This One Is So Cute

This one is so cute🥺🥺

Couldn’t stop thinking about you bringing home a stray puppy and Hotch not being surprised by it at all, so I had to do write something

Something was off as soon as he walked inside his apartment. It was oddly quiet despite the tv being turned on.

“Honey?” He called for you, but there was no answer.

Maybe you’d gone out to the store? your favorite sneakers were exactly where you’d left them this morning before going to work, though, right under the coffee table in the living room.

He stripped off his jacket and loosened his tie before he went to your room.

You weren’t there either.

A muffled squeal came from the bathroom followed by a quiet “don’t bite me.”

He’d normally knock, but this time he just opened.

There you were, sitting at the edge of the bathtub with a just-bathed puppy wrapped with a towel on your lap.

“I can explain.” You shot him a guilty smile.

His eyes went from your face, down to the trembling dog then up to you again. “Looks like a rat,” he simply said with the most monotonous voice.

It was a matter of time you’d bring home a stray puppy.

“Mean.” You acted offended. “I found him inside a box at the subway station. He’s scared.”

“Oh, I’m sure he is.” He walked in and crouched in front of you, staring at the puppy. “Someone just took him and threw him in a bath.” He bopped its nose.

“He was smelly.” You kissed the puppy’s head then Aaron’s, too. “Can we keep him? He’s definitely a small breed. Look at his short legs.”

Aaron sighed deeply and looked up at you, already defeated by both of your puppy-dog eyes.

“But he’s not sleeping with us.” He stood up and placed both hands on his hips.

You scrunched your nose with an evil grin and said, “sure he won’t.”

This is so good!!!! I love it 💖💖 I need a part 2🥲🥲

The Only Heartbreaker (Hotch x Reader)

Summary: A case hoists your whole team to a location where you're forced to work closely for a week with your boss and the man you've been harboring unwanted feelings for. Those emotions start to fester, making you both act unlike yourselves. (aka someone yearns over someone and is MAD about it) // Rating: Teen up (case mention, blood, guns etc) AN: this brought to u by me procrastinating and a heavy dose of mitski <3 FLUFF FIC

Tags: daddy issues package, angst w happy ending, angst and fluff, pining, case HEAVY, comfort, pushing the agenda that hotch is an acts of service kinda guy, age gap, yearning, longing, hurt/ comfort, protective hotch, soft hotch,

WC: 4.5k approx

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It wasn’t a good day. It was a hard one: with interrogations that never end, seemingly stretching out longer than average because of people (and you couldn’t really blame them) being reserved and restrained in speaking out, ;and no rest. You’d grown familiar with the latter, but not the first. And you were by far the only one suffering from the events of the day. Prentiss and Reid had slipped away earlier, choosing to go back to the morgue for another talk with the medical examiner.

Rossi and JJ sit in the room nearby, talking with some of the kids, unfortunate for witnessing something they never should have known existed. Terror lingers in their faces, even after they’d been pulled away from the piazza where bullets had rained upon. Morgan is still out there, refusing to return and standing watch with SWAT, in case the culprit wanted to show up again. Not that they’d ever let him go alive at this point.

Hotch, the man of few words and your boss, stands by your side, body tense and nerves taut. He’s as close to losing his temper at the police chief before you as you are. Which is why you defuse the situation before that happens.

“Chief Smal, how about I get back to you on that after an hour?”

The man, who’d been rambling on and on about the incompetence of the FBI for not stopping something that you couldn’t ever predict, stops. He gapes at you, offended and angry. If he was any less animated he wouldn’t be fuming out of his ears and nose.

“Excuse-me?”

Hotch makes a sign to move, talk or whatever he thinks can fix this. But you don’t allow him.

“Great”, you chirp, feigning better than an actress, “You are excused.”

You turn sharply away, leaving the man sputtering and shocked, and continue down the hall. He’d been so goddamned annoying and useless, keeping you both away from your jobs – and hounding Hotch like he’s the boss. Like Hotch can’t just wave a hand and have the man dismissed without a contradiction. But this man, the one who is always direct and curt, was being nice. He’d been nothing but fucking courteous the whole time.

