🖋Nemesis Of Correct Grammar🖋 ᝰ🖌.Glutton For Flitting Between Creative Mediums.ᝰ🖌.
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Minors DNI. This blog is an adults only space. No Bigots, Fascists or AI. All work is original and mine unless stated otherwise. I Do Not Consent to my work being copied or fed to the corrosive virus that is AI. All work will be appropriately TW or CW. If you steal my work you will learn why I stopped practicing witchcraft.
Throw Away Snip [from whatever random work I have decided to drop 2k words on and then abandon]- "Most children had imaginary friends that faded as they aged. He had guilt. Guilt that grew, changing shape as he did but remained as ever constant as his shadow. It stitched itself to his skin and locked it's limbs around his shoulders and wove itself around his spine."
-Moth's Recs
-Moth's Resources
-♙❀Criminal Minds❀♙
-ⴵ⎊Marvel⎊ⴵ
-✚☤ The Pitt ☤✚
-👁๑The Magnus Archives๑👁
-𓉼⚔Kingsman⚔𓉼
Would you like to adopt? [be added to the taglist?]
What do you mean “chat” is now referring to ChatGPT and not twitch chat? What? What? What the fuck? No?
When I address chat I am speaking to a presumed Greek chorus of real human people shitposting on their lunch break, not a machine that devours lakes to covert electricity into slop.
“We’re slowly stating to trust Al-Hashimi.” Skill issue. I trusted her the second she showed up on my screen because I am a LESBIAN and SHE is BEAUTIFUL and COMPETENT.
I need to hit the ads with this pose. And then a comically large hammer. Pretty please just once 🙂↕️
AND THE FUCKING AI ADS FUCKKKKKKK I MISS I ACTUALLY FUCKING MISS WHEN YOU'D SEE A SHITTY AD THAT WAS PROBABLY LYING ABOUT WHATEVER THE PRODUCT WAS AND YOU COULD SEE YOU COULD SEE THAT SHIT WAS ANIMATED BY SOMEONE WHO WENT THROUGH ALL THE SCHOOLING AND DEBT JUST TO GET STUCK MAKING "WATER SORT MEGA MERGE FALSE ADVERTISING SMACK YOUR GRANDFATHER'S URN 2" ADVERTS AND YOU COULD FEEL THE DEPTH OF THEIR DESPAIR THROUGH THE AD. THE BORDERLINE YEARNING FOR THE SWEET RELEASE OF DEATH. I MISS THAT. I WANT MY SHITTY ADS MADE BY A DEPRESSED ANIMATOR PLEASE. IF YOU ARE GOING TO FORCE ADS UPON ME EVERY TIME I AM CONSCIOUS ON THIS GODFORSAKEN CAPITALIST HELLSCAPE. AT LEAST PAY A FUCKING ANIMATOR.
married!Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader
Genre: “enemies”-to-terrible-ideas, SMUT!!!
Summary: You save your coworker’s life and he fucks you as a thank-you? WOW! You can’t help but wonder how his wife feels about this particular expression of gratitude.
Warnings: MDNI (unprotected piv, ladyfingering, whipped cream maritozzi), infidelity, Aaron WHOREtchner, fertility talk nobody consented to, cigarettes, psychological warfare, toxic AF dynamics, Gideon in a robe jumpscare (my dick is hard). This takes place before s1, back when Hotch and Haley were trying for a baby, and Gideon was the Unit Chief!
Word Count: 8.9k (kill me?)
Dado's Corner: Idc if you think you’re too cool to reblog or comment and are just going to ghost-read this fic and move on with your day. TAKE A MOMENT to actually appreciate the details of the header (specifically the way it recreates the floor plan of a... messy hotel room) and tell me I’m a genius (example of the comments I expect to see: Wow, Phi! I can tell you spent valuable time of your life researching what hotel carpets look like. It looks gorgeous!). That said, tysm to my loves @alinathinkstoomuch , @sweetheartsocks & @hotchology for helping bring this fic back to life! And the biggest kiss to @pastelpinkflowerlife ’s brain for the request, I hope you enjoy it!
masterlist
amor fati
ˈa.mor ˈfaː.ti | noun (Latin)
1. The refusal to wish for another outcome; the deliberate choice to love what occurred simply because it did.
Riddle me this:
What’s stiff but short,
never quite your sort?
Promised grandeur, swore it’d last,
but finishes far, far too fast.
You hold it close. You curse. You pray.
It still disappoints you anyway.
You wish this verse were Hotch’s dick -
the length, the hype, the failing trick.
(Solution: the short end of the stick.)
But fate’s a clown and luck’s a prick,
and once again you draw ________
Which, frankly, was always short to begin with.
Because when the accommodation announces a last-minute room shortage (how professional…) and informs you that for five agents there are only three rooms available, Gideon, in his infinite wisdom as a cultured and experienced Unit Chief-
(conveniently the only one the BAU has ever had, so there’s no point of comparison… you simply have to accept him, his decisions, and his pending dementia)
-decides there is only one reasonable course of action.
He takes an entire double king-size honeymoon suite for himself. Morgan and Reid get shoved together into a double. And you?
You get Hotch.
Objectively the worst possible outcome of an already catastrophically fucked situation. The short end of the stick, anthropomorphized.
Eight glorious days of forced cohabitation follow.
Eight days of sleeping with the devil a few feet away, while you lie marooned on a twin bed whose mattress is so aggressively unforgiving you’ve resorted to medication just to remain a functioning member of society during daylight hours.
Add to that the long, soul-draining stakeouts - during which Gideon keeps pairing you with Hotch, possibly because no one else can truly stand him and you are, statistically speaking, the most expendable when the greater good requires a human sacrifice.
The package deal also includes: enduring his appalling small-talk skills, his despotic music taste, and an ungodly number of shared meals with Mr. I Won’t Order Fries Because I’m Eating Healthy and Have a Very Specific Meal Plan… who then proceeds to steal half of yours with his thick fingers anyway.
Somewhere along the way (between the stakeouts, the mattress, the fries, and the man) you feel another riddle forming in your head. Not in rhyme. You don’t have the energy for that anymore.
What kind of masochist would willingly sign up to endure Hotch's presence indefinitely and decide that yes, this is the man whose semen should be entrusted with the creation of another, smaller version of him?
Must be the money. Or maybe it’s the dick.
Still. How the fuck is this man married?
Unfortunately, you’re given ample time to sit with this mystery.
Because even though today you’ve wrapped up what is easily the most… draining… case of your BAU career, Gideon still gathers everyone into a circle after the local police briefing for his customary closing philosophical remarks and the ceremonial assignment of final paperwork.
And instead of offering an actual departure time (some vague window one to two hours after the speech concludes) he generously grants himself (and, by extension, all of you) an extra night.
Apparently, he doesn’t feel like flying more than three hours “this late.”
An easy, lighthearted choice for Gideon to make, considering he is not subjected to Aaron Hotchner at all. You are. Specifically, to his three precautionary alarms, each spaced exactly thirty minutes apart.
Every single fucking day, the first one goes off and Hotch is instantly upright and operational a full hour and a half before either of you needs to be alive. He never snoozes it. Not once. Which, frankly, renders the existence of the other two a personal affront.
And despite your very explicit death threats (turn off those alarms, Hotchner, or I will suffocate you with your own tie), once he is awake, alert, perfectly groomed, and already solving crimes in his tiny little head, he does not disable the rest.
He just… lets them happen.
You get violently jolted awake every single time you finally manage to drift off again. Instead of ninety blessed minutes of uninterrupted sleep, you’re served a shrill, inescapable reminder, on repeat, that you share a room with a sociopath.
You are exhausted. You hate him. You hate the alarms more.
And you have not yet accepted the horrifying truth that this will happen again tomorrow, unless you confiscate his phone right now, during this sacred window in which he would not even notice.
He is busy on a call with Haley. The masochist in question. Sorry. His wife.
“Aaron, did you massage both balls?”
It is, quite literally, the first thing you hear her saying the moment he answers. She sounds annoyed. Which makes sense, since you know he very deliberately did not call her yesterday.
“Haley-” Hotch starts, horror flashing across his face as he turns slowly toward you, as if only now realizing that you are, in fact, a sentient being fully equipped with functional ears.
He fumbles with the buttons, frantically trying to kill the speaker before your psyche suffers irreversible damage. The last thing you hear, before blessed radio silence, is: “You need to massage both of them very thoroughly, otherwise it’s useless.”
…Jeez.
You stare at the wall. And as you find yourself wondering whether he’s been dutifully performing fertility massages in the shower every morning (and, more alarmingly, whether that is in fact the intended function of the other two alarms) the need for a cigarette metastasizes into a matter of life-or-death urgency. Your hand moves on instinct, fishing the emergency pack out of your go-bag in record time.
You light one up before you even step onto the balcony, then turn back toward him so he can witness the full, indulgent, ecstatic pleasure of that first drag as it blooms across your face.
