the mattress, and listened to the quiet house around you.
No dripping water.
No maintenance crews.
No collapsing ceiling.
Just silence.
Safe silence.
The realization washed over you unexpectedly.
You hadn't realized how tense you'd been all evening until now.
The knot in your shoulders loosened.
Your breathing slowed.
For the first time since walking into your flooded apartment, you relaxed.
And within minutes, you were asleep.
The arrangement was supposed to last a few days.
Maybe a week.
Just long enough for repairs.
Then you'd go home.
Simple.
Temporary.
Reasonable.
Unfortunately, water damage had other plans.
One week became two.
Two weeks became three.
Apparently replacing flooring, drywall, plumbing, and half a ceiling took significantly longer than anyone had originally estimated.
By the beginning of the third week, something unexpected had happened.
You'd developed a routine.
Every morning, you woke before six.
Every morning, Aaron was already awake.
Without fail.
You'd find him sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of black coffee and a stack of case files.
Reading.
Annotating.
Working.
The first few mornings consisted mostly of practical conversations.
Need a ride?
How's the apartment?
Did you sleep okay?
Simple things.
Professional things.
Then gradually, without either of you realizing it, those conversations changed.
One morning became breakfast together.
Then another.
Soon, sharing coffee before work felt normal.
Comfortable.
You started discussing books, cases, current events, random observations about human behavior.
Sometimes one conversation would lead to another until suddenly twenty minutes had passed and it was time to leave for Quantico.
Other mornings neither of you spoke much at all.
Aaron would read and you'd drink coffee.
The silence between you settling naturally instead of awkwardly.
It surprised you how much you enjoyed those mornings.
The BAU lived in chaos. Deadlines. Darkness.
But here?
There was coffee, morning sunlight, sound of pages turning.
And Aaron sitting across the table.
Little by little, you learned things about him.
Not because he volunteered information. He rarely volunteered anything.
But details slipped through anyway.
You learned he preferred his coffee black.
No sugar or cream.
You learned he reread reports whenever he was worried about a case.
You learned he loosened his tie almost immediately after walking through the front door.
As though shedding the weight of responsibility one careful inch at a time.
Most surprisingly of all—
You learned he smiled.
Frequently.
Far more frequently than anyone at the BAU would ever believe.
The first time you pointed it out, he looked genuinely offended.
"I smile."
You laughed.
"You really don't."
"I do."
"No."
"I do."
"You absolutely do not."
Aaron looked mildly scandalized.
Which somehow only made it funnier.
You laughed harder.
He rolled his eyes.
The sight nearly killed you.
Because Aaron Hotchner rolling his eyes was somehow one of the most unexpectedly charming things you'd ever witnessed.
Jack adapted far faster than either of you.
Children were like that.
Adults complicated things.
Kids simply accepted them.
By the end of the first week, Jack treated your presence as completely normal.
By the second week, he'd started knocking on your bedroom door every morning before school.
By the third week, he routinely appeared beside you on the couch while doing homework.
One evening, you found yourself sitting cross-legged on the living room floor while Jack enthusiastically explained the rules of a board game.
You were losing.
Badly.
"You're terrible at this."
You stared at him.
"I've known the rules for seven minutes."
"Still terrible."
"I think you're exploiting a loophole."
Jack gasped dramatically.
"You sound like Dad."
The front door opened.
Aaron walked inside.
His gaze immediately found the two of you.
It always did.
You tried not to notice that.
Tried and failed.
He loosened his tie as he crossed the room. Then paused. Jack was winning. You were clearly not. The board reflected this reality mercilessly.
Aaron raised an eyebrow.
"How's it going?"
"She's terrible."
You pointed accusingly.
"I'd like it noted that I'm being bullied by a child."
Jack looked delighted.
Aaron laughed.
Actually laughed.
Not a brief chuckle.
A genuine laugh.
Your jaw nearly hit the floor.
Aaron immediately realized his mistake.
His amusement vanished.
"Don't."
"That was a laugh."
"It wasn't."
"It absolutely was."
"It wasn't."
Jack looked at you.
You looked at Jack.
Neither of you believed him.
And for one brief moment, watching Aaron attempt—and fail—to maintain his dignity, happiness settled warmly inside your chest.
The dangerous kind.
The kind you weren't supposed to feel.
The problem wasn't living with Aaron.
The problem was getting used to him.
Getting used to seeing him relaxed.
Getting used to the way his eyes softened when he looked at Jack.
Getting used to finding him in the kitchen every morning before sunrise, sleeves rolled up, coffee already brewing.
Getting used to the fact that he noticed things.
When you skipped lunch.
When you were running on too little sleep.
When a difficult case followed you home.
Aaron rarely pushed.
But somehow his quiet awareness felt more intimate than concern spoken aloud.
And that was becoming a problem.
Because the longer you stayed, the harder it became to remember he was your boss.
The harder it became to remember this arrangement was temporary.
The harder it became to ignore the fact that you looked forward to seeing him every day.
You tried explaining it away.
The feelings, the butterflies, the warmth that spread through your chest whenever he smiled.
You blamed stress.
A temporary situation creating temporary emotions.
Your brain presented these arguments regularly.
Your heart remained unconvinced.
Unfortunately, your heart was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
If anyone at the BAU noticed the shift between you and Aaron, nobody mentioned it.
At least not immediately.
Morgan was first to figure it out
Which was deeply unfortunate.
The moment happened on an otherwise normal morning.
You were standing near the conference room before briefing, trying to wake up enough to function.
Aaron walked past without looking up from the file in his hand.
At the same time, he set a cup of coffee down beside you.
Your coffee.
Exactly the way you liked it.
No questions.
No hesitation.
Morgan watched the exchange.
Then looked at you.
Then Hotch.
Then back at you.
A slow grin spread across his face.
"Oh."
Every survival instinct you possessed activated simultaneously. You froze.
Aaron continued reading, completely unaware or pretending to be.
Honestly, with him, it was impossible to tell.
"Oh?" you repeated carefully.
Morgan pointed between the two of you.
"Oh."
You felt dread.
"No idea what you're talking about."
"Mhm."
Aaron finally looked up.
"What?"
Morgan's grin widened.
"Dangerous question."
Aaron narrowed his eyes.
Morgan laughed.
"You know what? Never mind."
You immediately knew he absolutely did not mean never mind.
Morgan spent the next three weeks proving exactly that.
Rossi was somehow worse.
Morgan teased.
Rossi observed.
And that felt significantly more threatening.
One afternoon while waiting for the jet, Rossi settled into the seat beside you.
Far too casually.
The expression on his face immediately made you suspicious.
"You know," he said, "Hotch seems happier lately."
You nearly dropped your coffee.
The cup tilted alarmingly.
You managed to save it at the last second.
"Huh."
"Mhm."
You stared straight Ahead, refusing to make eye contact.
"Maybe he's having a good week."
"Maybe."
You hated that answer.
You hated the knowing smile that accompanied it even more.
Rossi patted your shoulder then walked away, leaving you to question every life choice that had brought you to this moment.
The real problem wasn't Morgan.
Or Rossi.
Or even your increasingly obvious feelings for Aaron.
The real problem was that he appeared to be having the exact same problem.
You noticed it gradually.
Small, tiny things.
The kind of details profilers were specifically trained to notice.
The way conversations would occasionally stop when your eyes met.
The way his attention always seemed to find you in a crowded room.
The way he'd linger in doorways as though he wanted to say something, then wouldn’t.
The way his gaze sometimes softened before he caught himself.
Before those walls came crashing back into place.
It wasn't obvious.
Aaron wasn't obvious about anything but it was there.
And once you noticed it, you couldn't stop noticing it.
Neither of you acknowledged it.
Neither of you dared.
Because acknowledging it would make it real.
Real things could break.
Real things could be lost.
For now, pretending felt safer.
Even if it was becoming increasingly difficult.
The Saturday pancake disaster should have been ordinary.
You came downstairs expecting coffee, maybe breakfast.
What you found instead was chaos.
Flour covered nearly every available surface.
Batter decorated the countertop.
The floor looked suspiciously sticky.
And the smoke detector appeared to be considering its options.
You stopped in the doorway.
Stared.
Then laughed.
Aaron looked up immediately.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows.
There was flour on his shirt.
The sight alone nearly made you laugh harder.
"I had it under control."
Jack snorted.
"No, you didn't."
"I did."
"You absolutely didn't."
Aaron pointed a spatula at him.
Jack remained unimpressed.
You were still laughing and Aaron looked relieved.
As though your arrival had solved a major crisis.
Jack noticed too.
"See?" he announced triumphantly. "I told you we should wait for her."
Her.
Not your name.
Not Agent.
Her.
The simple word hit harder than it should have.
Like your presence was expected.
Like you'd always been part of the plan.
Something tightened painfully in your chest.
Aaron looked at you.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The kitchen noise faded into the background.
The look in his eyes stole your breath.
Warm.
Soft.
Gone almost immediately.
But you'd seen it.
And judging by the way his gaze lingered for half a second too long, he knew you'd seen it too.
You rolled up your sleeves.
"Move."
Relief flashed across his face.
Jack pointed dramatically.
"See?"
And somewhere deep down, something dangerous settled into place.
Because for the first time, you stopped asking yourself if you were falling in love with him.
You already knew the answer.
The real question was what to do about it.
The call came on a Tuesday afternoon.
You were finishing paperwork when your phone buzzed.
The landlord.
Five minutes later, you hung up.
And just sat there.
Repairs complete.
Apartment ready.
Move back whenever convenient.
Good news.
Objectively.
The exact outcome you'd been waiting for.
So why did your stomach feel like it had dropped through the floor?
The answer followed you all afternoon.
Followed you through the briefing.
Through the drive home.
By the time you climbed into Aaron's car, the weight of it felt impossible to ignore.
The silence between you stretched longer than usual.
Eventually, you broke it.
"The landlord called."
Aaron's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
Just enough for you to notice.
"Everything okay?"
You looked out the window.
"Yeah."
The word felt wrong.
"Everything's fixed."
Silence.
A beat passed.
Then another.
"Good."
The single word landed heavily.
You swallowed.
Good.
Of course it was good.
Your apartment was repaired, your life could go back to normal.
You should have felt relieved. Instead, all you felt was loss. The realization frightened you.
Because somewhere along the way, Aaron's house had stopped feeling temporary. It had started feeling like home.
Apparently Aaron wasn't handling it much better.
Because several minutes later, he spoke again.
"You don't have to leave immediately."
You turned toward him. His eyes remained fixed on the road.
"What?"
"You can take your time."
Your pulse quickened.
"Aaron..."
His jaw tightened.
"I know it's selfish."
The admission stunned you.
Aaron Hotchner rarely admitted vulnerability.
Yet there it was. Plain and honest. A confession disguised as a practical statement.
Your heart hurt. In the best possible way.
"Aaron."
This time he looked at you.
Only briefly, but it was enough.
Enough for something unspoken to pass between you.
Months of stolen glances.
Quiet mornings..
Movie nights.
Coffee.
Laughter.
All of it suspended between you.
Neither of you looked away immediately.
Neither of you knew what to say.
Because for the first time, pretending wasn't working anymore.
And both of you knew it.
The apartment was fixed.
The deadline was here.
Whatever this was between you—
It couldn't remain unspoken forever.
The conversation happened three nights later.
Not because either of you planned it.
Mostly because avoiding it had become impossible.
By then, every interaction felt loaded with things left unsaid.
Every glance lingered too long.
Neither of you were sleeping much.
And both of you knew exactly why.
The house was quiet.
Jack had gone to bed over an hour ago.
The dishwasher hummed softly somewhere in the background.
You came downstairs hoping a glass of water might somehow solve the problem of your overactive brain.
Instead, you found Aaron standing alone in the kitchen.
A mug sat in front of him.
Untouched.
Steam no longer rose from the coffee, meaning he'd been standing there awhile.
You leaned against the doorway.
"You know it's ten o'clock, right?"
Aaron glanced up. A faint smile touched his mouth.
"I know."
"You have work in the morning."
"So do you."
You crossed your arms.
"Can't sleep?"
A short laugh escaped him.
"No."
Neither could you.
The answer settled between you.
Dangerously revealing.
Silence followed.
Not uncomfortable.
Just heavy.
Like the room was holding its breath.
You watched him.
And for the first time since you'd met him, he looked uncertain.