You knew this. You’d had an entire fucking week working close by with him, paired up since the jet dropped you off on location. And that niceness you’d once found commendable and charming and had made you swoon far too many times to count (not that you would admit you do, you’re not insane), is now irking you.

Even now you can almost hear his voice. First, gentle when he calls your name. But then not. And you realize he’s trailed behind you. Long strides made by his longer legs and taller frame, and he followed you easily as you stormed off.

There’s no hint of niceness in his clipped tone as he calls your name again.

“Agent, I’m speaking to you for fu—”

You swirl around, stopping abruptly. He doesn’t swear. He never does. And you don’t storm off, nor do theatrics, like this one, where you pausing so suddenly almost causes him to crush into you. Both blinking at each other, you realize none of you feels like themselves.

Hotch exhales, some of the tension easing out of him. You’re fucking welcome, you want to rush out. Not having Chief Blabbering Mouth pestering you has made you both calmer already.

“What was that about?”

You decide to act, yet again. “What was what?”

“Stop that”, he says in exasperation. A police officer passing by winces at his tone.

He doesn’t know Hotch. Not like you do. This pitch of his deep baritone, and the look on his face – he’s not mad at you. He’s mad with you. Knowing him, even madder that he’d succumbed to the pressures of diplomatic righteousness and bureaucratic relationships, and let a random, inconsequential chief of police get to both of you. Knowing him, he’s already blaming himself for it. Sinking deep into that hole of guilt trips, faults and self-criticism.

His body language is hostile, weary, very high-strung. You bypass all red alarms blaring in you telling you not to – but you reach out either way. A hand on his elbow and he flinches.

“Hotch,” you will your voice to sound soft, though your mannerisms mirror his, “I know what the fuck I’m doing, okay? Give me some credit”

One of his dark brows flicks upwards in question.

“I know” you sigh, not taking it personally when you touch him again and he grimaces. “I know. I was right there okay. Right fucking there”

The rest of the BAU had been inside the shopping mall at the time you and Hotch were having a fully fledged argument in the piazza. Some topics you don’t even recall. On more snipers. More check-ups. Or less law enforcement visible in the streets, making civilians antsy.

When the first bullet had hit, it had been so loud, you’d instantly forgotten. Everything had gone quiet. Not just you and Hotch, but the entire world. Then the second bullet had pierced the air, and the man you’d been bickering with – some would say even yelling at – had caught both your arms, lifted you up like he’d turned superhuman with a click of a button, and made himself bigger and taller, shielding you with his body. It had been less than a minute because he hadn’t done just that. Like the crowd around you, running and pushing each other, he’d done the same: hauling your ass – and himself – out of sight and inside a building nearby.

You’d both been there. Though with all your training and your experience, you’d frozen on the spot. People had fallen around you, murdered in cold blood. But you’d been there, even though your body had refused you.

Hotch blinks, his voice dropping lower. “I don’t expect thanks from you”

“Jesus, Hotch”, this time you bump his forearm, like you would a friend to make him act right, “I’d never. Not because of what you think.”

He blinks again, perplexed by your actions.

“But because it reminds me how useless I got. I don’t need that fucking reminder”

He pauses, tiredness etched in his face. “You’re swearing in the place of work, Agent”

If you had rested, and gotten some sleep like the rest of your colleagues you’d have had the strength to roll your eyes at him. In normal situations he’d have never let your crude language get past one (single) fuck. In better situations, you would never use crass language in front of the man you’ve had high regards for, beyond simply respecting him as a boss.

“I’m aware, Hotch.”

Your lack of fight gives him pause. “Did I let him get that far?”

You nod. Not that you’d judge him for blacking out when the chief spoke - you’d done the same. “Not to our faces. I overheard him speaking to his subordinates that the tits gave him hell last night over a misspell on a report”

Hotch shuts his eyes, his frame shaking when he huffs out in frustration. He places a hand over the one you’ve got hanging in the air in-between both of you, waiting for him to act less like a feral animal and more… domesticated. He only guides your palm to rest over his other wrist, patting it twice. A gesture so strange to outsiders but not to you – indicating he’s granting you physical contact because it comforts you.