He lunges for you (and you’d swear the whole sequence unfolds in half-speed), one hand clapped over the phone’s speaker as he chokes out a strangled, “No, don’t-” just before you blow the smoke straight into his face.
Oof. Much better.
Hotch shuts his eyes.
He chases the hit the only way he can, dragging in a long, desperate breath through his nose. And somehow, knowing that even this pitiful approximation will never land the way it does for you only makes the cigarette taste sweeter.
A soft sound slips out of him as he exhales.
You make a concerted effort not to think about that.
“We made a promise.” He whispers, fixing you with one of his looks, holding the phone at arm’s length. “We were doing it together…”
Haley’s voice is still there, muffled through the speaker. He’s probably hearing her about as badly as you are, with the phone nowhere near his ear. He really is spectacularly bad at this husband thing.
You take another drag, deliberately angling it away from him, purely to deny him the pleasure. It’s achingly, intoxicatingly sensual to watch his eyes hunger after the gray ribbon as it billows and dissolves into the night, as though it owes him something he’s not allowed to claim.
“Well,” you say, “I think I deserve it after today.”
He studies you with those piercing dark eyes, openly concerned.
The longer the cigarette burns unused and Haley’s voice keeps echoing faintly from the phone, the more uncomfortable it all becomes. She calls his name. He doesn’t answer until the second time.
“Hey, honey,” he says at last, looking down. “You can tell me more when I’m back home. I really need to go finish arranging a couple of things. I’m sorry.”
Liar.
And still, you can’t get over the way his voice changes when he speaks to her. A lullaby reserved for the mighty, allowed to be soothed by it. A tenderness so dissonant with the man beside you it almost hurts to hear.
“See you soon.” He’s already moving toward you. “I love you.”
You need another drag.
He leans against the parapet beside you. Even as his gaze drifts toward the parking lot, toward the same anonymous cars you’re staring at, you can feel his warmth hovering a bare inch away on your right.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks quietly. Not as soft as before. But close.
“I don’t know, you tell me.”
“We don’t have to,” he adds. “Not now. If you don’t want to.”
Smoke blurs the license plates in front of you. Silence barely has time to settle before it’s broken by the rhythmic chime of Hotch’s fingers against the parapet. Sounds almost like bells. He always fidgets with his hands when he’s nervous.
“Are you about to tell me it’ll feel better if I talk about it instead of bottling it all up?” you ask.
You hear him sigh.
“No. That’s usually your line. I was going to ask you for a cigarette, actually.”
“You’ll ruin your streak,” you jest, but your hand is already fishing the pack out of your jacket.
“Well, you broke first. So technically, I already won… might as well start again on even ground.”
“Didn’t you say this wasn’t a competition, but you doing the right thing… setting an example…” You slide a cigarette out of the pack and immediately lose track of the lighter. You pat your pockets. Pants - no. Jacket - also no. “Moral high ground? What was it… wait-” You check inside the jacket again. The lighter magically reappears. Of course. You hold the cigarette and lighter out to him. “Oh, right. You were old enough to stop fooling around?”
He looks at you and takes the cigarette straight from your lips. Hollows his cheeks, kissing it passionately.
“What the fuck, Hotchner?” You swat his arm on reflex.
He doesn’t even dignify that with a response.
You watch, seething, as the trace of your lipstick on the filter marks his mouth when his wedding ring shifts the cigarette away. Hotch casually leans back against the parapet, elbows propped, gaze drifting toward the parking lot while smoke slips from his lips.
“That blue Honda’s from North Carolina,” he remarks, conversationally.
Fuck him. And fuck his stupid car plates. Another thing of yours he’s stolen.
You glare at him. He remains entirely unbothered.
“You’re acting like a child…” You scoff, roll your eyes, and surrender by lighting the cigarette that was supposed to be his. You don’t have the energy to spar with his bullshit right now. Frankly, you’re not sure how he does. Residual adrenaline, maybe. Speaking of which-
“Did you at least tell Haley?”
He hesitates. “I… couldn’t. Why do you think the cigarette is for?”
“You didn’t tell your wife that the reason we’re staying the night is because you ran straight toward a house with an active shooter and no protection, and that if I hadn’t chased your ass, you’d be coming home in a coffin?”
“You disobeyed Gideon’s orders by running after me,” he counters calmly.
“I - I - did?” You bark out a laugh. “I disobeyed Gideon? That’s your takeaway? What the hell is going on in that head of yours, Hotchner? Are you losing it?”
“Perhaps,” he concedes. “But for what it’s worth, I went in because I knew you had my back. I never truly put myself at risk.”
“You walked in to negotiate with a man whose finger was already on the trigger and aimed at your completely unprotected head, I wouldn’t call that ‘no risk.’”
“You took the shot first,” he smiles (smiles?) “Didn’t you?”
“You are fucking insane.”
“It was the only way. Four children are going home to their parents tonight because of us.” And tomorrow, he’ll go home to his wife (whole) because of you. “If we’d waited for SWAT, it would’ve been too late.”
He pauses. The gold of his wedding band catches the light, half consumed by the eclipse of his head bowed over it. “Also, I needed confirmation about whether your death threats were real. Turns out, when you had the shot to get rid of me, you chose to pull me out instead.”
He shifts closer. Ash slips from the end of his cigarette, falling between your hands, briefly wrapping around your finger before you wipe it against the parapet.
“You really thought I was serious?” You laugh. He can’t possibly be that naïve, can he?
“I thought you were a woman of your word,” he says, lightly. Almost teasing.
“Maybe I just didn’t want to deal with the extra paperwork.”
“Or maybe you care about me.”
You commit the single biggest, dumbest rookie mistake listed (bolded, underlined, and practically laminated) in the Big Book of Stupid Things Stupid Rookies Should Never Do: you turn toward him without thinking. Shit.
He greets you with a half-smile and smoke slipping from his nose.
You wish you were immune to Aaron Hotchner in moments like this - when he’s not posturing, not bragging, not currying favor with his superiors, but simply being himself.
Worse still is the way he looks at you now, as if he already knows the answer and is merely waiting for you to acknowledge it. He doesn’t ask for reassurance; your silence, or the way you hold his gaze, seems to be response enough for him.
“You should probably wash your clothes in the sink when you’re done with that,” you deadpan, tipping your chin toward his cancer stick. “And hope they dry by morning. If Haley finds out you’re smoking again, I’m not taking the blame.”
“I’m the only one accountable for my actions,” he says, almost playfully - like he’s reciting a line he knows you’d make him repeat if he didn’t already have it memorized.
“Exactly.”
“Could I borrow your hair dryer later?” he asks.
“No. You get to do this all by yourself. Like a big boy, Hotchner.” Your cigarette isn’t finished yet, but you can feel the tide turning - and you know if you let it drag on even a second longer, you’ll lose to him again. So you stub it out against the parapet before he can.
“Thank you.” he whispers, right as the ember dies against the metal.
“Whatever,” you shrug, but his half-smile infects your own anyway.
His pent-up look is so hideous it could turn anyone to stone. You’re fairly certain you’ve just fallen victim to the gorgon yourself, caught the moment you finally, truly see him. Oxygen moving through your lungs grows expeditiously viscous the instant Hotch takes a single step toward you.
Your footing, your exit strategy, the remark poised on your tongue, your awareness - all of it petrifies when his big hands rush to cup your face and his lips inevitably collide with yours as if it were nothing at all.
Paralyzed.
You feel the fine grit of every distinct particle of cigarette ash on his fingertips as they caress down your cheeks, the gold band on his finger resting against you as cold as your own unmoving skin, and yet the mere taste of the nicotine rush from his mouth sends you into sublimation.
Solid to air. Evanescent. Weightless, undone, no longer held in place by anything at all except his hands, roaming helplessly on your body, drawing you in flush against him.
“Hotch-” you warn him.
A gritty hum answers you - all you’re given before he shamelessly deepens the kiss, drawing your tongue into his mouth. Moans into you like a man starved. A fucking addict in withdrawal. You know gentleness is beyond him right now, even if he tried to reach for it.
Not that you could ask for it. Not that you truly want it. And certainly not from a man you are unavoidably aware belongs, irrevocably, to someone else.
“Say you don’t want me and I’ll stop,” he slurs, swallowing the words because he can’t quite bring himself to articulate them properly.
A lie by omission if you’ve ever heard one - offered just convincingly enough to let him pretend he’s granting you a choice, while knowing full well he’s already beyond the concept of stopping.
He never specifies what, exactly, he’ll stop. And it certainly isn’t the way his hand keeps finding the flesh of your ass, squeezing, palming, returning as if on instinct, each touch underlining how hollow his promises really are. Much like his head.
Does that little human brain of his even fire enough synapses to register the risk?
What happens if one of your colleagues - say, your boss, or Morgan and Reid - gets the bright idea to step outside for some air, or to investigate the suspicious noise that keeps punctuating the silence, one that sounds alarmingly like a very large hand smacking against an ass cheek every now and then, because a certain someone seems downright incapable of containing his enthusiasm while toying with his coworker’s ass?