Not Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner.
Not the profiler who always had answers.
Just a man standing alone in his kitchen trying to figure out how to say something difficult.
The sight made your chest ache.
Finally, he exhaled.
"You should move back."
The words hit harder than you expected.
For a moment, you simply stared.
"Oh."
Immediately, Aaron's expression changed.
Not what he'd meant.
Not even close.
You saw the realization the second it happened.
The regret.
You couldn't help it.
You laughed softly.
"What?"
You shook your head, smile tugged at your lips.
"You know, for a profiler, you're really bad at this."
His eyebrows rose.
"At what?"
You gestured vaguely between the two of you.
"This."
For a second, confusion remained.
Then understanding dawned.
The realization landed visibly.
His shoulders relaxed.
His eyes widened slightly.
And something almost like disbelief crossed his face.
"You know."
It wasn't a question.
You smiled.
"Yeah."
The room suddenly felt much smaller.
Much warmer.
Aaron looked away first.
A laugh escaped him.
Disbelieving.
"You've known for how long?"
You considered it.
"Long enough."
His head tilted.
"Months?"
"Probably."
Aaron looked personally offended, which only made you laugh harder.
"You weren't exactly subtle."
"I was incredibly subtle."
"No."
"I was."
"Aaron."
His expression immediately informed you he knew he had lost that argument.
You grinned.
The tension eased.
Then Aaron's smile faded.
Not completely.
Just enough for something more vulnerable to emerge.
The walls began to crack.
One by one.
The carefully constructed barriers he'd spent years building.
You watched it happen.
Watched him decide.
Watched him stop hiding.
"You deserve someone less complicated."
The words came quietly.
There it was, the real fear.
Fear that he wasn't enough.
Fear that his baggage outweighed everything else.
You smiled immediately.
"There he is."
Confusion flickered across his face.
"There who is?"
"The man who's spent months inventing reasons not to ask me out."
A reluctant smile appeared.
You stepped closer.
Enough to erase some of the distance.
Not all of it.
Just enough.
"Aaron."
His eyes met yours.
Steady.
Open.
Unprotected.
The sight stole your breath.
"You don't get to make that decision for me."
The words settled between you.
His gaze softened.
You continued.
"I know your life isn't simple."
A tiny huff of laughter escaped him.
"That's one way to put it."
"I know your job isn't simple."
Another nod.
"I know you're stubborn."
That earned a real smile.
"And?"
"And I still like you."
Silence.
Full of relief.
Full of hope.
Full of everything neither of you had been brave enough to say.
The look on Aaron's face nearly broke your heart.
Because for the first time, all that restraint disappeared.
Months of uncertainty, caution, wanting…
Gone.
The relief was immediate.
Overwhelming.
"I know."
You blinked.
"What?"
"I know."
You stared.
Then laughed.
"Aaron."
A smile appeared.
"I know."
"I just confessed my feelings."
"I noticed."
"And that's your response?"
The smile widened.
"No."
He reached for your hand, the gesture simple.
But somehow it felt monumental.
His fingers intertwined with yours.
"I like you too."
The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest. Exactly where they'd belonged all along. For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.
Years of profiling had taught you how to read people.
Aaron had always been difficult.
Controlled.
Guarded.
But now?
Now you could see everything.
The affection.
The relief.
The happiness.
The quiet disbelief that this was actually happening.
Your heart swelled.
Aaron's eyes dropped briefly to your lips. Then returned to yours. Giving you every opportunity to step away. To reconsider.
You didn't.
Neither did he.
The kiss was soft.
Like neither of you wanted to rush something that had taken so long to find.
One hand settled gently against your cheek.
The other remained wrapped around yours.
The world narrowed.
No cases.
No flooded apartment.
No uncertainty.
Just Aaron.
And the overwhelming realization that this felt exactly right.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling.
"You know," you said quietly, "Morgan is going to be unbearable."
Aaron groaned immediately.
The sound made you laugh.
And somehow, standing in the middle of his kitchen, hand still tangled with his, happiness felt wonderfully simple.
The next morning lasted approximately six seconds.
That was how long it took Jack to figure it out.
You and Aaron were sitting together at breakfast.
Not touching, not doing anything obvious.
Just smiling a little more than usual.
Apparently that was enough.
Jack walked into the kitchen.
Stopped.
Looked at you.
Looked at Aaron.
Then sighed dramatically.
"Finally."
You nearly inhaled your coffee.
Aaron looked genuinely horrified.
"Jack."
"What?"
"Jack."
"What?"
You were laughing too hard to help.
Jack rolled his eyes.
The expression was disturbingly similar to Aaron's.
"You guys were literally the last people to figure it out."
Aaron covered his face.
You laughed harder.
Jack helped himself to cereal, completely satisfied with the chaos he'd created.
And for the first time in weeks, the future didn't feel uncertain.
Six months later, someone finally crossed a line.
Not Morgan.
Not Rossi.
Not anyone whose opinion mattered.
An assistant section chief from another division.
The type of man everyone tolerated and nobody respected.
The type who interrupted women in meetings and called it leadership.
The comment happened after a joint briefing.
Several agents remained in the conference room.
People gathered files.
Prepared to leave.
You and Aaron had arrived together that morning and apparently that had been enough.
The man looked between you.
Then smirked.
The expression instantly made your skin crawl.
"Oh."
The room quieted.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Enough for people to start paying attention.
You recognized the tone immediately.
So did Aaron.
The man leaned back in his chair.
"I always wondered how some agents move up so quickly."
The room went still.
Every instinct you possessed screamed where this was headed.
The smirk widened.
"Guess it helps when the boss thinks you're pretty."
Silence.
Heat flooded your face.
Not embarrassment.
Anger.
Pure anger.
Years of work.
Years spent earning every opportunity.
Dismissed in a single sentence.
The man wasn't finished.
Of course he wasn't.
"Let's be honest."
Morgan's expression darkened immediately.
Rossi slowly removed his glasses.
"If she wasn't young and attractive, would she really be sitting at this table?"
Every muscle in your body locked.
Then Aaron stood.
Slowly, deliberately.
The room became completely silent.
His expression didn't change.
That somehow made it worse.
Because anyone who knew Aaron understood something important.
When he was angry, he got quieter.
Not louder.
"What exactly are you implying?"
The man laughed nervously.
"Come on, Hotchner—"
"No."
The single word cut through the room.
Cold.
Precise.
Final.
"We're not doing that."
The confidence vanished from the man's face.
"She earned every assignment."
Your throat tightened.
"Every commendation."
Another beat.
"Every promotion."
Nobody interrupted.
Because everyone knew he was right.
Aaron took one step forward.
"If you think a woman's success can only be explained by the man standing next to her, then you have absolutely no business leading agents."
The room remained silent.
The assistant section chief looked like he wanted the floor to open beneath him.
Aaron wasn't finished.
"And if you ever suggest her accomplishments belong to anyone but her again, you'll answer for it."
The warning landed with absolute clarity.
The man looked away first.
Aaron sat back down.
Conversation over.
Case closed.
That night, after dinner, you found yourselves alone in the kitchen.
Somehow important conversations always seemed to happen there.
"You didn't have to do that."
Aaron looked genuinely confused.
"Yes, I did."
"Honey—"
"You are not a child."
"No."
"You never were."
The certainty in his voice wrapped around something vulnerable inside your chest.
Something old.
Something that had spent years wondering if people truly saw your work.
Your effort.
Your accomplishments.
Aaron always had.
Not because he cared about you.
Because he respected you.
The distinction mattered.
Aaron reached across the table and took your hand.
His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.
"You okay?"
You looked at him.
At the man who'd picked you up from a flooded apartment months ago.
The man who'd quietly made space for you in his home.
In his life.
The man who had somehow become home himself.
You intertwined your fingers with his.
"Yeah."
And this time, you meant it.
From the living room came Jack's voice.
"Dad?"
Aaron closed his eyes immediately.
You laughed.
"Yes?" he called.
"When you get married someday, can I tell everyone I set you two up?"
You burst out laughing.
Aaron dropped his head into his free hand.
A groan escaped him.
From the living room came triumphant laughter.
And sitting there beside the people you loved most, surrounded by warmth and light and the life you'd accidentally built together, everything felt exactly where it was supposed to be.
For the first time since the ceiling started leaking, you weren't wondering where home was.
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summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detached—while quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchner—so here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (i’m so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. “You’re wearing a skirt.”
You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”
“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”
You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”
“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”
You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”
Your stomach flips. “Spence.”
He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”
You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.
“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”
Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”
“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”
“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.
She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”
“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”
Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”
“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”
“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You swipe through dating apps, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.
He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:
Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”
Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”
“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”
Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”
“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”
Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”
“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.
Not the team. You.
Your stomach twists.
That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.
His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—
“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.
You blink hard. “What?”
He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”
You frown. “I’m not—”
He gives you a look.
“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.
Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.
You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.
Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”
You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”
He hums. “Sure.”
“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”
“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.
The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.
You sigh. “Reid.”
“Hm?”
“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.
“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”
You frown slightly.
“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”
Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”
“What’s she right about?”
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”
He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.
He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.
“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.
Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.
“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”
You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”
“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
“Good girl,” he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.
Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”
You finally blink. “What?”
“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”
You frown. “What are you—”
“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”
Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”
“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”
“Reid.”
“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”
You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”
“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”
He pauses, tilting his head.
“Very obviously your type.”
You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.
Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.
Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”
Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”
“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”
Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.
You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.
Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.
You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. That’s pathetic.
You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.
The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.
Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.
“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”
Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”
You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”
“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”
You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”
“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.
You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.
With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.
You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.
And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.
Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.
You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.
There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.
It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.
You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.
No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.
Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.
That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.
The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.
Twelve notifications.
You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.
Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.
You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”
You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.
Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.
DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given.
DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.
That answer comes a little too easily.
You: Workaholic. You?
DCRunner00: I get bored easily.
DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment.
You: Sounds like a public safety issue.
DCRunner00: Depends who you ask.
DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.
You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.
You shake your head, typing quickly.
You: Yeah, I should.
You: Night, Running Man.
Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.
TUESDAY 9:50AM
“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”
He’s wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”
Hotch ignores him completely.
“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”
He glances once around the table.
“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”
Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.
The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.
“You should probably blink.”
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.
Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.
You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.
You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.
Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”
“How late were you here last night?” he asks.
You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”
“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”
“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”
You blink. “Oh.”
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
“Anytime, sir,” you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.
By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.
You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.
Two new messages from DCRunner00.
DCRunner00: Running Man?
DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.
You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than ‘Workaholic’.
You: You read Stephen King?
“Hey, you busy?”
You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”
He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”
“I could be working.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”
“I could use your help.”
“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.
He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
“Where do you want to start?”
“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”
You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?
“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”
You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”
“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”
He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
“No, listen to me carefully.”
Both you and Reid glance up automatically.
Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.
“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”
He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.
“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”
Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.
You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”
“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”
You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.
“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”
Your face heats.
“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”
Oh my God.
“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”
He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.
You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—
Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.
You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.
When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.
DCRunner00: I’ve read a few.
DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?
You type your reply as you step out of the building.
You: Work, mostly.
You: And sleep.
By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like?
DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person.
You: Nah. That’s my boss.
You: My schedule is chaos, though.
“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.
You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”
You set the cup down in front of him.
“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”
Your face heats instantly.
“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.
You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.
Which is also when you finally check your messages again.
DCRunner00: Chaos how?
You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.
You: Long hours.
You: Weird hours.
You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.
Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.
Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.
You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.
DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people.
You: Rude.
He replies almost immediately.
DCRunner00: Accurate, though?
You: Unfortunately.
You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.
Ping!
DCRunner00: What do you actually do?
You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.
You: Mostly admin.
You: Governmental stuff.
You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.
You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
DCRunner00: Sounds boring.
DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?
You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.
You: Sort of.
You: But if my boss calls, I answer.
He replies instantly again.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked.
You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.
You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.
DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy.
You: Probably.
What about you? What do you do?
You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
He’s already replied by the time you log in.
DCRunner00: Run.
DCRunner00: Read.
DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally.
You: That sounds made up.
You open your protein bar.
DCRunner00: It mostly is.
DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?
You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.
You type out a vague response.
You: Sometimes.
You: Occupational hazard, I guess.
DCRunner00: And you always answer?
You: Pretty much.
You: He’d only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
That’s... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.
You: Jealous already, Running Man?