“I’ll forward his name to the board”

“Hotch, I don’t want you to fire someone because they referred to me as tits.”

He reads your implication because he mutters under his breath. “He called you other names, didn’t he? I’ll call someone right now—”

“God, no. Hotch, listen”, you drop your hold on him, his eyes tracking the movement, and you don’t want to notice how his body deflates at the loss of contact, “I don’t need you to fire that man because of some words. I can handle those. I’d rather we focus on our jobs”

Like a petulant child, so unlike him, he takes a step back. The intention clear as day in his eyes. He’s ready to head back and chew his head out.

“You are doing the same thing!” you blurt out, making him stop. “You’re letting him rip one at the BAU’s involvement because you feel guilty and that you deserve it. And I’m letting those words pass because I feel guilty as well. Guilt is eating at us”

“Right” He looks unconvinced. This might be the only moment you’ll have to address what happened outside so you steal it.

“Hotch, I swear”, you will your voice softer than before, “Homeland didn’t warn us to begin with. We couldn’t have predicted this.”

Those words open up his features: the lines between his brows easing up, the crooked wince of his mouth drawing into a line, and his shoulders un-slumping.

“Okay?”

He grants you a quick nod, the five minutes of privacy in a crowded precinct ending at once. Officers stop by you, and Hotch lets you go.

“I’ll handle the rest of the interrogations”, he murmurs just for your ears, brushing against your side as he moves past you.

Wait, and then…?

He pauses, like he’s reading your mind, knowing without you voicing it aloud that there’s something worrying you. Then he says the next words that render you breathless, before parting from you. “You’re in charge of communications with local law enforcement. Decide and brief me later. And behave .”

The trust he hands over is unwavering, blinding with its intensity. You remember it too with dubious clarity: the fight before had been about police visibility.

You shuffle in your feet and welcome the swarm of officers waiting for your signal. Without the presence of the unit chief, they seem calmer too, directing questions your way. Unlike Hotch, who’s strict in not giving anyone leeway, you do so. It takes hours, but it’s due to your inexperience. The day before Hotch had been the one commanding an entire panicked room swarming with law enforcement officers.

You find the rest of your team in the breakroom, having decided to forego a small rest in order to get back to business right away. Morgan briefs you on the new developments. Garcia through the speaker cuts in with her findings: the address of the suspect’s summer home. You feel it at once: a fresh new hope for the nightmare to end.

“Alright,” Hotch moves to stand beside you for a better vantage point. Exhaustion and lack of sleep makes your body feel relief from his closeness, the scent of his cologne making you let out a small sigh of content. “When we get the call, I want everyone out – Kevlar vest and helmets. Follow Morgan’s lead in terms of SWAT’s assessment of the situation. JJ will stay on top of the news…”

You keep your eyes to Morgan, knowing meeting your boss’ gaze will free the emotions you’ve kept down for so long. Not resting or sleeping isn’t only because of the grueling case. Some of it is the proximity to Hotch. Having to work side-by-side, sharing almost every meal time together – because of the different task forces he’d decided to set up – has taken a toll on you.

Not that you’d never done it before. Working within the unit and traveling were undetached parts of the job and Hotch has always been so professional. So fucking formal. So incredibly decent with you during your time at the BAU that catching feelings had been as surprising to you as it would have been to him (not that he’ll never know). But he is a gentleman. He is nice and kind and the most patient man. With a humor as dry as a desert, and a penchant to protect everyone he knows– yes, including his most recent recruit he never kept closer than two meters - the man had still reeled you in. Hook, line and sinker.

Doesn’t matter that he smiles and laughs like it physically pains him to do so – he'd still tricked you into feeling attraction to him. Restless in bed, you’ve spent this entire week considering if this is how poor souls felt when witches and wizards seduced them with contrived love potions. Because how... How does someone so reserved make you feel dazed and unbecoming just by looking at you?

Surely doesn’t help knowing your room shares a wall with his and at night you hear just how much he doesn’t sleep as well.