No? Fine. Just you, then.
This is what happens when Hotch thinks with his dick. Not that you’re complaining about that particular executive function taking over. You love his dick… dickhead.
You love the way his mouth turns reverent at your throat, worshipping the pulse there, nipping at your earlobe. The way he nuzzles his profile needily along your cheek before pressing a wet kiss to your jaw, as you melt beneath his touch.
Not until you hear the soft slide of a window opening on Gideon’s side of the balcony.
Fuck.
You both jerk back against the parapet, snapping into an HR-approved distance in the narrow window of time you have to pretend nothing just happened.
“Thought it was your voices out here,” Gideon greets you, stepping onto his balcony in just an amenities robe and leaning against the railing.
Hotch’s swallow is way too loud. Neurotic. The sound ricochets in your ears and reminds you of all the other sounds your body is capable of making, if only the drop below were fatal enough to justify jumping.
(Has Gideon reached the age where he needs a hearing aid? Evidently not, given that he’s standing right here.)
“You two, really…” Gideon sighs.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. You can feel your heartbeat thudding high in your throat, the exact spot that’s probably still damp from Hotch’s mouth. You can visualize it catching the moonlight as Gideon studies you pensively.
You hesitate. Do you wipe it away now, or would that only make things worse - telegraphing nerves to the man who practically invented profiling, nerves you are very much not supposed to have unless you’re hiding something?
“I don’t care if you smoke,” Gideon says, unimpressed. “As long as you do it outside. You can stop looking at me like I’m about to ground you.”
You laugh it off, but the silence from Hotch behind you is perturbing in a way that settles straight between your shoulder blades.
“I just wanted to let you know I got a call from the pilot, we’re clear to fly back around ten tomorrow morning. Which means we’ll be in Quantico by lunchtime, if we’re lucky. You can tell your loved ones so they don’t worry - and call me instead.” Gideon smiles somewhere behind your head.
Ouch. Poor Hotchner, getting scolded by his own daddy.
“I will this time, Jason,” Hotch says, and as if on cue, his hand slides so that only his pinkie and ring finger touch yours on the parapet. The ignominious cold of his wedding ring against your skin sends a shiver straight down your spine. There is suddenly no oxygen reaching your brain.
Riddle me this: What the fuck is he doing right now? Does his dick actually get harder cheating on his wife right in front of his boss? What exactly is he trying to prove?
“You better do, Aaron,” Gideon adds.
Hotch still doesn’t move.
You don’t either - not without drawing attention to whatever bullshit this is. A power play? Some deranged display of affection you never asked for? Something subconscious unravelling inside his head?
For half a second, you consider whether it would pass as an accident if you shoved him off the parapet and made sure he landed headfirst. That would be subconscious too, wouldn’t it?!
“Well,” Gideon says, already turning away, “I’m going to tell the other two now…”
Gideon leaves. Authority exits stage left. Consequences, apparently, decide to loiter. Back inside, the last thing you expect from dick-measuring-contest Hotch is for him to be giggling.
You’re halfway through shutting the curtains to avoid any… inconveniences. No. Prevention. Still, not really. Damage control. Whatever.
“Hotch, really, I’m serious - what the fuck did you think you were do-” it becomes very difficult to finish a sentence when his lips surge on yours.
“Shh,” he murmurs, your face swallowed once more by the warmth of his broad palms.
Another kiss.
He cages you in, flush against the window and the curtain, and suddenly there’s nothing else - it feels like you’re embraced by nothing but him. He’s all you can see. All he lets you see.
“I don’t want to lose-” He shuts you up with a kiss. “-this. This… job.” Another kiss. He’s giggling again. “Because of you-”
His dimples cut deep into his flushed cheeks as he pulls back, and you’re struck by the inequitable certainty that he’s never looked more handsome than he does right now. (Okay. Maybe you keep that part to yourself.)
“Gideon could’ve seen you straddling me,” Hotch murmurs in your ear as his hand rides up your skirt. Heat creeps up your neck when he traces down the inside of your panties. He drags through your slick folds, applying more pressure with two fingers as he slides them over your core. “And still, he wouldn’t believe you get this wet for a married man.”
“Oh, you’re really flipping this, it’s you - fuck you,” you gasp as he circles your clit through the fabric.
“You think I’m wrong? You don’t sound like I’m wrong,” he sneers.
He keeps stroking your clit, wantonly picking up the pace. One of your legs hooks around his waist without a single conscious thought, and he catches it immediately, holding it tight as you drag him closer until there’s not exactly that much space left to pretend you don’t want this.
Your whole body arches into his touch, fingers clawing into his firm biceps, nails leaving crescent-moon marks as you bite back every sound, stubbornly determined not to give him the satisfaction. (Women used to fight for their rights, you remind yourself.)
“I’m just trying to thank you,” and he kisses you light as feather. Please.
“And how does your wife feel about the way you express gratitude?” you whisper against his ear, sultry on purpose. A breathy little note slips from your throat at the very end, purely to beguile him.
Hotch looks at you like the air’s been knocked clean out of his lungs. You smile back at him, achingly sweet.
He slurs your name in that galling, infuriatingly condescending tone as his hand drifts lower, pushing your soaked panties aside without a moment’s hesitation. Two thick fingers slide in far too easily, sinking deep in between your folds.
“Fuck-” you gasp. You hate yourself for even remembering just how devastatingly good he feels when he stretches you like this.
He slides all the way out, leaving your hips chasing his fingers on pure instinct, before deliberately returning to torment you - easing back in only to the knuckles while his thumb bears down on your clit.
“How would she feel,” you needle him, “if she knew how hard you got every morning this past week? Waking up in the same room as me… having to get up an hour and a half early just to make it go away?”
He manhandles you without warning, steering you farther into the room until the back of your leg bumps the desk. With a careless sweep of your arm, you send his rogue paperwork skidding to the floor (good luck reordering those, Hotchner) pages scattering across the carpet as you hop up onto the wood.
You fist the loose fabric of his shirt and yank him in. Spread your legs. Hook them around his hips. Feel the solid… weight of him press right into your wet core. He gets harder and harder at just that.
What. A. Loser.
In a rush, he strips your panties away.
You catch the way his pupils blow wide as he thumbs over the sheer wet spot with barely disguised hunger before yanking them off entirely. They land squarely on a report - what kind, you have no idea. Unlike a certain someone, you’re not nearly enough of a workaholic to identify paperwork by font alone.
Silver linings.
A breathless tangle follows - your teeth catching his lower lip, his hands crashing into yours as he reaches for your chest while you fumble blindly for his back, both of you too rushed and desperate to coordinate a single move.
“Did you want me to touch you-” he hums, his mouth wet against your cheek, middle and ring fingers pumping firmly in and out of your swollen gummy walls. A shiver tears through you. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the cold kiss of the ring every time his hand disappears inside you.
“Like this,” he adds, and his free hand comes up just in time to cover your mouth, smothering the moan you can’t stop when his fingers curl perfectly into your sweet spot. “Every morning you watched me step out of the shower just to grab my clothes?”
Okay. Fine. He can gloat. Annoyingly, offensively, he does look hot like that.
All wet hair and trailing droplets, hot steam spilling in behind him, lashes still damp and somehow longer for it. Water sliding down those slanted shoulders, down his - unfortunately - freshly shaved chest, until the whole room smells like his aftershave and, inexplicably, cherry blossom shaving cream.
(Aaron Hotchner is so feminist he can’t even escape the pink tax? Please. As if.)
Droplets trace the softer plane of his stomach, slipping beneath the towel slung obscenely low on his hips, the sharp V there catching the light and your attention alike. Something shifts beneath the fabric every time he moves...
And just when you think he’s done enough damage, he casually swipes the wet fringe back with one hand. No ring during the shower, so for a split second he still feels… available - at least in your head.
You don’t even bother feeling guilty as his biceps flex, swell, go indecently solid (sleeper build fully activated) only for that one stubborn, coarse lock to drop right back onto his forehead, like it’s doing this on purpose.
Hell yes.
Oh. Sorry. Right. You’re supposed to be humiliating him back - and you very pointedly refuse to examine whether the smug curve of his mouth right now is because he clocked exactly where your thoughts just wandered.
“When you touched yourself in the shower, were you picturing me like this, or your wife?”
He scoffs, but offers no defense. No denial. He just looks at you wary. Like you’ve just put your finger on something you weren’t meant to see so clearly.
And the way his thumb joins the motion at your clit, the way he keeps fingering you so sloppily that the obscene sounds of your body fill the room more than your own voice - as if that alone is his answer - feels less like a rebuttal and more like… a reward?
“Is that why you never take the ring off?” you cry out. “Does - oh my god - does it turn you on, fingering me with – fuck - that?”
The words snag in your throat and dissolve into a sound so filthy you didn’t know you were capable of making it (Gideon is, incidentally, still very much alive and sojourning on the other side of the wall). You go light-headed, stars bursting behind your eyes every time his fingers sink deeper.