DCRunner00: Should I be?
You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.
You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”
You: I’m going to sleep.
You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
“Is Garcia in yet?”
He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
“I just—I need her.”
You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—
“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”
His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”
His brows pull together slightly.
“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.
It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”
“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”
“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”
She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”
You grimace. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”
She nods.
“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”
You wince.
“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”
You hesitate.
“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”
You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
“Have you told Hotch?”
“Nope.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”
“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.
“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”
Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”
Garcia gives you a long look.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”
“Garcia.”
“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”
You point at the screen. “Focus.”
“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”
You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”
“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”
You frown. “In English?”
She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”
“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”
“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”
Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.
You: I thought I told you not to spiral.
He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.
DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke.
DCRunner00: Mostly.
She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”
Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”
“No.”
She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”
You nod.
“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
“You’re the best, Pen.”
“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”
By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.
Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.
“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”
You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.
You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.
You glance at him. “Why?”
“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”
You roll your eyes. “Spence—”
“Something must be seriously wrong.”
You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.
“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”
His brows shoot up. “A guy—”
“Online,” you add quickly.
He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”
You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”
“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”
You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”
“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”
“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”
His forehead creases. “Have you told—”
“No.”
“Maybe you should—”
“I said no.”
“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”
You stare at him.
“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”
He pauses, frowning faintly.
“That was supposed to be reassuring.”
“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”
When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: You’re weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot.
You: Workaholic, remember.
You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, that’s not the reason.
Garcia: So there IS a reason?
You: Shh. I’m working.
Garcia: Boo!
You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.
It doesn’t work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.
If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.
An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.
One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.
DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me?
DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.
Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”
You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”
“No.”
“Are you insane?”
“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”
“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”
“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”
You press your free hand against your forehead.
“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”
Garcia scoffs loudly.
“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”
The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.
“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”
“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”
She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”
Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”
“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”
You nearly choke. “What?”
“Non-negotiable.”
“Penelope, that’s insane.”
“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”
“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.
“Mm-hm.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”
You frown. “…Morally complicit?”
“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”
You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”
She hums, satisfied.
“I need to reply to him again.”
“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”
“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”
“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”
“Absolutely not.”
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”
“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.
You: Lucky guess.
The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.
At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.
When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.
By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.
At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”
You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”
You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.
“See who soon?” Reid asks.
You glance at him. “Garcia.”
He tilts his head.
“She’s staying over tonight.”
His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”
“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”
His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”
You scoff. “About me? Never.”
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”
You pause mid-motion.
“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”
“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”
He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—
“Agent.”
You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.
You force a small smile. “Sir.”
His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”
You nod once. “Of course.”
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”
Your breath catches.
He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.
“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.
You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.
“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”
You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”
You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then—
“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”
You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”
You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.
And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.
The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.
“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.
“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.
Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.
“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”
You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”
“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”
Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”
You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.
DCRunner00: Refreshing
DCRunner00: Most people hide too much.
You: Depends what they’re trying to hide.
DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide?
You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing.
DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight.
You: Long day.
DCRunner00: I noticed.
You: How was yours?
You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.
Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.
“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”
“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.
Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.
The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.
“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”
You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”
“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”
“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”
Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”
“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”
You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”
“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”
Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”
“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”
Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”
Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.
“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.
Very slowly, you turn in your chair.
Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.
Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.
You want to die.
The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.
“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”
You drop your head into your hands.
“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.
“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.
You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.
Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.
But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.
“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”
He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”
You glance up at him hopefully.
“Morgan definitely is, though.”
You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.
The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner
Subject: Wallace Interview
You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”
You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”
“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.
You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.
Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.
You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment]
DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.
Ice floods your bloodstream.
You stop breathing.
“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You don’t answer him. You can’t.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Until—
“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”
She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”
Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”
“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”
You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.
Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.
“What’s going on?”
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.
Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.
Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.
Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
“Who sent this?”
Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.
It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.
“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.
“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”
You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”
“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”
Could this day get any worse?
Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.
“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”
“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”
You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”
There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.
“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”
Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”
You grimace. “Fantastic.”
“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”
“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”
You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”
The room goes still for half a second.
“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”
Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”
“Or angry,” Morgan adds.
“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”
You sink lower in your chair.
“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”
“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
“Ow.”
Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”
Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”
Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.
“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”
“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.
“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”
Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”
“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”
“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
You open your mouth to argue.
“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.
“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.
“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
“I’m taking her home.”
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.
Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.
Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.
“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.
He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.
He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.
Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.
Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.
“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”
Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.
Your eyes go wide.
Traitor.
Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.
Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?
He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.
You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.
Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.
If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.
Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.
But this?
This feels dangerously close to being found out.
The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.
Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.
Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.
By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.
Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.
“I’m fine.”
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”
He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
“You think this is nothing?”
His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.
“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.
He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.
That’s all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”
He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”
“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”
His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.
Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.
If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.
“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
“Alright. Keep me updated.”
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”
Your stomach tightens.
“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”
The name hits you immediately.
“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”
You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.
“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”
Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”
“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”
He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”
The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.
“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
“Why do you do that?”
You frown. “Do what?”
“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”
You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”
“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”
Your pulse stutters.
“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”
“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”
But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.
“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”
Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.
“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”
“Leave Leia out of this.”
“She doesn’t like strangers.”
“She likes you.”
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”
Oh God.
“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.
“You track me.”
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.
“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”
Your breath stutters.
And Hotch notices immediately.
His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.
“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.
He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.
“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”
Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.
“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”
His eyes lock onto yours.
“You redirect.”
You can barely breathe now.
He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.
And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.
You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.
“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.
He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.
His throat shifts slightly.
And then—
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.
Because holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
What the hell just happened?
“They got him.”
Your head snaps up. “They what?”
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”
“Oh.”
“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”
He pauses, then looks at you.
“But they got him.”
“Good,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.
“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”
You nod. “Okay.”
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”
“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
“Babysitting?” he repeats.
“You know what I mean.”
He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”
“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.
But you can’t.
All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.
You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.
His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesn’t last long.
Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.
Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
“Aaron—”
“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”
FRIDAY 6:15AM
Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—
Oh God.
The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.
Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.
Your stomach swoops.
You slept with your boss last night.
With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.
You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.
“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.
“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”
“Oh, he notices.”
Your stomach flips. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”
Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”
“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”
“Oh my God.”
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
“And the red bra,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Mm, sure.”
You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”
You feel his lips curve.
“Good thing I’m the boss.”
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.
The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”
You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.
“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”
Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”
You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”
“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.
You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”
“I was.”
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”
You frown. “Hotch, I—”
“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.
“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”
Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.
“…Huh.”
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
summary ᰋ perks of having a girlfriend that ran hot as shit at night was that clothes were pretty much nonexistent and that gave hotch the perfect opportunity to devour you whole anytime of the day.
perks of having you as a girlfriend was that you ran hot at night, so clothes just didn’t exist in your dictionary. maybe a shirt of aaron that was way too big on you—on a good day—and nothing else.
which brings us to the second point which is that it gave hotch a pretty good easy access in the mornings to do his job as being the alarm since you were a heavy sleeper.
it’s the same routine every time. he usually wake up a little early for his morning run anyway and then he’s on you. gently getting inside the covers kissing his way down your thighs.
he shifts under the covers, the fabric a soft weight over both of you. the air is warm from your body heat, smelling faintly of your body wash and whatever body oil you’ve applied the night before. aaron’s movements are deliberate but unhurried; he has time.
he parts your thighs with a firm but gentle pressure of his hands, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin where they meet your hips. he doesn’t rush to the main event. he kisses the hollows of your hips, the crease where thigh meets torso, his stubble a delicious, rough counterpoint to the softness of his lips. he’s just breathing you in for a moment, his warm breath ghosting over you, making you twitch in your sleep.
then he leans in and gives a slow, flat lick from your entrance up to your clit. the sensation is a slow, creeping wave of heat that pulls you from the depths of sleep. a soft sigh escapes your lips as your body arches instinctively toward his mouth. you recognize him even in your sleep and he takes that as his cue, his hands coming up to grip your hips, holding you open for him.
his tongue is an instrument of pure, focused pleasure. he starts with broad, languid strokes, coating you in his saliva, getting you wet and ready. he explores every fold, every curve, learning your all over again as if it’s the first time. he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, teasing, before flattening it and giving it a firm, slow suck. your hands fly down to tangle in his hair, your hips rocking against his face as you chase the sensation.
he groans against you, the vibration sending a jolt straight through your core. he loves this. loves the taste of you, the way your body responds to him, the soft sounds you make. he doubles down, his tongue becoming more insistent, more pointed. he flicks your clit rapidly, then seals his lips around it and sucks, hard. your breath hitches, your back arching off the bed as the pleasure builds to an almost unbearable peak.
“shit,” you gasp, your voice thick with sleep and arousal.
he hums in response, his tongue never ceasing its delicious torture. he slides one hand from your hip, his fingers finding your entrance. he teases you, circling the tight ring of muscle before slowly pushing one, then two fingers inside. he curls them just so, finding that spot that makes you see stars. his mouth works your clit in tandem with his fingers, a perfect, relentless rhythm that pushes you closer and closer to the edge.
your thighs start to shake, your grip on his hair tightening. the world narrows to the feeling of his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, the coiling tension in your belly. he can feel you’re close, your body clenching around his fingers. he sucks your clit harder, his tongue flicking it in a frantic rhythm, and that’s all it takes—
that’s all it takes—except he stops.
his mouth pulls back just enough to leave you hovering, a breath away from the fall. the only point of contact is the kitten-soft flick of his tongue against your clit, a maddening, teasing rhythm designed to keep you right on the razor’s edge. your hips jerk, trying to force more pressure, but his hands hold you firm, pinning you to the mattress.
“say my name baby?” he murmurs, the words a low vibration against your soaked flesh.
“please,” you whine, the sound thin and desperate. you shove the blanket down just enough to glare at him, and the sight nearly makes you come anyway. his hair is a wreck, his lips and chin are wet and shining with you, and his eyes are dark with smug satisfaction. god, what a sight.
“mm,” is all he says, a noncommittal hum against your clit that makes your whole body clench. he’s not giving in.
“james?” you grit out, a petty, triumphant barely there smirk touching your own lips. you know exactly what you’re doing. this is the downside—no, the brilliant side—of having a girlfriend who knows exactly which buttons to push. you rail him any fucking chance you get, just to see that muscle in his jaw twitch.
can’t help it he just looks so hot when he’s annoyed.
his eyes narrow. he doesn’t say a word. instead, he pulls his hand back and delivers a sharp, stinging slap directly to your pussy. the sound is wet and loud in the quiet room, and the jolt of pleasure-pain that follows is electric. it steals the air from your lungs and sends a fresh gush of wetness against his palm.
“wrong answer,” he grits out, before his mouth is back on you, devouring you with a renewed, punishing intensity. he sucks your clit hard, his tongue working frantically, pushing you right back to the peak in seconds. just as you’re about to tumble over, he stops again.
“try again,” he commands, his voice rough.
you gasp, writhing beneath him. “fuck. you, james.”
another slap. harder this time. you cry out, your back bowing off the bed. the sting blooms into a deep, throbbing heat that makes your head spin. tears of frustration and overwhelming sensation prick at the corners of your eyes.
“one more,” he warns, his tone leaving no room for argument. his fingers replace his tongue, curling inside you, pressing mercilessly against that spot while his thumb rubs tight, fast circles on your clit. the pressure is immense, a coiling spring in your gut wound so tight it’s about to snap.
“aaron,” you sob, the name tearing from your throat as a tear finally escapes and slides down your temple. “please, fuck, it’s aaron.”
“good girl,” he praises, and the relief is so immediate it’s dizzying. he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, his fingers pumping into you with a perfect, relentless rhythm. he doesn’t tease anymore. he takes what he wants, giving you exactly what you need. the orgasm that hits you is violent, explosive. it rips through you, stealing your vision and your breath, leaving you a shaking, sobbing, boneless mess. he works you through every aftershock, his touch softening as you come down, until you’re nothing but a pliant, trembling form beneath the sheets.
see? he’s so sweet when you corporate.
only then does he crawl up your body, kissing a trail over your stomach and tits until he reaches your lips. he kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
“need to leave in 10, i’ll be back before you know it,” he murmurs against your lips, a rare, soft smile in his voice when he sees your dazed expression.