“...are you following?” Hotch snaps you out of your thoughts, yet you still don’t look at him.

It’s torturous because in this one week you’re getting to know him more than you’ve ever done in all your time at the BAU. Unfortunately for you, he’s not someone to hate and loathe.

“Sure. We don’t go in guns blazing.” You sum up, and Morgan smiles at your words. “You’re set on that tactic, boss? Can’t we switch up to my alternative?”

“No”, he says confused, “Had you been paying attention you’d have known I already declined Morgan’s offer.”

Even reprimands don’t make those emotions fade away. Documents shuffle and empty coffee cups are thrown in the bins, and Hotch stays there, staring at you until you give up and look at him. Morgan pats your back, following Reid and Rossi out. JJ and Prentiss chuckle on the way out, but neither of you makes a move.

“Steer clear of SWAT”, Hotch murmurs, eyes flicking across your face.

You hate that small action the most because you know what it represents. One late night after interrogations, with everyone gone, he’d confessed reading people’s body language had been his expertise since he was a kid. A talent gifted to him from growing up in a volatile household with an impulsive violent parent. Doing it had been his way to survive. Now, he’d made a career out of it. What a fucked-up talent , you’d said that night, and it had made him laugh like you’d been both in a bar, drinking and sharing stories like old friends.

Studying your behavior though, seems to cross a precarious line. If he’s any more attentive towards you. If he’s even just a tiny bit more protective of you...

“I won’t”

Hotch scoffs, not believing you. This week is to blame for him knowing you just as well. “Fine, stay close to Morgan then.”

Then in a move that sucks all the air from your lungs, he hands you his own cup – full, steaming and untouched. “Take it. I made it for you”, he says like he’s handing you a report to fill in, and not being sweet by preparing you a coffee every single time he made one for himself.

“Hotch, I--” First the massive responsibility of talking to the officers, and now this. God, your nerves are about to snap. Frustration loops around your throat, your heart about to burst with emotion. So, you resort to saying something unkind and awkwardly ridiculous. “We need to see other people after this.”

He watches you take a sip, the small sigh of content telling him he got the order right. Like Hotch has ever done anything incorrect.

“I’m getting used to you”, you try to joke, voice fluctuating and hands trembling, “One more day and I’ll learn your bathroom habits”

He shakes his head, a small smile parting his lips, like he doesn’t mean for it to happen. “I’d rather you just drink and follow my orders. Less spitting fire, angel”

You look up at him, holding back a grin that would surely tell him how much you like him. “You saying I should swallow, boss?”

The question – a goddamn slip up if there’s ever been one – affects him in the most enticing of ways. Red rises over his neck, climbing over the collar of his button-down, the way it does when he runs, and then it reaches quite slowly his cheeks. Your face heats but not because of this stupid thing you’ve ever said to him.

Hotch clears his throat, but he still doesn’t look away and that’s how it happens . Your heart beats a little harder, your skin zaps with awareness, and your fingers tingle.  Like it seemed to happen the first night you’d both found each other alone in the hotel’s restaurant. Like it did when you had to knock on his hotel room at an ungodly hour because you got a tip and found him wearing a white t-shirt and shorts and fluffy, sleepy hair. Like it seems to happen when time stills and slows down, everything quiets to a low comfortable buzz because it’s just you and him.

He says your name, half in pleading and half in warning. Something warm curls inside you but you shove it aside.

“I’ll head out”, your voice is softer, breathier, and you’re first to cut the tension, running away at once. You’re out of there before he understands the entirety of you.

The call, as Garcia dubbed it, comes in a few minutes. A confirmation that the suspect has been sighted at a local supermarket. His phone pinged near the summer home she’d discovered. Morgan and you are out, following the neat movements of SWAT officers through the neighborhood.

In your periphery, FBI and police officers secure the perimeter. A split second where you meet Hotch’s eyes, in full uniform like he’d ordered – a small understanding passing through both.

Then the rest happens. The building is a two-stories house, and Homeland had warned you about the sudden cult following the suspect had amassed, reinforcing his numbers. It took a simple attack into innocent civilians for him to get a blind following. A shiver goes through you recalling what Homeland Security’s words had been: Better they’re all together, making ridding them all the easier.