“What, sweetheart?” he coos.
“-suck my dick and balls,” you choke out in one breath.
He might be laughing at that. Or maybe that’s just the rush roaring in your ears as you claw at his shoulders, cutting off circulation in a desperate attempt to haul him closer as heat pools low and molten in your stomach.
Your head tips back, pleasure flaring so hot it feels like you might combust. He’s there instantly, mouth at your neck, the other hand steady at your back, soothing the frantic pulse under his wet lips.
“I’ve got you this time,” he murmurs there (who cares?)
His words land like a spell; you end up knocking more papers off the desk, dizzy as the ecstasy crests. Your orgasm billows and crashes through you in tidal waves, sweeping you off your feet.
You feel your walls flutter around his fingers as he rides you through it, until your head goes limp on his shoulder, boneless, his hand still steady at your waist.
His fingers are slick and glistening with you. So is his wedding ring.
You catch the caprice in his eyes as he looks at you and shamelessly draws his fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean. He hums, indulgent, eyelids melting shut as he savors you, and releases them with a lewd pop, the ring nudged higher on his finger.
You wish it could choke him. You also wish he’d fuck you right now, because that was so, so, so hot.
All smug, he starts, “Are you alri-”
You don’t let him finish.
You press your hand flat over his mouth. His gasp comes out muffled, warm against your palm, leaving it faintly damp. On instinct, you drag your hand down his lips, the dazed, almost drunk look on his face making it feel inevitable.
You press your index and middle finger between his mouth, still carrying a trace of tobacco from your cigarette, and he accepts them without hesitation.
You feel his tongue slide along the inside of your fingers, the light scrape of his teeth as you push them deeper, the pull of his cheeks hollowing around them. Another broken sound breaks free when you finally pull them back out.
“Fuck, Hotchner,” you groan.
The whore smiles back. He loosens his tie and drapes it over the back of the desk chair. You shrug out of your top and fling it somewhere over his head, your hands skating over the firm slope of his shoulders, disastrously enchanted by him. You start on the top buttons of his shirt-
-and he stops you.
His hands clamp around your hips, hauling you to the very edge of the desk. He grabs a handful of your ass and pulls you hard against the rigid line in his slacks. You roll your hips instinctively, angling yourself just right to feel all of him. Oh, fuck.
“Can you feel what you’re doing to me?” he groans through clenched teeth, rocking forward and dragging himself over your folds, landing perfectly against your clit.
“No,” you lie.
He chuckles - you keep getting distracted by his dimples, which is frankly becoming a liability.
“Well,” he says, pleased with himself, “don’t worry. You will.” (Boooo! Disappointing rebuttal, Hotchner!)
If you hadn’t already fucked this freak while you were both drunk out of your minds, you’d tease him back - ask if he’s referring to the inevitable thirty seconds he’ll last once he’s inside you.
Unfortunately, you do know better. You know exactly what you’re dealing with. You might’ve even fantasized about it. So the swallow that tightens your throat is probably nerves. Or anticipation. Annoying either way.
He buries his face in the soft center of your chest, dexterous hands spanning your breasts through the bra, squeezing with something feral, unthinking (is he in heat?). He taunts you with kisses there, then trails his wet mouth upward along your clavicle, to your neck, where he nips and sucks at your skin with his teeth before soothing it with his silver tongue.
Ever the overachiever, Aaron Big Hairy Hands Hotchner somehow manages, all at once, to use your tit as a stress ball (for his pleasure and, infuriatingly, yours), leave you fairly certain he’s branded you with a hickey somewhere along your neck, and - drumroll - magically unhook your bra one-handed.
Wow.
If there were ever a clearer sign that this man is married, this would be it. His wife must be thrilled about this particular domestic skill of his.
If you had any real say in the matter - which you don’t, lacking the legal standing, the joint bank account, the stamina to tolerate his infuriating habits for the rest of your life, and the sincere desire to procreate with him - you’d still have to admit he’s devastatingly gifted with his mouth. When he isn’t using it to talk, obviously.
Case in point: the sound you make, embarrassingly louder than intended, when his tongue finds your peaking nipple, laving it slowly while his hand methodically toys with the other nub.
“If anyone knocks to complain about the noise,” he mutters against your chest, voice muffled and haughty, “you’re the one opening the door.” He nips down a little harder for emphasis, teeth adding just enough friction.
You choke on another sound.
“Shit, Aaron-” He smiles when you say his name. Fucking loser. “You’re so good.”
“I know.”
You roll your eyes. They promptly stay lodged somewhere behind your skull as pleasure floods in - because, infuriatingly, this is one thing you can’t fault him for. And sharing desks, rooms, fries (and, you hope soon enough, fluids), spending this much time prisoner in his orbit, has made you very good at profiling that smug-on-the-surface ass of his.
(Ergo, you recognize a praise kink when you see one.)
“No, Aaron,” you insist, breathless, “really. You’re so – so - good at this.”
He moans your name into your breast, shameless. His hand slides lower, bunching your skirt up in his fist until his fingers find your clit again, circling it slow - because he’s a giver, because he wants to earn it, because he wants to be told again.
Your eyes snag on the strained fabric of his grey (yum) slacks, stretched to its limits, the thick outline of his dick twitching in what you very reasonably interpret as pure, unfiltered excitement. The darkened spot right where the tip presses is an indulgent little detail… one you’d very much like to greet with your own tongue.
(See? Textbook.)
You bite your bottom lip. The fact that he still has half his shirt buttoned while you’re basically naked - especially once Inseminator 3000 (After Dark Edition) finishes with your skirt - feels profoundly antifeminist.
“Are you comfortable sitting like this?” he asks, those worried, wet-puppy eyes fixed on you as you work at his buttons, manhandling his arms like a Ken doll just to rid him of the stupid shirt.
“Sure,” you shrug, tossing it onto the growing disaster on the floor.
He pulls a face - constipated, like he’s just bitten into something violently sour (a casual Tuesday, really). You read it instantly as you should’ve folded it, the way he folded your skirt, now resting primly beside his tie on the back of the desk chair. Whoops. Maybe he should’ve asked his wife…
“Hotchner, you really have to wash that shirt later,” you blurt. “It really, really, really stinks like smoke.” You punctuate it with a wet kiss to his shoulder, then look up at him, brows raised.
“I– I will. Must be the cotton-” Right. The premium cotton. One hundred percent natural, hand-picked by virgins at dawn, spun into thread by blessed artisans in Italy, stitched by tailors who’ve never known hardship. Yada yada. Your ass. You can practically hear the obnoxious old-money flex echoing in your head - even if, for once, he isn’t actually doing it.
“Thanks for worrying so much,” he adds. There’s something faintly melancholic in his tone, a dissonant buzz like all his alarms going off at once, when he cups your chin and tilts your face up, pressing a kiss to your mouth that tastes far too earnest for your liking. He lingers, thumb stroking the corner of your lips.
Where did the hoe go?
“You still cool with this?” you ask - checking in, technically - while your hand has very much wandered to his boob chest and is now lowkey fondling it. It would be awkward if he suddenly remembered his vows while you’re halfway to tonguing his nipple, right?
“Absolute- Jesus Christ,” he gasps. In your defense, he has very sensitive nipples.
Belts, though - you’re like a magpie. There’s something about the thickness where the leather folds into the buckle that makes your mouth water.
You’ve noticed it - unfortunately, far too often - how the belts he wears always sit just right, cinching his hips so profanely well that when your fingers move there it feels like déjà vu. Muscle memory, born of how many times you’ve already fantasized about this.
Your hands tremble a little as you work the buckle, brushing the smooth, polished leather - and fine, before his laser-beam eyes can lock onto you, you set it neatly on the chair. The slacks follow. You are not, however, entrusted with the folding.
(Unsurprising.)
(Rude.)
The restraint this requires deserves a medal. There’s a very real side quest screaming at you to bury your face in that bulge. Damn.
“There,” you say lightly once he’s finished carefully creasing and fussing over a pair of grey slacks that softly smell like tobacco and… bear a damp mark. “Happy now, Hotchner?”
“Jesus,” he sighs. He catches your wrist (hot) and guides it closer to his erection (extra hot). Your hand flares like it’s caught fire. Flames race up your arm, fed by nothing but strong wind until the heat spreads through the rest of your body. “Touch me.”
(Oh, Jesus, touch me? Denial is a river in Egypt. Your husband is gay.)
You trace the damp outline at the head through his boxers, letting your hand glide up and down his thick length before circling back to thumb the tip again.
You’re not entirely sure whether the sudden clench low in your… body is because of the very beautiful dick in front of you, or because the breathy, high sound he makes does things to your clit… ears. Ears. Through the haze, you barely register him rushing to free himself of his boxers, moving so fast his dick almost bounces straight into your hands.
“Damn, Hotchner, you’re so impatient,” you tease - purely for psychological warfare, obviously, because wow. You hate clichés, you really do, but his dick somehow looks even better than the first time you saw it. (Probably because you were drunk. Probably.)