Warnings: handcuffs, oral (fem receiving), overstimulation *moans*, dumbification, fingering, brat tamer!hotch, brat!reader, age-gap, reader is in college
Summary: You get mouthy and Aaron decides you need a break.
MDNI +18
Aaron sat across from you at your guys’ kitchen island. You were entranced by whatever was on your laptop as he spoke,”...and so we were thinking that it had something to do with the suspect from before- Y/n, honey, are you even listening?”
You snapped up,”What?”
Aaron sighed,”How long have you been working on schoolwork today?”
You immediately grabbed your laptop to pull it closer to you,”I had to finish assignments, this is my last one.”
Aaron narrowed his eyes and shook his head,”Nope- you’re gonna take a break.”
You got up from your seat, laptop in hand and backed away,”No! I have to finish this.”
Aaron cocked his head to the side in surprise,”Excuse me? Is that how you talk to me?”
“This is my schoolwork. Get off my case,” You spat.
Aaron's eyebrows raised as he rounded the kitchen counter. He took steps towards you closing the space only for you to step back and create more. “You’re barking up the wrong tree and you know it. Now hand me the laptop.”
“No! Leave me alone.” You quickly realized you were being backed into a wall. Aaron stood looking down at you sternly. There was something in his eyes that you couldn’t quite place, but you realized you were in for it now.
“I won’t ask again. Now give me the laptop, you’re too mentally drained to make any more progress,”Aaron stated.
“But-”
“Nope. Hand it over.” You accepted defeat and handed him the laptop with a sigh. Aaron took the laptop and set it back on the counter in the kitchen. Without looking up at you he commanded,”Go get on the bed. No clothes. Now.”
“What?” You asked confused.
“Do not make me repeat myself.”
Your heartbeat began a rapid thump in your chest as you quickly made your way down the hallway. You speedily removed all your clothes and laid on the bed expectantly. Aaron came in through the doorway, his white button-up shirt rolled up at the sleeves and dangling from his right hand a pair of police grade handcuffs. He didn’t say a word until he came up to the foot of the bed. He gripped your ankle and tugged you down closer to him. An involuntary yelp escaped your throat.
“Give me your hands,” he finally spoke. You obeyed him wordlessly afraid that if you mouthed off even a little whatever punishment Aaron had in mind would only grow worse. He took your hands and lifted your legs to press into your chest, essentially folding you in half. He took your wrists and forced them to wrap around your legs, holding them in positions. You felt the cold metal of the handcuffs press into the skin of your wrists and listened for the click.
You looked up at Aaron as he stood up straight. You were on display for him. Completely at his mercy. Your hands and legs restrained all you could effectively do was rock from side to side. You stared up at him, eyes blown wide waiting for his next instructions.
“Do you think it’s okay that you spoke to me that way?” Aaron asked.
“No- I’m sorry-,” you responded.
“Now, what happens to brats that mouth off?” Aaron queried.
You sighed looking down at your own arms and legs,”They get-.”
“Punished. That’s right, now you’re a smart girl, so here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m going to eat you out, and I’m not going to stop until you’re crying and all you can think about is me. Then maybe you’ll learn how important a break is.”
Your eyes got wider as he spoke and lowered himself to be face to face with your cunt. Aaron covered your pussy in a long broad stroke of his tongue. He dragged the wetness that pooled around your entrance and brought it up to your stiffened clit. Aaron drew tiny circles with the tip of his tongue. Each circle built up the pressure that sat in your lower belly. Aaron wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked it in, releasing a high pitched squeal from you.
Aaron continued his ministrations until you came for the first time that night. A static feeling was left before it quickly turned into overstimulation. Little whines left your lips as Aaron continued to eat your pussy with no remorse. And as quickly as the pain had arisen it dissipated into pleasure again.
Aaron smiled into your pussy as his fingers traced your entrance. Aaron’s index and middle finger breached your opening and stretched you out. You almost screamed at the sudden intrusion and Aaron laughed against your clit.
“Wait- too- too much!” You pleaded.
“Aw too bad.” Aaron spoke against your cunt continuing to pump his fingers in and out of you, curling them just right to brush against the spot that made you see stars. You came for the second time a slow build up pooling in your gut and spilling over all your senses. Letting out breathless moans that quickly turned into yelps as Aaron refused to cease.
“Please Aaron- I- I can’t-,” you begged, squeezing your eyes shut.
“You should've thought about that before you decided to be a brat. Cause now you’re gonna take it like a good girl.”
Little “ah”s escaped your lips as Aaron pushed you through the aftershocks of your orgasm and into the build up of the third.
“I- please- can’t-,” you breathlessly forced out.
“Aw, my clever girl, gone so dumb just from me having my tongue on her clit and my fingers stuffed in her cunt?”
“Aaron- please~,” you begged for nothing in particular. Was it for him to stop? Were you begging for release? You didn’t know anymore. Your poor brain had become so foggy and overstimulated that you just couldn’t take it. Your eyes squeezed shut as tears began to form, running down your cheeks, clumping up your eyelashes until you looked like a princess. At least that’s what Aaron thought as he stared up at you from between your legs. A final pump and suction of your clit was all it took for you to come again. This time you went out screaming, yelps and choked moans filled your shared bedroom as Aaron finally parted and ended his onslaught of your pussy.
“Aw you poor thing. That was a lot huh? Tired your poor brain out.”
You sniffled and looked at him as he stood up, chin gleaming in the low-light of the room. The glaze on his chin a reminder of the beautiful torture you just went through.
“Now, what’s the verdict? Are you gonna listen to me now when I tell you, you need a break?”
You nodded in response knowing damn well tomorrow night would probably leave you in a similar position.
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Here for baby blurbs!! How about Hotch pulling reader into his lap and laying kisses over her forehead, either just because or because he’s had a long day and that makes him fully unwind 🥹🫶🏼
fem, 0.8k
It’s not that Aaron isn’t a cuddler, but he usually waits to be in bed. The moment you're climbing into the sheets beside him, his body will shift toward you and his arm curls over your front, tugging you backwards, broad front behind your and his face sharing your pillow.
On the couch, he tends to allow for more space. Your Aaron, the tentative. You never would’ve thought he’d be careful in love, but he is. Always waiting for your say so, before he kisses too deeply or touches ardently. He never pinches you. Never bites unless you ask. And it’s kind of how you like things, like, you’re too precious to roughen up, even in heated moments, but it also means that most hugs in the daylight are ones you initiate, like he might hurt you in the wrap of his arms.
But tonight, he doesn’t wait for your outstretched hand. You’re sitting in the corner seat with a share bag of chips you have, perhaps greedily, decimated in less than half an hour. You did ask Aaron if he wanted any, but he said his usual, “I would’ve got my own bag, honey, don’t worry.” He’s old school. Your money is your money and his money is also your money. Your chips are your chips, etc. You wipe your fingers on a tissue from the coffee table after a while, and take a couple of sips of Aaron’s drink without asking because he loves you and never cares, but you’re wondering if that’s true still when he apprehends you, dragging you to his side.
“Woah!” you laugh. “What!”
“Come here, you.”
“I could’ve gotten here myself,” you say, giggling as he lays you out across his lap, your head on the armrest and your back to his thighs. You wriggle. He shifts you around until you’re comfortably settled.
“I didn’t mind helping,” he says. You laugh again.
From this angle, he’s different. Not any less handsome, but soft. His hair is dark and his eyes are stern. Five minutes in his lap can make you ache: there is something about Aaron that keeps drawing you in, even now. He will always be kind, generous, but it’s this strange bit of authority that will always linger and that toys with you. You think he’s the hottest guy ever, so what? He pulled you into his lap, after all.
“What’s up?” you ask.
“I saw you drinking my soda and couldn’t resist you,” he says, teasing and honest at once.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I figured we use the same toothbrush–”
“Once, accidentally–”
“–and share bodily fluids enough for you to not mind.”
“I will never mind.” He cups your cheek. His hand is so, so big, rough palm, callouses aligned with a leather grip, but soft enough as he cradles your face, a warm thumb sliding over your lips and under your nose and back again, uncaring of the slight distension it makes of your mouth. “You are an uncouth girl,” he murmurs, wrinkling his nose.
“Shut up, I am not,” you murmur back, cheeks hot under his touch.
He smiles. It makes you think of all the times he’s smiled before, on top of each other; in a shower too small for you both, suds on his chest; across a supermarket aisle choosing porridge oats with the heaviest basket in the world lying in his elbow; just ten minutes ago, when you’d whined about your legs hurting and declined his massage, citing his unlikely sordid reasoning, just to make him laugh.
“I’m not a girl, and I’m polite,” you say.
Aaron leans down to kiss you between the brows. “I know.”
His kisses move and multiply. He places one at the arch of your right eyebrow, into your temple, and across your crown. His lips falter at the edge of your hairline and he ducks his head, rubbing his nose there as he so often does in bed, during sex and any other closeness, the weight of something unspoken laid in his touch. He slowly, softly, presses another kiss there. You’re surprised you aren’t silken there from the friction of his adoring. It is his favourite place to kiss you, besides your mouth (and the insides of your thighs).
“You don’t understand how much I needed that,” he says.
“What, to kiss me?” you ask, genuinely curious.
“Mm-hm. I feel better now. You fixed me up, honey, because you always do.”
“I’m just laying here,” you say, a touch shy and a greater touch longing for him to kiss you again.
Your Aaron can read minds. He dips down and begins kissing again, traversing across your forehead and down to your ear, then just below it, his content hum going straight to your eardrum.
“You don’t have to do more than that to fix me,” he promises.
You stroke a hand through his hair lovingly. He can cover you in kisses all night if it makes him happy.
pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!reader
genre: smutty smut smut
w.c.: 5k
a/n: requested by @mggslover ty bb i love you and i hope you enjoy <3333
summary: It's finally spring, Aaron wears a short sleeve shirt, and you can't stop staring at his arms.
c.w.: 18+ MDNI, reader has a thing for hotchs arms she just like me fr, choking/breathplay, no prior kink discussion (dont be like them), dom/sub undertones, slight exhibitionism, unprotected p in v sex, established relationship, some dirty talk, hints of breeding kink, aftercare duh
read below or on ao3 here <3
The first time you met Hotch, he immediately drew you in. His tall stature, his impeccably pressed suit, and his unwavering eye contact as he shook your hand from across his desk before your interview.
It took several months for you to really notice him—the delicious way he filled out those suits, the soft honey brown of his eyes when he glanced over at you in concern during briefings, and the way he nearly towered over you at the coffee machine, fingers brushing when you let him use your coffee creamer. He loved his people almost too fiercely and had the most ridiculously dry sense of humor that never failed to crack a smile on your face when the cases began to weigh on your shoulders.
He's the most caring and honest man you’ve ever been with, most likely created to catch the worst of humanity, however today, you were starting to wonder if you could get away with selfishly locking him in your apartment forever.
It had been a strangely warm spring day and Hotch had decided to wear a plain white shirt with dark jeans, both suspiciously tighter than usual. Your mouth already watered at the way the short sleeves were showing off his toned arms, but today? You honestly were starting to wonder if he was doing this all on purpose.
The way he stretched his arm out to hold onto the steering wheel when he drove the both of you to the grocery store, the hem of his shirt lifting to show off his stomach and the flexing of his bicep as he picked up the paper towels from the top shelf, and the way you could see the tension of his muscles as he carried the groceries in after waving off your outstretched hand.
By the time you were dropping onto the couch after finally convincing Aaron to let you help put the groceries away, your eyes drawn to him every time he stored something in the upper cabinets, you were one bicep flex away from jumping his bones.
But you can’t. Not today, when you had a long list of errands that you had been putting off for weeks now. You were starting to regret your choice of sundress as your bare thighs rubbed together, aching for some kind of relief from the heat persistently tugging between them.
“What’s gotten into you lately?” You tear your gaze away from where you were staring at your bare feet to Aaron peering at you in concern from the kitchen. He reaches for a glass of water from the overhead cabinet and you watch the muscles shifting in his arm, in his back, as he turns away to fill it up with the jug from the fridge.
He comes to stand in front of you, hand almost comedically placed on his waist, as he chugs his water. Up close, you’re able to see the sweat beading at his hairline, the hollow of his throat, and gathering underneath the collar of his shirt.
Jesus Christ, it wasn’t that hot outside, was it?
“Nothing,” you choke out, eyes following the bob of his Adam’s apple. “Why?”