“First floor clear”, comes Morgan’s voice through your earpiece. He’s ahead, helping lead one squad while the other is taken by a leader of Homeland forces. When they split in two, you go against Hotch’s orders, deciding to not let any squad without BAU counterparts.

“Footsteps”, Morgan warns.

In retrospect, that single word should have been more alarming, more of a signal of what was to come, because in a split second the entire house bursts in repetitive rattling noises. You take cover, you take aim, your teeth chattering with every shot that rings in your ears, with every bullet zapping through the air.

This had been part of your training – the most aggravating one, but you aren’t a close match to SWAT and Homeland’s agents. There’s shouts and lightning quick orders bouncing in everyone’s earpieces. Stats to update on the enemy’s fallen men. And whoever becomes injured on your side. You know, in the same moment as you shoot and miss someone intent on doing the same to you that their retaliation will be greater. Those same warning words from Homeland come back: Trained to kill. No mercy.

And then you take a gamble, your own feet taking you fast to the other side of the room, through the same way you’d entered. Coward’s way out. The face of the man you haven’t killed startles you, quicker than you. His eyes bloodshot red. His face is pale but unforgiving. A regular man – similar to the one who’d shot in that piazza solely because he’d wanted to, and had wanted to be a leader to men like the one before you. Your hands shake but you still shoot. Not fast enough. Not when he fires two bullets before one reaches him.

“Agent down”, the voices in your ears shout, and you blink slowly, not comprehending the situation. “I repeat, one agent down”

Is that your heart on your throat or the effect of the uncomfortably tight bulletproof vest?

“ Clear. This floor is clear”

The man who’d been aiming at you falls to the ground like dead weight. Horror clutches your limbs, sticky warmth pooling at your thigh and well, yes, he is dead. Your laugh is dry, callous and it pains your lower back.

“Fuck, what is that?”

A Homeland agent crushes his arm around yours, lifting half of your side up, your legs shaking under you. “Easy, agent. Don't put your weight on that leg” He jerks his head to your own feet and your eyes bulge out of their sockets. Blood seeps out of you, gushing and your head goes light.

“Jesus, is that my thigh or yours?”

The agent chuckles, granting you a wincing smile through his helmet. “Yours, sorry. It’s a nasty one.”

No shit, you’re sure you say because he chuckles again. Something lighter in his face like you’re not in the middle of a shootout. His weapon hangs low too, and you glance around. In fact, nobody around you yields their weapons, and your ears don’t ring anymore with the constant sounds of bullets. Sensing your thoughts, the agent beside you nods. He carries you heavily through the hall, ungentle but doing his best when he doesn’t know you and is suddenly responsible for a wounded agent.

“Where--?”

Your question cuts off, another body wrenching you away. Large, strong and familiar and then you smell him before you hear his hurried, stern words.

“...an order. I told you to follow one order and you’re...” Hotch leaves your side, mumbles excuses to the other agent who hasn’t left your side before sinking to his knees before you. He looks ridiculous in his t-shirt and vest; arms bare showing his toned biceps and forearms and frowning at you. Stupid, because who struts in a dangerous situation like that? He tears one short sleeve, more fabric coming off than planned. Your mouth goes dry. It’s the fact you’re shot on the leg and not that those same rough hands go soft when they make contact with your wound. He’s unbearably gentle, wrapping your thigh to stop the bleeding.

“Thanks, I’ll take it from here” He stands at once, curt with the other man, but you’d still prefer him over Hotch.

“I didn’t--”

“No talking”, he snaps, throwing your arm over his shoulders, his other hand latching around your waist and landing on your hip. Even with the adrenaline and the heightened awareness towards the bulletwound, your mind is one-track.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight.” Hotch says, and he lifts you with ease, using his own leg closest to your side to hold both your body weight. He doesn’t wobble. He doesn’t strain. Not like the Homeland man. He surely doesn’t squirm like you are, while his warm breath huffs against your temple and hair.

Mad at you is a different look on him. But you’re a masochist because this is the closest you’ve ever been to him. Insane too, because you’ve never felt more than in this moment.