“Don’t lie to me, I know all you want right now is my dick stretching that tight little pussy.”
Ok…?
Who taught him that? Has he been watching porn since you last left him unsupervised? The comeback curdles in your throat, and you have too much pride to simply say yes. (Yes, please?)
He’s already gloating.
You’re bewitched by the way the gold glints and shifts as his fist works him in a few slow strokes. You find yourself wondering whether the cool bite of the metal against his overheated skin feels as good as it did when his fingers were inside you.
You lift your palm toward his mouth; he spits into it (hot.)
So much so that you’re fairly certain you’re slicking the desk beneath you (and you really hope he doesn’t point it out) as you pump him from the base, overwhelmed by the sheer, dense weight of him settling into your hand.
His mouth crashes into yours (less a kiss than an open-mouthed whimper) before he swats your hand away, breath breaking around a desperate, unfinished “Please, or I-”
Booooo.
His broad palm presses to the center of your chest, easing you flat against the desk, lifting one leg to rest over his shoulder. “Are you sure this is comfortable for you?” he asks softly, thumb tracing the side of your calf before he kisses it.
So much for the wild, rough sex you were expecting.
“I am, Aaron. Don’t worry about me.”
He answers with a smile that’s almost too sweet for the situation, then bends to claim your lips again. He drifts to your ear, and a shiver crawls up your spine to settle exactly where his mouth nibbles.
“How come you’re wetter now than before?”
He punctuates the question by slapping the heavy length of himself against your puffy clit. The sound is absolutely lewd. He does it again. And again - careless of the bow in your back, careless of everything - until you have to fight not to pout and whine when his heat leaves you as he straightens, attention snagged by something just out of sight behind your head.
“Something wrong?” you ask.
He shakes his head, mutters something that barely escapes his chest, then reaches past you. There’s a dull thump behind your head, like something hitting the surface of the desk face-down. Whatever it is, it does something to him.
He dips back down to latch onto your nipples, mouth hot and reverent for a heartbeat, murmuring, “God, you’re so beautiful,” before pulling away again.
You clap a hand over your own mouth to smother the sound when his bulbous head starts gliding up and down your folds, dipping not even an inch at your entrance before dragging back to your clit, grinding himself down again.
He spits where his flushed head presses to you. You can feel slick drip between your thighs like honey.
“Remember who’s right on the other side of the wall, alright?” he murmurs, tapping the wall twice with his knuckles.
“You’re so fucking fun- oh fuck,” you choke into your fist just in time as he finally buries all of himself inside you.
Then he pulls out completely.
“Told you to be quieter, sweetheart.”
“Are you this much of an asshole when you fuck your wife too?” you snap back.
He answers by slamming hard into you again, hard. Another billow of white-hot pleasure consumes your body. At least he commits to it.
Your head tips back, mouth parting, as if something molten and gilded floods you from the inside out, only to be battered by restless winds that toss you everywhere at once. You’re buffeted and doomed.
You feel your walls clench and clamp around him, stretching you so, so, good that you almost understand the appeal of patience - of tolerating his endless bullshit - if this is what his dick feels like at the end of the day.
He lowers himself over you, crowding your space. He looks massive like this, shoulders broad, body a wall of heat and gluttonous weight.
“Do you have such a dirty mouth with the other guys you fuck,” he asks, hovering near your lips, “or are you only mean with me?” He claims your mouth in the same breath, kissing you hard, loud, like he’s showing off.
You feel him twitch inside you, like his body is begging him to move despite the careful mask of control. He never sounds less than earnest when he says things like this - smug to anyone else, maybe, but there’s always that edge underneath. That selfish hint of jealousy. Like he hates the idea that you aren’t entirely his.
What a greedy man.
“You might be surprised, but I go completely quiet if I get fucked right.”
He bites his lip, that stupid, infuriating smile flashing the second anyone so much as tosses him the idea of a challenge into his orbit (no glove required this time since you’re letting him take it raw. Ok… this one really sucked).
His hand slides to your hip and he starts rocking into you with fervor, driving his dick in and out of you like he’s got something to prove to you. Your legs are already folded tight against your chest beneath his weight, the angle humiliatingly perfect, reducing you to a whimpering mess as your eyes roll back.
He nips at the swell of your breast when your back arches up into him, and suddenly he’s everywhere - so much so you can’t tell where he starts and where you end, and yet you distinctly feel all of him, every throbbing vein of his thick cock grinding insistently into your walls.
Your fingers scrabble for purchase, dipping into his shoulders, then his biceps, desperate for something to steady you as his pace turns rougher.
“Does this feel good?” he asks, and the wet, obscene sound of it all seems to echo inside your skull when his hand presses to your lower belly, claiming the undeniable proof of how deep he really is.
“Yes - yes, you do feel good – fuck - when you commit to it,” you cry, words loosening and tangling together, collapsing into each other like one of those impossible Irish place names - Glassillaunvealnacurra, (located in the county of Galway): Little green island of the mouth of the weir.
It’s never resonated more than it does right now, as he hits your sweet spot and you’re still fighting to sound coherent, to convince him you possess the vocabulary of a fully grown adult while your body very clearly has other priorities.
You start matching his rhythm, meeting him halfway, chasing it. Your walls suddenly clamp hard around him, like it’s all tipping into too much.
“Jesus,” he hisses through his teeth, mouth falling open. “Don’t do that too often, or I’m not lasting as long as you think I will.”
“Need a break, Hotchner?”
He hums back, pleased, then leans down for another kiss. You breathe into each other’s mouths, unguarded, eyes locked as if you’re both checking – (dick) measuring (contest) - the damage you’re doing.
It’s so hot.
A dark, knowing smile curls on your lips at the exact same moment it blooms on his. You tip your head forward and steal it from him with a kiss.
Centuries of literature about soulmates, angelic women driving chosen men to abandon their humanity for something metaphysical - and your own road-to-Damascus moment hits you now.
It lands clean, without splintering you into a thousand pieces: that with his very ordinary, almost classic Disney-prince smile, the too-big-and-pointy nose, the smug eyes, Aaron (does he even have a middle name?) Hotchner (title? lineage? the second? the third?) was probably engineered by a higher power (a woman, thank you Mama Hotchner) to be your perfect fuck… buddy? Colleague? Fellow associate?
Fuck friend, if you were friends. Because the two of you together fuck on an almost transcendental plane. And if he weren’t married, you might even have the nerve to tell him you’ve finally identified a purpose for his otherwise profoundly meaningless life.
“Oh my god- just like that,” you moan as he rolls his hips and finds you perfectly, the impact ringing straight through you.
He’s pistoning into you now, relentless. Something goes skidding off the desk - there’s a dull, graceless crash, then the muted shatter of something that sounds like glass swallowed by carpet. You’re too dizzy to look. So is he. He tips his head forward onto your shoulder, breath breaking against your salty skin.
You tense all at once, toes curling where your feet rest on his shoulders as his hand circles your aching clit. The rooftop vanishes. The same night where you were carelessly smoking, blurring license plates, opens back up, limpid and vast. You’re drenched in starlight, gilded.
The pain is sharp enough to pull sounds from your throat before you can stop them, but what follows is so achingly sweet you never want it to end. There is no part of you that wants escape from it. Your body yields, your thoughts scatter, your soul settles - finding rest nowhere else but in him.
“Aaron-” is all you manage.
It isn’t pain of the body alone, though your body does not escape it. It participates fully, trembling, responding. And yet what you feel goes beyond flesh.
“Wow… look at you,” he rasps. Your walls are still fluttering, pulsing tight around him, and he doesn’t let up - keeps thrusting, keeps stroking your clit with the same ruthless focus, staying with you through the last shattering waves of your ecstasy.
A thin, high sound slips from his mouth as you writhe, oversensitive, his rhythm turning frantic. He folds down over you, kisses your lips, then trails a wet path to your ear.
“Can I-” he asks, sheepish.
“Yes, Aaron.” Your hand slides over his back, tracing the broad muscles there, keeping him exactly where he is. “Please. Don’t move.”
You seal the unspoken (though you know exactly what he’s asking for) permission with a soft kiss to his mouth, lips flushed pink and swollen, unmistakably marked by how many times he’s already tasted you tonight.
He moans into it, hips jerking as you feel each pulse of his heat spill into you, the way he fucks his release deeper and deeper into your pussy, until he finally gives in - hollowed out - collapsing between the swell of your breasts.
“Do you think we’ll still be employed by tomorrow?” you ask, fingers slipping absently into his hair, threading there, even if whatever this is only exists on borrowed time.
You feel his chuckle rumble through your chest, low enough it almost kick-starts your heart again, like a defibrillator.
“Jason-” Oh, for fuck’s sake. Of course he calls your boss by his first name, absolute teacher’s pet. “-sleeps with earplugs ever since that case we had in Iowa,” he adds. “Remember the newlyweds?”