He hums, placing the empty glass on the coffee table. For some reason, the sound sends a shiver down your spine, causing goosebumps to rise on your arms despite the cloying humidity in the apartment.
Aaron’s wearing an unreadable expression, face carefully blank, however there’s something swimming in his eyes that causes heat to curl in your stomach. His mouth twitches, something smug tugging at the corners, as his eyes rake over the deep plunge of your neckline and the hem of your dress riding up your thighs.
He sits next to you on the couch, the cushion dipping underneath his weight, and the heat of his body next to yours is nearly unbearable. He turns to you carefully, as if you were a skittish animal, and places a large hand on the bare skin of your thigh. “You only wear that dress when you want something, so use your words, sweetheart.”
You’re not sure how he knew that when you definitely didn’t—having had picked out the first dress you saw that looked like you wouldn’t suffocate in the heat from. But he’s right, because the white sundress you were wearing was one of his favorites; hugging your curves in all the right places, delicate neckline perfectly framing your chest, and short enough where the slightest breeze could lift up the hem.
“Uhm.” And then, despite being a seasoned profiler, your gaze unconsciously flits to his hand on your thigh, trailing up to his biceps, and then back to his face.
The corner of Aaron’s mouth just barely quirks, his fingers on you twitching. “Really? That’s what’s got you all hot and bothered today?”
“You’re the one wearing— that!”
He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, but you can see the faintest twinge of pink on the tips of his ears. For someone as ridiculously handsome as him, he’s always struggled with handling compliments, which you’re sure has greatly increased since you two have been together.
You jump out of your thoughts when you feel Aaron’s hand slowly trail up your thigh, dipping underneath the edge of your dress. His fingertips barely ghost along the edge of your panties before he’s sliding his hand out from underneath the fabric. You watch with bated breath as his hands traces up your thigh again over your dress, up your hip, your side, and grazing the side of your breast.
It would’ve been ticklish, causing you to normally squirm, but the heat from his touch and the intensity in his stare has you rooted to the spot, something molten forming in the pit of your stomach.
And then his hand comes up to the side your neck, the warmth of his palm pressing against you and his thumb brushing your jawline. He’s gentle, nearly reverent, undoubtedly able to feel the thrumming of your pulse and the way your chest has started heaving.
You feel his thick fingers press on the nape of your neck, his thumb coming up to rest on your chin, and the slight pressure has you tilting your chin up at him. Your lips part, your exhale coming out in a rush at the dizzying sensation of his hands on you and so close to where you want him, and then he’s kissing you.
He tastes like summer, sweat and sunlight, with a faint hint of the blueberry pastry that he had sampled at the grocery store. He’s sweet, always tender, and you’re not sure if the barely detectable hunger that you can sense is from him or yourself.
When he pulls away, you instinctively try to chase after him, but the hand on your neck, heavy and comforting, holds you back.
The house is quiet besides the soft humming of the air conditioner, but you don’t seem to hear it with the blood rushing through your ears as Aaron’s eyes flit over your face. You don’t know what kind of expression you’re wearing, your focus honed in on the slight pressure on your neck.
He watches you intently as his thumb drops from your chin, trailing fire across your skin, and then his hand is curling around your throat. He lightens up on the pressure, making sure he’s not pressing down on your windpipe. He just has his hand on your neck, not squeezing, but the feeling of how much bigger he is, the warmth of his palm, and the silent fact that you’re essentially at his mercy and under his control has you releasing a shaky breath.
The sensation of being restricted and the quiet possessiveness of his hold on you has heat surging through your veins, causing your thighs to tremble from how hard you’re squeezing them together in an effort to subdue the onslaught of wetness seeping through your panties. You’re barely conscious of your shoulders slumping, the work week’s tension melting from your body, as your hand comes up to curl around Aaron’s wrist. Not telling him to stop, but to ground yourself from floating away.
Aaron can tell, of course he can, either based off the sudden glassy look in your eyes or the unsteady breaths rattling out of you. He still asks, voice raspy, “Is this okay?”
Yes, yes, fuck yes, it’s okay, is what flashes in your brain in giant neon letters, wanting nothing more than for him to touch you, kiss you, tighten his grip on you.
The words don’t come, your brain having difficulty relaying information to the rest of your body besides complete arousal. You lick your lips, mouth suddenly dry, and delight in the way Aaron’s eyes follow the movement of your tongue. When you swallow, your throat flexes, pressing against his hand and feigning a tighter level of restriction.
“Yes…” you exhale. “More than okay.”
His lips surge into yours, his previous gentleness thrown out the window. You’re able to taste his hunger this time as his mouth frantically moves against yours, deepening the kiss and swallowing the whimper you unconsciously let out.
He maneuvers you, pushing into your space, until you’re laying across the couch with him kneeling in between your legs, splayed open over his thighs. He hovers over you and your eyes fixate on the way his bicep flexes as he props his free arm next to your head. He presses open-mouthed kisses along your cheek, your jawline, and murmurs “I know just what my sweet girl needs, hm?”
His left hand never leaves the base of your throat.
Yes, fuck, you always know what I need and when I need it. He nips at that spot right underneath your jaw, his mouth brushing against his fingers where he still has that intoxicatingly possessive hold on you. You whimper at the cold press of his belt buckle against your lower stomach as he leans in between your legs, so close to where you’re nearly aching for him. “Always.”
He leans away to sit back, his left hand unfurling from around your neck to trail over your chest and grope your breasts through the fabric. You try not to think about how you immediately miss the weight of his hand, resist the urge to grab his wrist to bring it back up to grab your throat like he owned you.
He pauses, eyebrow quirking when he can feel that you weren’t wearing a bra. He easily tugs the neckline down, nearly stretching the fabric, until your breasts spill out. His hands immediately gravitate to them, squeezing and massaging your flesh while he thumbs at your nipples, easily hardening from his touch and the cold apartment air.
“No bra? Dirty girl,” he tuts, shaking his head as if reprimanding you.
You arch into his touch, your breaths coming a little easier now without the heady pressure of his hand as you let out a soft gasp. “It was too hot to wear one today.”
He hums, flippantly, as if he doesn’t believe you, nearly engrossed in the way his hands look on you. There’s a burning, unrestrained kind of hunger in his gaze that has your face growing hot.
His fingers briefly circle your nipple before pinching, tightly enough where you’re squirming in his lap, before leaning in and wrapping soft lips around it while his other hand pinches at the other nub.
A moan startles out of you, eyes fluttering shut as pleasure floods your veins and gathers in between your legs, arching into the warm wet heat of his mouth. “Fuck, Aaron…”
And then he’s pulling away despite the pathetic whine you let out, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. “Always so sensitive…” he murmurs, fingers still casually toying with your nipples, not even paying attention to your breathy moans. “If only I could take my time and suck and play with your nipples all day.”
One of his hands comes down between your legs, fingers brushing the inner flesh of your thigh before flipping the skirt of your dress up, baring you in your lacey white panties. You didn’t have to look to know the center was completely soaked through, melded to your skin.
He makes a quiet choked noise at the sight and it sends a self-satisfied thrill through you, knowing that no matter how many times he’s settled in between your thighs, he still acts like he can’t believe he’s even there in the first place.
You cant your hips up at him, silently vying for some sort of attention, and your breath escapes you in a whoosh when both of his hands come to press your hips down to hold you still. That silent display of power again and the slight flex of his arms has you squirming in his grasp.
“Impatient…,” he chuckles, his left hand releasing you so he could gently trace the lacey edge of your panties. “If only if I had the time to eat your pussy and have you come on my tongue all day.”
Before you could beg him to please do just that, he’s pressing two fingers against your cunt through the soaked fabric. The heat of him and the thickness of his fingers against your clit has you whining.
“But school pick-up is in an hour, so I’ll just fuck you instead.”
Aaron’s words don’t even register through your brain, too busy short-circuiting at the deliberately lazy circles on your clit and the way the damp fabric rubbing against you has you grinding your hips down instinctively. Your mouth drops open, head tilting back to stare up at the ceiling as your breath stutters in your chest as pleasure thrums up your spine.
He tugs your panties aside to swipe his fingers through your pussy, quickly gathering the wetness between your folds with a soft curse, and then pushing one thick finger inside of you.
You choke on a moan, eyes nearly rolling back in your skull at the feeling of finally being filled, the ache in between your thighs only slightly wavering. Aaron always takes his time with you, adamant about making sure you were fully stretched out enough to take his thick cock, but the way he’s immediately crooking his finger into you as he hungrily drinks in the way your tits move with every shaky exhale has you thinking otherwise.
He lets go of you, letting you move your hips down to meet his finger, so he could run his palm up your tensing stomach, over your breasts, and then resting at the base of your neck.
Your eyes snap open at that, meeting Aaron’s heated gaze as best as you could despite the sudden intensifying throb between your legs overwhelming you. You must already look fucked out, eyes glossy and eyebrows pinched together, because Aaron was staring at you like he was willing to spend the rest of his life taking you apart.
You nod, and then his hand is wrapping around your throat, fingers and thumb putting the slightest amount of pressure against the sides of your neck.
The white-hot euphoria was nearly instant—your breath gets knocked out of you, your eyelids flutter, and the fire at the pit of your stomach seems to have spread throughout your entire body. The heavy weight on your throat, your moans turning into wet gasps as your airway was barely restricted, was fucking amazing.
“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” Aaron pushes another thick finger inside of you, causing you to let out a muted whimper. “Christ, you’re so fucking wet.”
You can hear the lewd squelching of your pussy with every thrust of his fingers through the roaring of blood in your ears, because you’ve somehow gotten wetter, hotter, just from his hand on your throat. Your gaze fixates on the muscles tensing in his biceps as his fingers plunge into you, as he chokes you, and you realize you were suddenly close to coming. Almost embarrassingly fast, as your hands immediately fly to Aaron’s wrist hovering above you as the coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter before you could even process it.
“Aaron,” you try to say, cry out, except it comes out as a hoarse whisper. You grind your hips down in attempt to meet his fingers, always able to get so much deeper than your own, but the hand on your throat imperceptibly tightens and you can’t move. He’s holding you down, keeping you exactly where he wants you, and you have no choice but to take it.
“Come on, you can come for me.” It’s new, coming just from Aaron’s words and permission, but you’re wondering if it’s something you need to implement all the time because the band in the pit of your stomach snaps, the dam finally breaking, as your orgasm hits you so hard you would’ve curled in on yourself and screamed if it weren’t for Aaron’s grip on you. Instead, all you can let out was a stifled groan, not even caring how hard you were squeezing Aaron’s wrist, as your hips stutter in the air, against his fingers.
His fingers loosen until it’s splayed open-handed at the base of your throat and you sharply inhale, not even realizing you were starting to get lightheaded, as your thighs squeeze around his hand as he slows down his movements, still fucking into you deep enough to help you come down from the aftershocks.
“Good girl,” he mutters, the low timbre of his voice sending a shiver down your spine and causing you to weakly squeeze your fingers where they’re still wrapped around his wrist.
He leans in, hovering his broad body over yours, as he presses a tender kiss to your sweaty temple. The scent of his cologne, clean and soft, sends a wave of comfort over you despite the ache in between your thighs still nagging at you. “Are you okay?”
You huff a laugh, your hands skimming up his forearm to place on his bicep where you can feel the muscles tense from holding himself up over you. “Jesus Christ, yes.”
“Good.” The way he says it, almost ominously, has your breath hitching. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
And then he’s getting off the couch, standing up and pulling you down with his hands on your ankles until your ass was hanging off the edge of the couch. You let out a delighted laugh at his manhandling, arousal humming low underneath your skin, and you’re about to spread your legs and hitch them onto his hips when he’s grabbing onto your hips to flip you over.
He’s crowding up against you until you’re kneeling, elbows pressed into the back of the couch, and you’re face to face with the large window that takes up most of the living room wall. Your face immediately heats because, from this position, you’re overlooking the apartment complex’s courtyard from the second story window.
It was mid-afternoon on a Friday and your apartment complex was quiet even on Saturday nights as most of the residents were older professionals and luckily not the rowdy college crowd you had hoped to avoid when you signed your lease. You stare at the empty water fountain, the overgrown hedges, and knew that despite the nice weather, no one was going to want to spend their afternoon here. Either way, the idea of someone being able to look up and spot you getting fucked by your incredibly capable boyfriend has something heady curling up your spine.