“Stop”, he murmurs only for your ears, deftly leading the way out of the massive building. You hold a breath when he glances quickly at you. His eyes don’t relay the anger transferring to his body and actions. They’re soft and pained.

“Don’t look so glad you got shot” he whispers, and you think you imagine his hand squeezing your hip; the closeness that tightens the small distance between you.

“I’m not”, you lie, voice a squeak. You try again because the bad outweighs the good. Though the latter is his arms around you, and the blanket of his fierce protectiveness. “I’m definitely not”

Hotch looks at you again, the small crinkle at the sides of his eyes giving away the small amusement at your tone. Damned this week, for making him know you just as much as you do him. It doesn’t last long though. He guides you through the agents camped outside the house, further down the street where ambulances remain parked in standby.

“Here”, the EMTs run to you, rolling out the stretcher, but Hotch doesn’t give up. They help him lay you gently over it, and this time you don’t hide the disappointment in your face when he moves away. He witnesses it, eyes narrowing. “We’ll talk about this”

You close your eyes slowly, opening them back to that disgruntled face of his, staring you down. “Looking forward to it”

The EMTs get ready to roll you out but he stops them, his hand going out to squeeze your hand in his. Quick, supportive, and professional – the tiniest bit professional. Your throat clogs, one of the EMTs cuts through the pant leg, not wasting time to tend to you.

“I’m sorry for it... Hotch, I--”

Something flashes behind his eyes, and you don’t imagine it: raw emotion, untainted, unprompted. It makes everything so much worse. If he says something sweet it will ruin you forever.

“ You’re fine”, he mutters, soft, slow, like he’s reassuring himself. He puts that big hand of his on your arm, rubbing it in comfort. “Brave girl” So goddamn soft you think you must have been killed inside this house, gone and become a ghost.

You blink away tears, your heart swelling. The sudden potential that he might feel just a teardrop of what you do is dangerous. More than a goddamn shootout.

“You better not forward my name to the board", you joke humorlessly. Then you move. Your stretcher carried by the EMTs is taken inside the ambulance. The sigh of relief you let out surprises both workers.

“Doesn’t this hurt?” one of them asks, looking at your wound.

“Yes”, you confirm, watching the doors close, cutting your view of Hotch. “More than I'd imagined”

Maybe you’ll need a transfer, or perhaps Hotch will get rid of you for insubordination. Anything to keep these feelings at bay.

“ It’ll be quick surgery”, one of them says. “It’ll hurt less when you’re through”

The door launches open and you all freeze, the stubborn man you’d left behind pushing to sit down beside you and closing it again.

“Ready to go”, Hotch slams a hand, urging the driver to depart. The vehicle moves and your heart feels suspended, waiting for him to give you another sign.

“Had to make sure you're okay”, he says with a small smile. Foolish hope springs inside your chest.

“Or reprimand me on the way there”, you rebut, a jolt going through you when he reaches a hand to brush your hair away from your face – strictly unprofessional.

“Same thing, angel”, Hotch reassures.

Tagging: @the-modernmary @laurensprentiss @genevievedarcygranger @anetoupekelly @sleepyreaderreads @azenpal @skyler666 @ultrabuzzlightyear @rousethemouse @arsonhotchner

This was so freaking cute 😍😍

Wonderful Tonight

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Gender Neutral Reader Word Count: 948 Tags: Food and wine talk, implied sex/closed door Summary: A sweet, domestic blurb based on the prompt 'no electricity.' A/N: Two uses of the word 'she', but it's a song lyric and not representative of the reader's pronouns.

“It’s late in the evening… She’s wondering what clothes to wear.” You hum along as two voices—Eric Clapton’s, and Aaron’s—warmly drift through the kitchen like the steam from the wide noodles he’s boiling on the stove. While you whisk together the ingredients for the sauce, rich, flavorful things like peanut butter and ginger and sesame oil, you sway your hips as if dancing, light and carefree.