“Oh my god, yes. I could hear them all the way from the other end of the corridor,” you groan. “You were closer, right? Must’ve been hell.”
“You have no idea,” he says, chuckling again. “So… small mercies. At least on that front.”
“Right,” you huff trough your nose. “I don’t think we were that bad, though. Right?”
“Not bad at all,” he repeats, smirking.
You roll your eyes. You’re fairly certain he’s talking about something else entirely.
Still, he’s not quite as disposable as you imagined. Not when he’s careful easing you down from the desk, not when he takes his time cleaning you up with a tenderness you absolutely did not earn and certainly did not request.
Of course, any illusion of growth evaporates the moment he starts treasure-hunting your bra and panties from around the room, launching into a condescending lecture about procedure.
Apparently, even in the heat of the moment, garments should be discarded with intention - placed neatly and thoughtfully - rather than “launched indiscriminately,” thus sparing oneself the moral failing of later having to wear them “crumpled and compromised.”
“You know,” you deadpan, “if you wanted a souvenir, you could’ve just snagged my panties and tucked them into the Barbie Dream Closet you call a go-bag instead of inventing all of this.”
You watch, fascinated, as his face goes entirely, spectacularly pink in record time.
“I’m joking, Hotchner. Relax. No need to get all pent-up.”
Unlike his theory on orderly undressing, you’re increasingly convinced chaos is the superior system, everything is right where you can see it.
You spot your cigarette pack immediately (half-open, a couple already making a bid for freedom), sitting beside the wreckage of whatever just shattered on the floor, ergo, the mystery object that took a dive off the desk a few moments ago.
A frame. Is this Hotch’s?
You pick it up gingerly, trying not to bleed.
Your stomach may be folded clean in half, but you cannot deny that Haley looks absolutely ethereal in white.
Well.
You rummage for whatever that FBI-issued compartmentalization bullshit was supposed to teach you… anything that might buy you one quiet cigarette before guilt comes crashing in.
You slide the glass door open to the balcony and lean into the frame, letting the night breathe back into you.
“Want a smoke?” you ask.
“Sure,” he says, already positioning himself opposite you, back against the door, holding it ajar so the breeze drifts inside. In your head, at least, the airflow feels intentional, like physics itself is trying to draw a clean, hygienic, line between you.
He does that infuriatingly hot thing you only ever see in edgy rom-coms: lights your cigarette for you, cupping the flame with his broad hand, shielding it from the wind until you finally get your hit.
The flame flickers, and in that brief glow you catch how earnestly he’s looking at you, how soft his smile turns when your eyes meet. Shit. You blow the smoke outward like you’re supposed to, but the wind betrays you, curling it right back in, clinging to your clothes, your skin, drifting toward him anyway.
You pass him the cigarette. His fingers linger on yours.
You hate how reliably hot it is when he hollows his cheeks, how his face shifts from constipated to almost human (relaxed would be generous) the deeper the smoke settles in his lungs. The ritual repeats: he exhales into the night, the smoke loops back, and then the cigarette is returned to you, warm from his fingers. Back and forth.
Shared breath. Shared silence.
And you think – unhelpfully - about how he seems more faithful to you in these moments than to the person he’s sworn loyalty to. About how that same softness in his voice, the one he reserves for her, carries the weight of his biggest lies.
You wonder if one day he’ll manage to deceive you just as effortlessly as he’s deceiving Haley now.
Phi's Corner: I’m sorry, friends... my eyes gave up halfway through rereading this all in one go (instead of the tiny chunks I wrote it in), so if anything’s wonky or not flowing quite right… I’m sorryyyyyy I’m going to sleep now!!
LOOK AT THIS GODDAMN MASTERPIECE REARRANGING MY MIND , BODY AND SOUL. OH PATHETIC AARON HOTCHNER YOU ARE SO SPECIAL TO MEEEEEE💞 YOU KNOW IT'S A GOOD SMUT WHEN YOU COME AWAY 😏 EDUCATED. GOD THE DESCRIPTIONS I AM IN AWEEEEEE. THE GRAPHICS ALWAYS DELIVER. I AM IN AWEEE I AM UNWELL I AM DANGER TO THE PUBLIC I AM CLIMBING THE WALLS AND EATING THEM GODDAMNNNN. PHIIIIII
OMGGGG this made me emotional first thing in the morning <333333 You're way too kind!!!! Thank you soso much, truly I'm beyond happy, grateful, and honoured that you liked the fic!!! 😽😽😽😽😽😽😽😽😽
You deserve all the praise you hit it out of the park time and time again<3333 Every time I encounter your work I think there is no way you can possibly top that AND THEN YOU DO THE TALENT LEVELS ARE INSANEEEEEEE <33
the thing about hotch is he's not stoic or removed like people think he is, he just isn't moved by his own suffering. he'll cry in a heartbeat for a child victim, for a rape victim, for a member of his team. when someone he believes to be his responsibility is hurt. his trauma matters to him only as he sees it imputed upon others; only when he sees someone else being subjected to the harms of his own past does he recognize it as worthy of dwelling on the pain. but the philosophical "self" is completely alien to him. something like his divorce, his rape, even his loss of haley is totally locked up inside and compartmentalized until it can be processed through the other. and that repression makes him more miserable, more locked inside himself, less participatory in his own life. and basically that's why he's self-harm barbie
I love people who deeply analyse characters and share their findings. <3 However
WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU SAY THAT ?? ON MY CELLULAR DEVICE?? OH I'LL OPEN TUMBLR AND THEN I GET DUNKED IN ACID AND STABBED😭 CURSES TO YOU OP CURSES TO THE ALGORITHM FOR SHOWING ME THIS GOD FORSAKEN ACCURATE ANALYSIS OF MEDIAA CURSESSSSS
Also this immediately popped into my head and refused to leave so have. Graphic Design is my passion
EDIT: Because I can't reply to comments on this , please feel free to use the graphic 🖤
married!Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader
Genre: “enemies”-to-terrible-ideas, SMUT!!!
Summary: You save your coworker’s life and he fucks you as a thank-you? WOW! You can’t help but wonder how his wife feels about this particular expression of gratitude.
Warnings: MDNI (unprotected piv, ladyfingering, whipped cream maritozzi), infidelity, Aaron WHOREtchner, fertility talk nobody consented to, cigarettes, psychological warfare, toxic AF dynamics, Gideon in a robe jumpscare (my dick is hard). This takes place before s1, back when Hotch and Haley were trying for a baby, and Gideon was the Unit Chief!
Word Count: 8.9k (kill me?)
Dado's Corner: Idc if you think you’re too cool to reblog or comment and are just going to ghost-read this fic and move on with your day. TAKE A MOMENT to actually appreciate the details of the header (specifically the way it recreates the floor plan of a... messy hotel room) and tell me I’m a genius (example of the comments I expect to see: Wow, Phi! I can tell you spent valuable time of your life researching what hotel carpets look like. It looks gorgeous!). That said, tysm to my loves @alinathinkstoomuch , @sweetheartsocks & @hotchology for helping bring this fic back to life! And the biggest kiss to @pastelpinkflowerlife ’s brain for the request, I hope you enjoy it!
masterlist
amor fati
ˈa.mor ˈfaː.ti | noun (Latin)
1. The refusal to wish for another outcome; the deliberate choice to love what occurred simply because it did.
Riddle me this:
What’s stiff but short,
never quite your sort?
Promised grandeur, swore it’d last,
but finishes far, far too fast.
You hold it close. You curse. You pray.
It still disappoints you anyway.
You wish this verse were Hotch’s dick -
the length, the hype, the failing trick.
(Solution: the short end of the stick.)
But fate’s a clown and luck’s a prick,
and once again you draw ________
Which, frankly, was always short to begin with.
Because when the accommodation announces a last-minute room shortage (how professional…) and informs you that for five agents there are only three rooms available, Gideon, in his infinite wisdom as a cultured and experienced Unit Chief-
(conveniently the only one the BAU has ever had, so there’s no point of comparison… you simply have to accept him, his decisions, and his pending dementia)
-decides there is only one reasonable course of action.
He takes an entire double king-size honeymoon suite for himself. Morgan and Reid get shoved together into a double. And you?
You get Hotch.
Objectively the worst possible outcome of an already catastrophically fucked situation. The short end of the stick, anthropomorphized.
Eight glorious days of forced cohabitation follow.
Eight days of sleeping with the devil a few feet away, while you lie marooned on a twin bed whose mattress is so aggressively unforgiving you’ve resorted to medication just to remain a functioning member of society during daylight hours.
Add to that the long, soul-draining stakeouts - during which Gideon keeps pairing you with Hotch, possibly because no one else can truly stand him and you are, statistically speaking, the most expendable when the greater good requires a human sacrifice.
The package deal also includes: enduring his appalling small-talk skills, his despotic music taste, and an ungodly number of shared meals with Mr. I Won’t Order Fries Because I’m Eating Healthy and Have a Very Specific Meal Plan… who then proceeds to steal half of yours with his thick fingers anyway.