Aaron’s large hand settling on the base of your spine brings you out of your thoughts, your dress still bunched around your waist. You feel the head of his cock nudging against your entrance, rubbing in between your slick folds, and you moan in surprise as you try to crane your neck to look back over your shoulder.
Your mouth starts watering, because Christ, Aaron’s standing behind you with one knee propped up on the couch, jeans unbuckled and tugged down along with his boxers just enough to free his leaking hard cock. He’s kept his shirt on and you don’t know whether you want to stare at the soft expanse of his tummy that’s exposed or the flex of his arms as he continues using the head of his cock to gather your wetness.
“Look at you,” Aaron growls, eyes fixated on your leaking entrance and your damp thighs. “You were made for taking this cock, weren’t you, sweetheart?”
“Oh, fuck—” He doesn’t give you the option to answer, most likely not even searching for one, as he finally presses his cock inside of you, stretching you blissfully open. Your words die in your throat, catching on a sigh, as your head drops between your shoulders.
You were already wet, possibly wetter than you’ve ever been in your life, but Aaron’s fingers can’t stretch you out the way his thick cock does, can’t split you open deliciously the way having him pressed all the way inside of you feels.
“That’s it, you can take it,” he coos, pressing further and further into you and causing your whimpers to get higher in pitch, until his hips are pushed up against yours. He stills, letting you catch your breath for just a moment while his thumb draws circles on your hip, before he’s pulling back and then thrusting back into you with a grunt.
You let out a wet gasp, your hands scrambling to find purchase on the couch cushions underneath you, as Aaron starts a relentless pace, fucking you in earnest. Fingering and choking you must have gotten to him just as much as it did to you.
He leans in and bears down on you, his chest flush against your back, while the rhythm of his hips doesn’t falter for even a second. You can feel the sporadic warm breaths on the back of your neck, your ear, while his hand snakes underneath you so he can rub tight circles on your swollen clit and the other takes a hold of your shoulder, pulling you off and on of his cock. “Your pussy always feels so good, honey, always so tight for me.”
You can only let out a strangled noise, your thighs shaking and your body nearly crumpling in on itself at the first touch on your aching clit if it weren’t for the arm Aaron had wrapped around your hip. “Fuck, Aaron, please—”
He hums, condescending, mocking—poking at the fire building hot and fast in your stomach. You were somehow already close again. “Please? Please what?”
You don’t know what you’re begging for, the word having escaped your mouth before you could stop it, but you could tell something was missing. You want him to please don’t stop fucking you, please don’t stop rubbing your clit the perfectly calculated way he always does, please don’t stop leaving hot and open-mouthed kisses on the back of your shoulder as he grunts in your ear.
You catch your reflection in the window and the tips of your ears warm from the sudden thrill of humiliation at the sight. Your mouth was dropped open with every shaky moan that rose from your chest, your half-lidded eyes nearly glazed over, and your breasts swaying with every roll of Aaron’s hips.
When you notice the sudden emptiness at the base of your throat and his fingers grappled onto your shoulder, you realize exactly what you’re begging for.
“Please,” you pant, meeting Aaron’s smoldering gaze through the reflection. “Please choke me.”
His rhythm falters for a second before stilling, the hand on your hip tightening as he hides his face against your shoulder blade. You think you see an incredulous smile tugging at his mouth, a huff of a laugh before he’s kissing at a notch in your spine as he says “I think you’re trying to kill me.”
“As long as you don’t actually kill me,” you say, voice suspiciously sounding like a whine as you wiggle your hips because why did he stop moving.
You can hear Aaron rolling his eyes, feeling him press another kiss to your back, and then he’s pulling you up until you were kneeling back into his chest, causing your back to arch. His hand moves from your shoulder to the base of your neck, until he’s slowly wrapping his left hand completely around your throat.
A shudder runs through you, the ache in your chest finally evaporating and the itch underneath your skin melting away as the weight of his hand gets heavier against you. When you catch your reflection in the mirror again and notice how much bigger his hand looks wrapped around your neck and the bulge of muscle next to your head, the veins of his forearms taunting you, the thought of asking him to put you in a headlock and restricting your breathing even further was dizzying.
The request dies on your tongue with a particularly powerful and deep thrust, your mouth dropping open as you cry out, and you suddenly felt like you were dangling off the edge of a dangerous precipice.
Aaron lets out a guttural groan at the way your walls flutter around him, and when he pulls back and fucks back into you hard, the sounds of his skin slapping against your ass, he hisses right in your ear, “You always beg so pretty for me, sweetheart.”
The low rasp of his voice, his fingers rubbing deliberately over your clit, and the gentle squeeze of his hand around your throat has your entire body tensing and coming with a gasp. It’s not as intense as your first one, something sharper and sudden that still has your thighs trembling and breath stuttering.
Before you’ve even come down from your high, Aaron pulls you with his fucking grip on your throat until you’re sitting up straighter, still flushed against his chest, and then pounding into you with a brutal pace.
You’re overstimulated, thighs trembling, as his hips snap against yours, the vulgar noises of your soaked pussy filling the room. You don’t move away—you can’t, when you notice how Aaron’s forearm presses against your chest, right in between your breasts, essentially holding you there while he uses you to chase his own orgasm.
Your eyes roll back at the thought of him using your pussy, keeping you right where he wants you so he can fill you up, his hand on your throat like he owns you.
“One more,” he growls, causing you to meet his gaze through the reflection in surprise. His hair has started to stick to his forehead and there’s a furrow in his brow, as if he’s staving off his orgasm for your impossible third one.
You give a weak shake of your head, feeling like your body was melting in on itself as he continues rutting into you.
“I c-can’t…” you whisper despite the spark of heat between your thighs, sharp arousal humming through your veins. You’ve never been able to come more than twice and the second one already made you feel lightheaded, your hips starting to squirm.
“One more,” he repeats, as if he never even heard you, as if he didn’t care, before he’s fucking into you relentlessly, desperately, and swiping against your clit so hard it was bordering on painful.
You cry out, nearly screaming, but it’s swiftly cut off into a whine by the tightening of his hand on your throat. Pure ecstasy hits you like a fucking freight train again at the sudden lack of oxygen, nearly exhilarating, as you try to meet Aaron’s intense stare through the windowpane with half-lidded eyes.
Your orgasm creeps up on you as you writhe against his hold, too focused on the intoxicating feeling of his thick forearm and the tensing of his bicep muscle as he holds you against him. The power he had over you in that moment was addicting, physically, maybe even emotionally, and you suddenly wished you could have his hand around your throat all the time.
You were floating, brain most likely having melted and leaked out of your ears, because you don’t even notice your orgasm splintering through you until Aaron’s hips stutter from your walls spasming and contracting around his cock and he rasps “There we go, that’s my sweet girl.”
When he releases his hold around you, allowing you to suck in a sharp breath, he’s pumping into you not even once, twice, before he’s spilling into you with a low groan and a stutter of his hips. He grinds into you, as if making sure your pussy was filled with every last drop, and the action makes your knees buckle.
You’re breathless, not even entirely because of your boyfriend’s hand squeezing around your throat, and feeling significantly dazed as your entire body trembles with aftershocks. Aaron shivers at that, pressing a kiss at the top of your spine, before he slowly pulls out of you.
He grabs the spare blanket thrown over the arm of the couch to splay out before wrapping his wonderful, sexy, strong arms around your waist to maneuver your limp body until both of you were lying on your sides. The two of you made a tight fit, your legs intertwining and bunched together, covered in sweat, but you didn’t care.
You didn’t care because Aaron’s hands were flitting over your body, tenderly checking you for any marks on your neck, while he trailed chaste kisses along the shell of your ear.
“You okay?” he whispers once your breathing has evened out, thumb rubbing sweet circles against your hip.
Your brain still hasn’t caught up with you yet, but you swallow, throat dry, and shakily say “That was…”
“Good?”
You let out an exasperated huff. If you had any feeling in your body, you would’ve swatted him on his arm. “Can we do that every time now?”
“Very funny,” he says, undoubtedly trying to refrain from rolling his eyes because he’s nice and knows not to poke too much fun at you right after you come so hard you’ve ascended to another planet.
You hum, partly because you knew he would let you do whatever you wanted and partly because you didn’t have the energy to say anything more. The two of you spend the next ten minutes like that, Aaron pushing his nose into the nape of your neck and squeezing his arms around your waist to pull you impossibly closer, while your heart felt significantly full.
Later, when Aaron has helped clean you up and the two of you were heading out the door, Aaron pulls you back over the threshold with a hand around your wrist. “Wait.”
“Hm?” You turn around, expecting him to tell you that you forgot your purse or your keys.
You don’t expect him to crowd you against the wall to kiss you, one of his hands coming up to lightly wrap around your throat.
It’s almost concerning how immediate your reaction is—knees buckling, all the air escaping from your lungs in one fell swoop, your body essentially turning limp as a daze overtakes you. You return his kiss, as best as you could, but that quiet possessiveness and control he has over you causes heat to weakly stir in between your legs.
When he pulls away and notices your pupils blown wide and shaky breathing, he gives you a devastatingly handsome, yet wicked smile. “Just wanted to kiss you.”
And then he’s releasing you and out the door, nearly halfway across the parking lot to his car and leaving you utterly stunned with the front door still open. When the faint breeze carries in through the entryway and does nothing to cool the heat emanating from your face, you knew you were going to be in trouble.
taglist <3 kisses for all of you @kiwriteswords @solardrop @knitmeatardis @maeintree @pastelpinkflowerlife @storiesofsvu @actualdeemon @khxna
I need hotch with angry bau reader 😔😔 I’m genuinely so pissed off recently and him calming me down would actually heal me
over the line
you and me both 😣 cw; bau fem!reader, established relationship, typical cm case descriptions, a misogynistic rude officer, hurt to comfort <3 wc; 1.2k
You’d just finished another debrief on a case you already knew would be especially difficult. After all, it wasn’t every day you were called out after only one victim; this one had been so brutal that nobody wanted to give the guy a chance to do much as think about making it serial.
Now, you were all gathered around the table, deep in discussion of victimology. But despite the focus, you still caught the murmur of a side discussion to the left of you.
"Don’t know why we’re even trying to find this guy. Way she was flirting, sounds like she had it coming." One of the officers snickered under his breath, muttering to his colleague. He got a laugh in response. A laugh. Un-fucking-believable.
You were already in a bad mood hearing about the case on the jet, but rehashing it brought an even sicker feeling to your stomach. It didn’t help that your features left you a practical mirror image to the victim. It may have well been you plastered up on that board.
You turned towards the officer, your expression full of shock and disdain. "What did you just say?"
Sharing a glance with his friend, he realized he had two options: retreat and shut up, or continue to be an asshole. Clearly he chose the latter, the option that fed his ego. “I said she had it coming. Look at her,” he added, gesturing towards the table with open disgust.
The crime scene photos. The victim bound and mutilated. The defense marks were clear as day, painting the image of her struggle in your mind as if you’d watched it happen right in front of you.
"She had it coming." You repeated, taking an authoritative, threatening step towards him. The rest of the group fell silent, their attention snapping to you. "You think she asked for this to happen? Is that what you think?"
He shrugged, a smirk forming on his face. He challenged you right back: Yes.
A sharp, disbelieving laugh tore out of you. Your fists clenched as you stepped in again, deliberately invading his space. “Maybe we should hand you over to him next,” you snapped, your voice rising with fury. “Then we’ll see how fast you realize nobody asks for this.”
“From the looks of it, I’d think he’d prefer you.”
“Oh-”
Before you could finish, Aaron intervened, gently yet resolutely grabbing your elbow. He held back the Sweetheart that threatened to pass his lips. "Agent. A word, please."
"Get your men in order. It's disgusting." You snapped at the chief as he joined the rest of you, arriving too late to stop what had already been said.
Your glare didn’t waver as Aaron began to guide you away. You allowed him to do so, even as anger burned hot in your chest, your hands still trembling at your sides. His grip was grounding, even as your pulse still pounded, rage coursing through your veins.
"I don't care if I was out of line." You started rambling as soon as the conference room door shut behind the two of you. "I wasn't going to stand there and let him belittle that poor girl."