Both of you are clad in loungewear, clothes so comfortable and worn you never let anyone see you in them but each other; his t-shirt is visibly threadbare, with a frayed neckline and a faded 10th Annual Fairfax County Charity 5k banner across the chest, and when you pass behind him to grab the soy sauce you press your lips to his shoulder just to feel its softness.

You add the soy sauce to your mixture—two kinds, dark and light, a perfect balance—along with minced garlic, and you smile when he turns to grab the colander and brushes his hand against the small of your back.

“And then she asks me, ‘Do I look all right?’ And I say, ‘Yes, you look wonderful tonight.’” The line is punctuated with a kiss on your cheek, something soft and easy, and then he drains the noodles, adds them to your bowl of sauce so you can toss everything together. The mixture turns them a pale orange, and you pour the finished product into two bowls, stick chopsticks into the mountains of the fragrant food; with a drizzle of chili oil and a sprinkle of chopped scallions, you are ready to move to the dining room, where candles and white wine and the rest of the record await you.

You’ve just set the bowls down on the table when the power goes out unceremoniously and the apartment is plunged into darkness. The record stops, the blissfully cool central air conditioning whirs to a halt, and Aaron looks over at you from between the two candlesticks with a look that just screams, it figures.

Your first date night in almost a month, due to his cases and your schedule and Jack’s boatload of summer activities, and it’s ruined in less than a second. 

“I’ll check the breaker,” he says with a sigh, and you grab a couple more candles from the sideboard drawer and take them to the living room, the bathroom, the bedroom. It becomes apparent, as you cross the apartment, that the problem isn’t the breaker; when you pass by the windows, you can see through the gauzy curtains that the whole complex is dark, streetlights included. Neighbors open their windows, probably an attempt at catching the evening breeze, and you do the same before meeting Aaron back in the dining room, where he stands with his hands on his hips. 

“It’s fine. We can eat in the candlelight; it’s romantic,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around his waist, and he moves a hand to your cheek and leans in for a kiss. You can tell he’s not thrilled about it, always hates when things don’t go according to plan, but you’ll do anything to salvage the evening, and you know he will too. “Let’s move to the living room. It’s cooler now that the windows are open.” 

He arches a brow, but picks up the candlesticks and carefully carries them in while you dust off your rusty server talents and transfer the food and wine. You sit beside each other on the sofa, not across from each other as you would have at the table, but it means you can press your elbow against his thigh, take a noodle from his chopsticks just as he tips his head back to eat it, make him laugh like he hasn’t in weeks, so it’s all worth it in the end.

You’re halfway through your bowl when you get the bright idea to take out your phone and pull up the music app, to pick up where you left off and listen to something other than the chew and slurp of Thai peanut noodles and chilly sauvignon blanc. 

The bowls—and the wine bottle—sit empty on the table, the candles burned down low by the time the album cycles back to the original song, and now when you sway along, it’s with your body snugly in Aaron’s arms. He leans in for a kiss that tastes like ginger and peanuts, one you lengthen, deepen, a hand in his hair, and it’s an unspoken signal; you separate, carry your dishes into the kitchen and then walk around the apartment, blowing out the candles as you leave each room for the night. You make your way to bed, shedding your comfortable clothes, prepared to fill the rest of the evening the best way the two of you know how. 

Some time later, as you rest your cheek against his chest and yawn, sleepy and warm from such a perfect, if unexpected evening, he smooths his hand over your throat and tilts your chin to press a sweet, passionate kiss to your lips. 

He says all he needs to with that one kiss, but you curl your arms around him and smile against him as you ask for just one more. He looks so handsome in the flickering light of the candles, all dark, smoldering eyes and bare skin and striking features, and you let your kisses carry you away. 

By the time you close your eyes, pleasantly satisfied and ready to sleep, the evening’s soundtrack is the last thing on your mind, but as Aaron blows out the final candle and presses himself against your back, he whispers softly in your ear:

“Oh, my darling, you were wonderful tonight.”

Taglist: @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed @averyhotchner @dadbodhotch11 @itsmytimetoodream @unicornprancing @thinking-bucky @mugi-chwan95 @madamsnape921 @hxtchncr @ssahotchnerxx @vintagesubmariner @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @hotchnerxo @ashhotchner @hotchs-bitch @jaspxr

Pass the happy! 🧡 When you get this, reply with 5 things that make you happy and send this to the last 10 people in your notifications!