Somewhere along the way (between the stakeouts, the mattress, the fries, and the man) you feel another riddle forming in your head. Not in rhyme. You don’t have the energy for that anymore.
What kind of masochist would willingly sign up to endure Hotch's presence indefinitely and decide that yes, this is the man whose semen should be entrusted with the creation of another, smaller version of him?
Must be the money. Or maybe it’s the dick.
Still. How the fuck is this man married?
Unfortunately, you’re given ample time to sit with this mystery.
Because even though today you’ve wrapped up what is easily the most… draining… case of your BAU career, Gideon still gathers everyone into a circle after the local police briefing for his customary closing philosophical remarks and the ceremonial assignment of final paperwork.
And instead of offering an actual departure time (some vague window one to two hours after the speech concludes) he generously grants himself (and, by extension, all of you) an extra night.
Apparently, he doesn’t feel like flying more than three hours “this late.”
An easy, lighthearted choice for Gideon to make, considering he is not subjected to Aaron Hotchner at all. You are. Specifically, to his three precautionary alarms, each spaced exactly thirty minutes apart.
Every single fucking day, the first one goes off and Hotch is instantly upright and operational a full hour and a half before either of you needs to be alive. He never snoozes it. Not once. Which, frankly, renders the existence of the other two a personal affront.
And despite your very explicit death threats (turn off those alarms, Hotchner, or I will suffocate you with your own tie), once he is awake, alert, perfectly groomed, and already solving crimes in his tiny little head, he does not disable the rest.
He just… lets them happen.
You get violently jolted awake every single time you finally manage to drift off again. Instead of ninety blessed minutes of uninterrupted sleep, you’re served a shrill, inescapable reminder, on repeat, that you share a room with a sociopath.
You are exhausted. You hate him. You hate the alarms more.
And you have not yet accepted the horrifying truth that this will happen again tomorrow, unless you confiscate his phone right now, during this sacred window in which he would not even notice.
He is busy on a call with Haley. The masochist in question. Sorry. His wife.
“Aaron, did you massage both balls?”
It is, quite literally, the first thing you hear her saying the moment he answers. She sounds annoyed. Which makes sense, since you know he very deliberately did not call her yesterday.
“Haley-” Hotch starts, horror flashing across his face as he turns slowly toward you, as if only now realizing that you are, in fact, a sentient being fully equipped with functional ears.
He fumbles with the buttons, frantically trying to kill the speaker before your psyche suffers irreversible damage. The last thing you hear, before blessed radio silence, is: “You need to massage both of them very thoroughly, otherwise it’s useless.”
…Jeez.
You stare at the wall. And as you find yourself wondering whether he’s been dutifully performing fertility massages in the shower every morning (and, more alarmingly, whether that is in fact the intended function of the other two alarms) the need for a cigarette metastasizes into a matter of life-or-death urgency. Your hand moves on instinct, fishing the emergency pack out of your go-bag in record time.
You light one up before you even step onto the balcony, then turn back toward him so he can witness the full, indulgent, ecstatic pleasure of that first drag as it blooms across your face.
He lunges for you (and you’d swear the whole sequence unfolds in half-speed), one hand clapped over the phone’s speaker as he chokes out a strangled, “No, don’t-” just before you blow the smoke straight into his face.
Oof. Much better.
Hotch shuts his eyes.
He chases the hit the only way he can, dragging in a long, desperate breath through his nose. And somehow, knowing that even this pitiful approximation will never land the way it does for you only makes the cigarette taste sweeter.
A soft sound slips out of him as he exhales.
You make a concerted effort not to think about that.
“We made a promise.” He whispers, fixing you with one of his looks, holding the phone at arm’s length. “We were doing it together…”
Haley’s voice is still there, muffled through the speaker. He’s probably hearing her about as badly as you are, with the phone nowhere near his ear. He really is spectacularly bad at this husband thing.
You take another drag, deliberately angling it away from him, purely to deny him the pleasure. It’s achingly, intoxicatingly sensual to watch his eyes hunger after the gray ribbon as it billows and dissolves into the night, as though it owes him something he’s not allowed to claim.
“Well,” you say, “I think I deserve it after today.”
He studies you with those piercing dark eyes, openly concerned.
The longer the cigarette burns unused and Haley’s voice keeps echoing faintly from the phone, the more uncomfortable it all becomes. She calls his name. He doesn’t answer until the second time.
“Hey, honey,” he says at last, looking down. “You can tell me more when I’m back home. I really need to go finish arranging a couple of things. I’m sorry.”
Liar.
And still, you can’t get over the way his voice changes when he speaks to her. A lullaby reserved for the mighty, allowed to be soothed by it. A tenderness so dissonant with the man beside you it almost hurts to hear.
“See you soon.” He’s already moving toward you. “I love you.”
You need another drag.
He leans against the parapet beside you. Even as his gaze drifts toward the parking lot, toward the same anonymous cars you’re staring at, you can feel his warmth hovering a bare inch away on your right.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks quietly. Not as soft as before. But close.
“I don’t know, you tell me.”
“We don’t have to,” he adds. “Not now. If you don’t want to.”
Smoke blurs the license plates in front of you. Silence barely has time to settle before it’s broken by the rhythmic chime of Hotch’s fingers against the parapet. Sounds almost like bells. He always fidgets with his hands when he’s nervous.
“Are you about to tell me it’ll feel better if I talk about it instead of bottling it all up?” you ask.
You hear him sigh.
“No. That’s usually your line. I was going to ask you for a cigarette, actually.”
“You’ll ruin your streak,” you jest, but your hand is already fishing the pack out of your jacket.
“Well, you broke first. So technically, I already won… might as well start again on even ground.”
“Didn’t you say this wasn’t a competition, but you doing the right thing… setting an example…” You slide a cigarette out of the pack and immediately lose track of the lighter. You pat your pockets. Pants - no. Jacket - also no. “Moral high ground? What was it… wait-” You check inside the jacket again. The lighter magically reappears. Of course. You hold the cigarette and lighter out to him. “Oh, right. You were old enough to stop fooling around?”
He looks at you and takes the cigarette straight from your lips. Hollows his cheeks, kissing it passionately.
“What the fuck, Hotchner?” You swat his arm on reflex.
He doesn’t even dignify that with a response.
You watch, seething, as the trace of your lipstick on the filter marks his mouth when his wedding ring shifts the cigarette away. Hotch casually leans back against the parapet, elbows propped, gaze drifting toward the parking lot while smoke slips from his lips.
“That blue Honda’s from North Carolina,” he remarks, conversationally.
Fuck him. And fuck his stupid car plates. Another thing of yours he’s stolen.
You glare at him. He remains entirely unbothered.
“You’re acting like a child…” You scoff, roll your eyes, and surrender by lighting the cigarette that was supposed to be his. You don’t have the energy to spar with his bullshit right now. Frankly, you’re not sure how he does. Residual adrenaline, maybe. Speaking of which-
“Did you at least tell Haley?”
He hesitates. “I… couldn’t. Why do you think the cigarette is for?”
“You didn’t tell your wife that the reason we’re staying the night is because you ran straight toward a house with an active shooter and no protection, and that if I hadn’t chased your ass, you’d be coming home in a coffin?”
“You disobeyed Gideon’s orders by running after me,” he counters calmly.
“I - I - did?” You bark out a laugh. “I disobeyed Gideon? That’s your takeaway? What the hell is going on in that head of yours, Hotchner? Are you losing it?”
“Perhaps,” he concedes. “But for what it’s worth, I went in because I knew you had my back. I never truly put myself at risk.”
“You walked in to negotiate with a man whose finger was already on the trigger and aimed at your completely unprotected head, I wouldn’t call that ‘no risk.’”
“You took the shot first,” he smiles (smiles?) “Didn’t you?”
“You are fucking insane.”
“It was the only way. Four children are going home to their parents tonight because of us.” And tomorrow, he’ll go home to his wife (whole) because of you. “If we’d waited for SWAT, it would’ve been too late.”
He pauses. The gold of his wedding band catches the light, half consumed by the eclipse of his head bowed over it. “Also, I needed confirmation about whether your death threats were real. Turns out, when you had the shot to get rid of me, you chose to pull me out instead.”
He shifts closer. Ash slips from the end of his cigarette, falling between your hands, briefly wrapping around your finger before you wipe it against the parapet.
“You really thought I was serious?” You laugh. He can’t possibly be that naïve, can he?
“I thought you were a woman of your word,” he says, lightly. Almost teasing.
“Maybe I just didn’t want to deal with the extra paperwork.”
“Or maybe you care about me.”
You commit the single biggest, dumbest rookie mistake listed (bolded, underlined, and practically laminated) in the Big Book of Stupid Things Stupid Rookies Should Never Do: you turn toward him without thinking. Shit.
He greets you with a half-smile and smoke slipping from his nose.
You wish you were immune to Aaron Hotchner in moments like this - when he’s not posturing, not bragging, not currying favor with his superiors, but simply being himself.