Now, finally able to use the endearments he’d grown accustomed to, Aaron tried, “Sweetheart-“
"The fucking audacity.” You let out an exasperated sigh, beginning to pace. “Again, I don’t care if I overstepped, I don’t care how ‘unprofessional’ it was. He had no right - none - to speak about her like that, to twist what happened into some sick joke.”
"That's not why I pulled you away. I was afraid you'd start swinging at the guy."
You scoffed, averting your eyes, though the tension in your expression didn’t ease. Crossing your arms tightly over your chest, you shook your head, your jaw set. "He deserved it."
"He did. He was out of line, and thought he could get away with it without consequence. You made sure he didn’t.“ Aaron's lips tugged into a smile, referring to you barking at the person in charge. "And you did my job for me. Maybe you should do it more often."
You laughed gently, but it faded as quickly as it came. You felt yourself coming back down, the anger no longer flaring but settling into something quieter, heavier.
“Hey.” His hands rested gently on your forearms, holding you still and steadying you once more. While appropriate, an outburst from you was rare. "Do you want to talk about it?"
As Aaron studied you, his brown were soft and full of concern. He could see the exhaustion etched into your features, the way your shoulders carried the weight of the past few days. The empathy you felt for the victim.
He was infuriated by the way the officer had spoken to you, and in moments like this, he almost wished he didn’t have a badge - or the restraint that came with it; sometimes it would be nice - and warranted - to be able to use his fists to make a point. He ached at the thought of how it must have made you feel, even as a quiet sense of pride settled in at how you’d handled yourself.
You shrugged, biting on the inside of your cheek. To hold back tears? Buying time to answer? You weren’t quite sure.
Quickly glancing around to make sure no one was coming, he pulled you into his arms and held you close. There were no words that felt right - sometimes, that was just how it was. So he held you tighter, hoping it might be enough to say what he couldn’t.
You sank deeper into his touch, letting out a sigh as he pulled you close. For the first time in days, the tension in your shoulders began to ease. His embrace was familiar and loving, a quiet refuge from everything that had come before. If only you could stay here forever, wrapped in this quiet safety, shielded from all that was cruel and ugly.
"It's getting to me too." He offered softly. You weren't the only one visualizing yourself as one of the victims, and the thought unsettled him deeply.
You hummed sadly into his chest, burying your face deeper into it. For a moment, you were overtaken by the juvenile notion that you could hide here forever.
Much too soon, a knock on the door signaled that the two of you were needed. Aaron sighed and pulled back reluctantly, maintaining his hold on you. “Do you need another minute? Can I get you anything?”
Did you? Maybe you could manage, but the thought made your stomach twist into knots. Back into the suffocating atmosphere of the bullpen where horror awaited. Back to the misogynist asshole who thought he could belittle and poke fun without consequence. It would be much easier to stay here and hide - concealed and safe. But you couldn’t. You owed it to the victim. You had to see it through.
At your prolonged silence, and from the expression of unease that grew quietly on your face, Aaron decided for you. “Take all the time you need, sweetheart.”
“No, no, I’m okay,” you started to protest, rather unconvincingly - the shakiness in your voice giving you away. “I just want to catch this son of a bitch unsub.”
“Take two more minutes.” Aaron pressed a kiss to your forehead, reaching for the doorknob.
“Is that an order?”
With the door open halfway, he turned back, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “If that’s what it takes.”
Summary: Reader has worked for Aaron Hotchner for the past 6 months as the babysitter to his son, Jack.
Pairing: Hotch x (Female) Reader
Word Count: 7.4k – she thicc
Category: Smut/Fluff…and some angst because of who I am as a person.
Content Warning:
A/n: We all know that Hotch’s favorite album is the Beatles “White Album.” And I have odd choices for songs that I use as lullabies. This idea came into my head and never left. This video of Billie Eillish singing part of the song is the closest to the structure of how I imagined it.
Okay, okay, look, I know Roy wasn’t diagnosed until season 10. But I am taking creative liberties because I needed Jack to be younger.
Meaning this would be set around season 7. Hotch would be about 41, Jack is around 7; so, I made Reader around 26, giving them a 15-year age gap. Please don’t check my math. 😌
y/n = your name. y/l/n = your last name. italicized texts are Reader’s thoughts.
– If you want me to, I will. –
I was disoriented when I woke up. This isn’t my bed, I thought groggily. Wait…this isn’t even my house.
“Y/n,” a deep voice rumbled beside me.
I jackknifed up into a sitting position, eyes wide and my face flushed with embarrassment. “Mr. Hotchner!” I quickly brought my hand up to my cheek to make sure I hadn’t drooled in my sleep. Because that would really be the cherry on top of my embarrassment. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to fall asleep. This is so embarrassing.”
either before they together or when they first get together <3
Hot & Bothered (No, Like, Literally, You Have a Fever) - A.H.
summary: bimbo!assistant!reader is feverish, clingy & just a little delirious, except, not too delirious to shamelessly flirt with your very attractive, very exasperated boyfriend.
pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader
warnings: sick!reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, soft!hotch, flirty banter, suggestive-ish content, clingy!reader, hotch ignoring all cdc guidelines, reader is kinda being a baby about everything (just like me fr), theatre kid hotch.
wc: 2.3k
You started off playing it cute. All little sighs, sending Aaron pouty texts filled with emojis, making sure he knew you missed him, but in a haha, just kidding (unless?) kind of way. Now you're way past that. The cute phase had dissolved into something far more desperate.
You were sick-sick. The terrible kind of sick where your limbs feel like they're made of granite, and your skin somehow manages to burn and freeze at the same time.
Worst of all, Aaron wasn't here.
And really, what was the point of having a boyfriend as stupidly gorgeous, painfully competent, and naturally overprotective as Aaron Hotchner if he wasn't going to be around when you need him most?
You knew you were being dramatic. You knew this was your own fault. Aaron had practically ordered you to let him come home with you, standing there in his office with his disapproving frown, telling you that you shouldn't be alone if you weren't feeling well.
But in your infinite wisdom, you had waved him off, told him to stay at work. Because at the time, you were fine. Or, more so, fine-adjacent. And because sometimes, your brain tricks you into thinking you are a capable, independent woman who does not, in fact, require Hotch-shaped supervision.
So now you're curled up in bed, drowning in the well-worn fabric of his FBI academy hoodie, the one that smells like him. And it helps. But not enough.
Because if he were here, he'd be so good at taking care of you. He'd probably be all bossy and stern about it, telling you to drink your water, go to sleep, and stop pouting. But then he'd turn around and betray himself completely by smoothing your hair back so, so softly, by tucking the blankets up to your chin like you're something delicate. Contrary to popular belief, he did have a soft side.
Maybe you should call him. Maybe you should be really, really pathetic about it and beg him to come home.
Maybe you're just a little too codependent. (Just a little.)
The second the front door opens, you think you must be imaging it. You convince yourself it's the fever, twisting reality into want instead of what actually is. Because Aaron shouldn't be home yet.
You squint at the clock, but it's just a bunch of blurry numbers, and math is already hard enough without feeling like your brain is actively melting.
But then there's the sound of leather against hardwood, and not just any leather.
You know those shoes. The custom Italian Oxfords you forced him to let you buy. He'd grumbled about the price, all exasperated and dramatic (as if he had any real concept of what good leather actually costs), but he still let you drag him to the store. Still let you lace them up for him. Still let you kiss him senseless in the parking lot because he looked too insanely sexy in them to be allowed to exist without immediate compensation.
You'd told him once that good shoes take you good places. And now look where they took him.
Straight home to you.
The relief is so instantaneous, it makes your head spin. And suddenly, he's there, shoulders broad against the door frame, arms crossed, eyes warm despite the unimpressed look he's attempting to pull off.
"My poor baby," he says, half-teasing, but mostly just achingly soft.
Your bottom lip wobbles. "It's not that bad."
Aaron sighs loudly, already loosening his tie as he strides over, assessing the damage, which, in this case, is you, buried under what is objectively a very reasonable amount of blankets.
"Uh-huh." Flat. Dry. But he's already reaching to fix them, like he can't help himself. "That why you're buried in every blanket we own?"
You burrow deeper into said blankets. Maybe if you commit hard enough, he'll stop looking so smug.
"They're comfy."
He crouches beside the bed, undoing the last button on his cuff before pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. His touch is cool, and you lean into it immediately, shameless at how much you enjoy his skin against your overheated own.
"You're hot."
You blink at him, dazed, and—without thinking—mumble, "So are you."
The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret them. Not because they're untrue, that's indisputable, but because of the sheer pathetic delivery of it, all scratchy and pitiful and nothing like the effortless flirtation you usually bring to the table.
You groan, squeezing your eyes shut like that might somehow reverse time.
Aaron, of course, is completely unbearable about it. His lips twitch, and you can see it happening in real time, his struggle not to laugh directly in your face.
"Flattered," he drawls, his thumb brushing over your temple, fingers carding through your hair in slow strokes. "Have you been drinking enough water?"
You wrinkle your nose. "Water is boring."
"You're boring."
You gasp, sniffling as you try to look offended, despite the congestion ruining your tone. "Boring? You weren't calling me boring last night when I—,"
"Okay."
Aaron cuts you off immediately, already leaning down, pressing kiss after kiss to your face—forehead, cheeks, anywhere he can reach. You squeal in protest (or, well, try to, your voice is too weak for it to be truly effective), but he just laughs against your skin, relentless.
"Okay, I take it back," he murmurs, kissing your nose like an apology. Like a bribe. "You're the most exciting person I know. Now be exciting and drink some water before I have to force it down your throat."
"Force it down my throat?" you rasp, a weak smirk pulling at your lips as your fingers prod into his dress shirt. "You promise?"
"So inappropriate." He lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, but his hands are already cupping your face, his lips pressing to yours, like he loves kissing you too much to stop himself.
You barely have time to enjoy it before your brain remembers how sickness works.
"Wait, germs!"
Aaron just smirks, tilting your face up with a knuckle under your chin. "Since you brought up last night, that's an interesting concern, considering where your mouth was last night."
You should say something flirty in return. Something about how that was different because it was basically an act of public service (one you love providing). Because that's what you do. You throw him off, make him sigh like you're exhausting and adorable at the same time, watching his ears flush pink when he pretends he's not affected.
But the words never come, instead, your brain hands you a far worse visual. Aaron, like this, but worse. His face pale, head pressed against a pillow, forehead creased with discomfort he wouldn't acknowledge. You can see it clearly, the way he'd insist he's fine, the way he'd make it through a workday half-dead before even considering rest.
And suddenly nothing is funny.
Your fingers clutch at his shirt without thinking, like holding onto him will somehow fix the terrible, awful, no-good mental image you just had.
You're frowning, and you don't even realize it, not until Aaron does, his thumb pressing lightly against the center of your forehead, like he can smooth it away.
"I don't want you to get sick."
"My sweet girl," he murmurs, fingers threading through your hair once before he stands. "I can handle a cold. What I can't handle is you being miserable and dehydrated. Be good and let me take care of you."
Aaron disappears before you can argue and by the time he returns, a glass of water in hand, you've barely had a chance to process how much you missed him in those few seconds.
You watch as he puts it down on the nightstand beside you.
"There. Now drink."
"Yes, sir," you mumble, taking a few small sips just to prove that you're listening.
But if he really wanted you hydrated, he should've just kissed you again.
Aaron's eyes narrow, shooting you a pointed look.
You sigh, loud and put-upon, then take another sip, longer, just to appease him. You make a show out of it, before immediately reaching out, patting the empty space beside you with undeniable urgency.
Aaron snorts. "Didn't last long, did you?"
"I'm sick. I need warmth and love."
He exhales so dramatically, shaking his head. "If that's what my poor, suffering girl needs, then I suppose I have no choice."
Alright, theatre kid.
You bite your tongue, not because you're wrong, but because self-preservation is a skill, and you'd like to see another sunrise. And, fine. If he wanted to pretend like sitting still for five minutes was his own personal crucifixion, then who were you to deny him. It wasn't your fault, he ran himself into the ground, like he was trying to beat time himself, working to the bone until someone (you) had to physically drag him to bed.
You watch, maybe a little too intently, as he kicks off his shoes, undoes his belt, and swaps out his boring, stuffy work pants for the sweats. Your sweats. The ones you have a deeply personal attachment to.
You have history with those sweats.