5 things that make me happy!!!!

1. Food.

2. Books.

3. Art. (I study art history)

4. Movies and music.

5. My Crushes. (Right now, Ben Barnes)

He is so cute

in case it hasn’t been clear, this blog is firmly and unwaveringly pro-choice.

🥺🥺

Reader putting on nail polish and not being able to paint their right hand because they're righthanded and Hotch offering help (I feel like he'd either be very precise or completely fuck up)

everything about this request hinted at domestic boyfriend!hotch but my brain always always always goes coworkers to lovers mutual pining bau!reader so we're doing that <3

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You'd pointedly waited until after the jet had cleared turbulence before you pulled your nail polish out of your bag, not wanting to spill lacquer all over the table. You'd gotten an 'ooh' from JJ at the color, a soft pink that called 'nearly nude', but no one seemed to pay you much attention otherwise, letting you do your own thing.

Your first hand was easy enough. You painted your non-dominant, the polish smoothing on in clear, neat strokes. The result was rather pleasing, and you puffed up with pride until you realized that you'd have to switch hands now, and paint your dominant one.

Well, at least one hand would look good.

The handle of the brush felt awkward between your fingers, painting no longer a trained course of action like it had been in your other hand. Your fingers were shaking slightly as you folded your fingers in on themselves, bracing your thumb against your pointer. Your tongue poked out from between your lips as you concentrated, but just before you could make contact with your nail a voice stopped you.

"Y/L/N," Hotch piped up from the seat across from you, "Would you like some help?"

Everyone's eyes were on you. JJ was being somewhat subtle, peering at you from behind her book with wide eyes, but Morgan and Prentiss ditched etiquette, standing up from across the jet to peer at what was happening. You looked up at Hotch with raised eyebrows, a questioning glint in your eyes, "With.. with my nail polish?"

"Yes." He nodded, "Your hand is shaking."

You wordlessly handed him the brush, watching in mixed fascination and adoration as your surly unit chief took your hand, his large fingers curling around your own. You let your hand go limp in his grasp and he adjusted it to his liking, his eyes laser focused on your pinky nail.

He started in, slow and steady with the brush, the paint coating your nail perfectly. The next nail wasn't as small, of course, so he had to use two strokes, but it came out looking just as pristine as the first one. His own nails weren't long, but when some of the paint bled into your cuticle, he scraped it off perfectly.

"You're good at this." You broke the silent reverie that had fallen over the plane while everyone held their breath. The sight of Hotch giving you a manicure was certainly not one they'd expected to see, and each of them were handling it differently. Some stared, some gawked, some pretended not to notice, but everyone was surprised.

"I used to have to paint my own with topcoat." He admitted casually, "They were splitting and it looked terrible. I suppose old habits just die hard."

Suddenly, the image of your grumpy boss sitting alone in his office after hours painting his nails was all that your brain could conjure. It was equally endearing as it was amusing, both reactions combining to spread a smile over your face.

Apparently your expression wasn't subtle, because Hotch glanced up, amusement shining in his own eyes.

"What, Y/L/N? Are you making fun of me for painting my nails?"

"No!'" You insisted, and he squeezed your thumb slightly in retaliation, "I just wouldn't have guessed that about you."

He sent you the ghost of a smile, his lips upturned ever so slightly to let you know he was okay with your lighthearted teasing. He finished painting your thumb, letting go (to your unexpected chagrin) and the result was better than the hand that you'd painted.

"I'm gonna come to you with all of my manicure needs," You inspected your dominant hand, awestruck at Hotch's precision, "I feel like I should pay you for this."

"I wouldn't mind a tip," He joked, rifling through his bag, "But I'm not done yet."

"You're not?" You watched him confusedly as he dug through his belongings, finally understanding when he pulled out a small bottle of clear paint.

"I knew I still had it." He set it on the table as he turned to zip up his bag, "Now, one coat or two?"