"You know, you put those on and suddenly I start feeling a whole lot better." Call it divine intervention, maybe. "Do you think if you let me sit on your lap, I'd be at full strength again? Because I think we should at least try. For medical purposes."
Aaron settles in beside you, pressing one, two, three kisses to your lips, because he can, because he wants to. When he pulls back, he's smirking.
"Cheeky girl," he murmurs, thumb skimming your jaw. "And here I was, thinking you needed me to take care of you. Turns out you just wanted an excuse to climb all over me. How tragic. I've been completely fooled."
You brain-to-hand coordination is questionable at best, but that doesn't stop you from attempting to very subtly slip your fingers along the waistband of his sweats.
Aaron grabs your wrist instantly laughing—an actual, real, Hotchner laugh.
"Sweetheart," he muses, so damn amused, his thumb tripping over the pulse point of your wrist. "You can barely hold your head up, and you're trying to start something?"
"With a boyfriend like you, I'm like, legally required to start something."
Aaron lets out the longest, most suffering sigh known to man.
Like you said—theatre kid.
"Don't I know it. You're insatiable."
You open your mouth, fully prepared to launch into a passionate defense of you very reasonable levels of attraction to him, but a sneeze—tiny, weak, kind of embarrassing—ruins it.
Aaron's smirk evaporates. It happens fast, like a switch flipping, like he's just remembered, really remembered, that you're not at full strength, that beneath all your teasing, you're a little delicate, too easily worn down.
For a second, he just stares, jaw tight, brows furrowing ever so slightly, like the sight of you, flushed cheeks, fever-glazed eyes, pathetic sneezy, physically pains him.
And then you're moving, no he's moving, pulling you in, tucking you into his chest, as if you were something his hands were built to protect.
"And yet, here you are," he murmurs, kissing your temple, breathing against your hair, "disease-ridden and tragically adorable."
You sigh, shoving your face as close as humanly possibly, like some kind of human limpet. His heartbeat is strong beneath your ear, soothing, a constant thump thump thump that makes your eyelids droop.
"I really missed you today."
Aaron's arms tighten around you, but then you sniffle. Not the same pathetic little sound from earlier. This one's different. This one is softer, wetter.
He tenses just enough for you to feel it, enough to make you regret it, because now he knows.
You blink rapidly, tilting your face down, trying to breathe past the sudden, stupid sting behind your eyes, willing it go away before he—
Too late.
His arms loosen just enough to tilt his head down, scanning your face like he's already trying to figure out how to make it better.
You turn, burying your face in his chest. "I'm fine."
A lie. A bad one at that. So laughably transparent that even you wince a little.
Aaron doesn't call you on it, however, just pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your cheek, catching the tear before it falls.
"Oh baby," he breathes, voice a little rough, like he wants to pull the sadness out of you and keep it for himself.
He presses another kiss to your temple, then another, then another, like he needs to fix something unfixable, his fingers curling around the nape of your neck.
"You're killing me here."
You sniffle. Again.
"M'sorry," you mumble. "This is probably like... super unattractive."
Aaron shifts again, tilting your chin up as his thumb brushes against your cheek.
"Still the prettiest girl I've ever seen," he murmurs, but his jaw is tight, his fingers flexing against your skin. "I should've come home sooner."
"You wouldn't have lasted," you mumble, voice slowing, words dragging just a little.
Aaron raises an eyebrow. "And why's that?"
"Because you'd stress yourself out." You hum sleepily, tracing absent circles against his shirt. "You'd take my temperature every hour. Make me drink disgusting tea. Then, once you ran out of things to fuss over, you'd start deep-cleaning the grout just to feel useful."
He snorts, shaking his head. "You make me sound unbearable."
"You are unbearable," you murmur, but your grip tightens around him, contradicting yourself entirely. "But in a very sexy, very productive way."
He laughs and presses a kiss to your temple.
"You know what would make me feel better?"
Aaron's chest rises with a deep inhale, like he already knows. His arm tenses around you. "Sweetheart—,"
You grin against his shirt, weakly.
"A very hands on wellness check."
Aaron chokes out a laugh, tightening the blankets around you. "Christ."
He presses one last kiss to your forehead and you think you hear him mumble should've seen that one coming under his breath.
You hum in agreement, mentally ranking all the times he should've seen something coming.
This moment, obviously.
The time he let you fall asleep on him once and then acted surprised when it became a permanent thing.
The time he told you to be serious and then immediately realized that was the worst possible way to get you to stop joking.
The time he tried to fight it, tried to keep you at arm's length, tried to act like this thing between you wasn't inevitable.
You should tell him. You should. But then he tucks you closer, breath hot against your temple. And before you can launch into your incredibly important findings, you're already too far gone.
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hi ! i have a request for you if you would like !?
so r is asleep and is having a crazy wet dream and it gets so intense that they end up waking up and are grinding on hotchs thigh sleepily and hotch has been awake for some time, looking down at r amused because their whimpering and moaning woke him up a while ago and then he decides to fuck them right then and there because aaaaaa !!! their shorts are riding up and they look so needy and cute and sleepy and desperate !!!
im totally not writing this just after waking up and this is totally not based on the dream i just had 👀 i feel like you would do such an amazing job of writing it if you wanted to !!!
Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader | Smut | WC: 1.4k | A/N: ngl, I zoned out so many times while trying to write this, because I kept self inserting myself into the fic and thinking about Hotch being the little smug shit that he is.
Also I had no idea what to do for the graphics for this fic, so I'm leaving it naked for now.
You stir awake slowly, syrupy slow. Everything feels hazy in your mind, as if you are buried underneath a thick and heavy blanket.
Fragments of your dream cling to the insides of your skull, refusing to let go, to let you wake completely—Hotch’s strong hands gripping your hips. Palms sliding up your bare skin. His deep, aroused voice murmuring pure filth in your ears until you trembled under him.
Your limbs feel leaden, skin flushed and oversensitive to even the air around you, and the persistent, throbbing ache between your legs that refuses to fade even as consciousness creeps in.
It takes several, disoriented seconds for the sensations to sharpen and clarify into something recognizable in your head; the slick, wet drag of fabric against your pussy, the amazing pressure—so firm, so warm—and the slow instinctive roll of your hips chasing more friction.
You let out a soft, yet mortified sound—half gasp, half whine—as reality crashes over you.
You’re grinding against Hotch’s thigh.
Your shorts have bunched and ridden up completely during the night, twisted high on your hips, only leaving the thin, damp cotton of your panties, pushed crookedly to the side.
There’s nothing separating your slick and swollen folds from the muscle of Hotch’s thigh. You can feel the heat of his skin, the slight prickle of hair as every tiny shift of your hips sends sparks through your over-sensitized nerves.
You go perfectly still, face burning and heart pounding so loudly in your chest that you’re sure he can hear it.
At this point, Hotch has been awake for a while. You know it instantly, from the way his eyes are fixed on your face, one brow arched and the barest hint of a smirk curving at the corner of his mouth.
“Good morning,” he chuckles, his voice still rough with sleep and laced with amusement. Smug. “Or should I say... good dream?”
You whimper a little pitifully, cheeks burning hotter than the sun, and try to pull away from him, but his hand tightens, keeping you pinned flush against him.
“Aaron...”
“You’ve been making the sweetest little sounds for the past twenty minutes,” he murmurs, his thumb starting a slow, deliberate stroke along the curve of your hipbone that makes you shiver. “Soft, breathy whimpers of my name. Little gasps every time you roll your hips just right. Grinding on me like you can’t bear to wait another second for relief.” His smirk widens as your breath catches sharply in your throat—betrayal from your own body. “Woke me up, actually. I don’t have the heart to stop you. I am enjoying the show far too much.”
You bury your face against his chest with a strangled sound, hiding in the fabric of his t-shirt, inhaling the warm, familiar scent of him—but the instinctive shift only drags your clit harder against his thigh. It sends a fresh jolt of pleasure through you. A helpless, needy noise slips out before you can stop it.
Your body is still coiled tight from the dream, every nerve alight, aching, shamelessly desperate for the friction you’d been chasing in your sleep.
“Please,” you mumble against his shirt, voice small and a little shaky, barely above a whisper. “I’m... God, I’m so embarrassed.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours. “Embarrassed?” His hand slides lower, fingers brushing the sensitive skin just above where you’re dripping onto him. “You’re dripping down my leg, sweetheart. Soaked through and trembling, still rocking against me even when you’re awake. You’re not embarrassed.” His voice drops, husky and knowing. “You’re desperate.”
You whine again, the sound climbing higher, thinner, edged with desperation as your hips give another involuntary twitch against his thigh.
The slick drag sends a sharp spark of pleasure through you, making your breath stutter. That pathetic little noise seems to snap something in him, pupils blown wide as he drinks in every detail: the deep flush staining your cheeks, the wild tangle of your bedhead spilling across the pillow, the tremor running through your body as you shake against him.
“Look at you,” he says, voice dropping lower, into a register that always unravels you completely, the one he knows makes your stomach flip, and your core clench. “So needy you couldn’t even stay asleep without trying to get off on me. Shorts all twisted and bunched up around your hips, pretty little pussy so wet for me, humping my thigh like a sweet, desperate little slut who can’t help herself.”
You’re far too gone to muster even a token of protest at his words; instead, your hips roll again on pure instinct, chasing that maddening pressure, a soft, broken moan catching in your throat as your clit glides over his skin.
“Please...” The plea comes out breathless, barely above a whisper.
And in one fluid and effortless motion, he flips you onto your back, the world tilting as your shoulders hit the mattress.
His weight settles over you instantly, one large hand capturing both your wrists and pinning them above your head. His other hand moves with impatient efficiency as his fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and panties, dragging them down your thighs all at once in a single rough tug.
He pauses, holding himself above you, and takes a long moment to look. His gaze raking over every inch.
“Christ,” he mutters, like the sight has punched the air from his lungs. “You’re fucking adorable when you’re this desperate.”
Then he’s on you, claiming your mouth in a hard, devouring kiss that steals your breath and swallows every whimper.
You feel the scrape of his morning stubble against your skin as he angles deeper. While you’re still reeling, he shifts his hips, guiding himself toward your entrance, and pushes in with one slow, deliberate thrust that stretches and fills you perfectly.
You have no idea or awareness of when he pulled his boxers off; all you know is that the sudden fullness rips a cry from your throat into his mouth; your back arches off the bed, legs wrapping tightly around his waist, and your heels digging into the small of his back to pull him closer.
He doesn’t give you even a second to adjust to his size—he knows you can take it—just pulls back and snaps his hips forward again, setting a brutal pace that has the headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall.
Each thrust drives the air from your lungs in soft, broken gasps. His free hand slides under the fabric of your shirt, palm rough and warm as it cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple before pinching just hard enough to make you sob his name.
“That’s it,” he growls against your neck, teeth grazing the tendon there. It sends shivers racing down your spine. “Take what you were so desperate for in your sleep. You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted me to fuck you awake, fill you up exactly like this?”
You nod frantically, nails digging into your palms before flexing your fingers, wanting to grab him. You’re utterly lost in the thick drag of his cock inside you, the way he’s hitting every spot, the way he’s making your vision blur.
You’re still half-drowsy, mind hazy from sleep and overwhelming pleasure, and it sharpens every sensation until it feels almost too much.
He shifts his angle just slightly, driving deeper, and it makes stars burst behind your eyelids.
“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, breath hot against your ear. “Let me feel you fall apart. You’ve been teasing me all morning with those pretty little sounds... now be good and come on my cock like the needy girl you are.”
And with those words, pleasure slams through you hard and sudden, your body clenching tight around him in pulsing waves as you come, crying out his name, toes curling, vision whiting out.
He follows moments later, hips stuttering, burying himself as deep as he can with a low, guttural groan, forehead dropping to yours as he cums inside you.
For a moment, you both just breathe: sweaty, tangled limbs, hearts hammering against each other’s chests.
Then he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, that familiar smug little smirk curving his lips again.
“Next time you have a dream like that,” he says, voice still husky, brushing a surprisingly gentle kiss to your swollen lips, “wake me up sooner.”
You laugh breathlessly, weak and shaky, and hide your burning face in the curve of his shoulder.
Literally can’t add more than 10 pics to a post without adding more in a rb but ugh finking abt this look today 🥺 it’s my fave fr he looks so cosy and cute. Ik it’s literally summer but idc brown quarterzip Aaron is always on my mind🥺🥺💖