Worse still is the way he looks at you now, as if he already knows the answer and is merely waiting for you to acknowledge it. He doesn’t ask for reassurance; your silence, or the way you hold his gaze, seems to be response enough for him.
“You should probably wash your clothes in the sink when you’re done with that,” you deadpan, tipping your chin toward his cancer stick. “And hope they dry by morning. If Haley finds out you’re smoking again, I’m not taking the blame.”
“I’m the only one accountable for my actions,” he says, almost playfully - like he’s reciting a line he knows you’d make him repeat if he didn’t already have it memorized.
“Exactly.”
“Could I borrow your hair dryer later?” he asks.
“No. You get to do this all by yourself. Like a big boy, Hotchner.” Your cigarette isn’t finished yet, but you can feel the tide turning - and you know if you let it drag on even a second longer, you’ll lose to him again. So you stub it out against the parapet before he can.
“Thank you.” he whispers, right as the ember dies against the metal.
“Whatever,” you shrug, but his half-smile infects your own anyway.
His pent-up look is so hideous it could turn anyone to stone. You’re fairly certain you’ve just fallen victim to the gorgon yourself, caught the moment you finally, truly see him. Oxygen moving through your lungs grows expeditiously viscous the instant Hotch takes a single step toward you.
Your footing, your exit strategy, the remark poised on your tongue, your awareness - all of it petrifies when his big hands rush to cup your face and his lips inevitably collide with yours as if it were nothing at all.
Paralyzed.
You feel the fine grit of every distinct particle of cigarette ash on his fingertips as they caress down your cheeks, the gold band on his finger resting against you as cold as your own unmoving skin, and yet the mere taste of the nicotine rush from his mouth sends you into sublimation.
Solid to air. Evanescent. Weightless, undone, no longer held in place by anything at all except his hands, roaming helplessly on your body, drawing you in flush against him.
“Hotch-” you warn him.
A gritty hum answers you - all you’re given before he shamelessly deepens the kiss, drawing your tongue into his mouth. Moans into you like a man starved. A fucking addict in withdrawal. You know gentleness is beyond him right now, even if he tried to reach for it.
Not that you could ask for it. Not that you truly want it. And certainly not from a man you are unavoidably aware belongs, irrevocably, to someone else.
“Say you don’t want me and I’ll stop,” he slurs, swallowing the words because he can’t quite bring himself to articulate them properly.
A lie by omission if you’ve ever heard one - offered just convincingly enough to let him pretend he’s granting you a choice, while knowing full well he’s already beyond the concept of stopping.
He never specifies what, exactly, he’ll stop. And it certainly isn’t the way his hand keeps finding the flesh of your ass, squeezing, palming, returning as if on instinct, each touch underlining how hollow his promises really are. Much like his head.
Does that little human brain of his even fire enough synapses to register the risk?
What happens if one of your colleagues - say, your boss, or Morgan and Reid - gets the bright idea to step outside for some air, or to investigate the suspicious noise that keeps punctuating the silence, one that sounds alarmingly like a very large hand smacking against an ass cheek every now and then, because a certain someone seems downright incapable of containing his enthusiasm while toying with his coworker’s ass?
No? Fine. Just you, then.
This is what happens when Hotch thinks with his dick. Not that you’re complaining about that particular executive function taking over. You love his dick… dickhead.
You love the way his mouth turns reverent at your throat, worshipping the pulse there, nipping at your earlobe. The way he nuzzles his profile needily along your cheek before pressing a wet kiss to your jaw, as you melt beneath his touch.
Not until you hear the soft slide of a window opening on Gideon’s side of the balcony.
Fuck.
You both jerk back against the parapet, snapping into an HR-approved distance in the narrow window of time you have to pretend nothing just happened.
“Thought it was your voices out here,” Gideon greets you, stepping onto his balcony in just an amenities robe and leaning against the railing.
Hotch’s swallow is way too loud. Neurotic. The sound ricochets in your ears and reminds you of all the other sounds your body is capable of making, if only the drop below were fatal enough to justify jumping.
(Has Gideon reached the age where he needs a hearing aid? Evidently not, given that he’s standing right here.)
“You two, really…” Gideon sighs.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. You can feel your heartbeat thudding high in your throat, the exact spot that’s probably still damp from Hotch’s mouth. You can visualize it catching the moonlight as Gideon studies you pensively.
You hesitate. Do you wipe it away now, or would that only make things worse - telegraphing nerves to the man who practically invented profiling, nerves you are very much not supposed to have unless you’re hiding something?
“I don’t care if you smoke,” Gideon says, unimpressed. “As long as you do it outside. You can stop looking at me like I’m about to ground you.”
You laugh it off, but the silence from Hotch behind you is perturbing in a way that settles straight between your shoulder blades.
“I just wanted to let you know I got a call from the pilot, we’re clear to fly back around ten tomorrow morning. Which means we’ll be in Quantico by lunchtime, if we’re lucky. You can tell your loved ones so they don’t worry - and call me instead.” Gideon smiles somewhere behind your head.
Ouch. Poor Hotchner, getting scolded by his own daddy.
“I will this time, Jason,” Hotch says, and as if on cue, his hand slides so that only his pinkie and ring finger touch yours on the parapet. The ignominious cold of his wedding ring against your skin sends a shiver straight down your spine. There is suddenly no oxygen reaching your brain.
Riddle me this: What the fuck is he doing right now? Does his dick actually get harder cheating on his wife right in front of his boss? What exactly is he trying to prove?
“You better do, Aaron,” Gideon adds.
Hotch still doesn’t move.
You don’t either - not without drawing attention to whatever bullshit this is. A power play? Some deranged display of affection you never asked for? Something subconscious unravelling inside his head?
For half a second, you consider whether it would pass as an accident if you shoved him off the parapet and made sure he landed headfirst. That would be subconscious too, wouldn’t it?!
“Well,” Gideon says, already turning away, “I’m going to tell the other two now…”
Gideon leaves. Authority exits stage left. Consequences, apparently, decide to loiter. Back inside, the last thing you expect from dick-measuring-contest Hotch is for him to be giggling.
You’re halfway through shutting the curtains to avoid any… inconveniences. No. Prevention. Still, not really. Damage control. Whatever.
“Hotch, really, I’m serious - what the fuck did you think you were do-” it becomes very difficult to finish a sentence when his lips surge on yours.
“Shh,” he murmurs, your face swallowed once more by the warmth of his broad palms.
Another kiss.
He cages you in, flush against the window and the curtain, and suddenly there’s nothing else - it feels like you’re embraced by nothing but him. He’s all you can see. All he lets you see.
“I don’t want to lose-” He shuts you up with a kiss. “-this. This… job.” Another kiss. He’s giggling again. “Because of you-”
His dimples cut deep into his flushed cheeks as he pulls back, and you’re struck by the inequitable certainty that he’s never looked more handsome than he does right now. (Okay. Maybe you keep that part to yourself.)
“Gideon could’ve seen you straddling me,” Hotch murmurs in your ear as his hand rides up your skirt. Heat creeps up your neck when he traces down the inside of your panties. He drags through your slick folds, applying more pressure with two fingers as he slides them over your core. “And still, he wouldn’t believe you get this wet for a married man.”
“Oh, you’re really flipping this, it’s you - fuck you,” you gasp as he circles your clit through the fabric.
“You think I’m wrong? You don’t sound like I’m wrong,” he sneers.
He keeps stroking your clit, wantonly picking up the pace. One of your legs hooks around his waist without a single conscious thought, and he catches it immediately, holding it tight as you drag him closer until there’s not exactly that much space left to pretend you don’t want this.
Your whole body arches into his touch, fingers clawing into his firm biceps, nails leaving crescent-moon marks as you bite back every sound, stubbornly determined not to give him the satisfaction. (Women used to fight for their rights, you remind yourself.)
“I’m just trying to thank you,” and he kisses you light as feather. Please.
“And how does your wife feel about the way you express gratitude?” you whisper against his ear, sultry on purpose. A breathy little note slips from your throat at the very end, purely to beguile him.
Hotch looks at you like the air’s been knocked clean out of his lungs. You smile back at him, achingly sweet.
He slurs your name in that galling, infuriatingly condescending tone as his hand drifts lower, pushing your soaked panties aside without a moment’s hesitation. Two thick fingers slide in far too easily, sinking deep in between your folds.
“Fuck-” you gasp. You hate yourself for even remembering just how devastatingly good he feels when he stretches you like this.
He slides all the way out, leaving your hips chasing his fingers on pure instinct, before deliberately returning to torment you - easing back in only to the knuckles while his thumb bears down on your clit.
“How would she feel,” you needle him, “if she knew how hard you got every morning this past week? Waking up in the same room as me… having to get up an hour and a half early just to make it go away?”
He manhandles you without warning, steering you farther into the room until the back of your leg bumps the desk. With a careless sweep of your arm, you send his rogue paperwork skidding to the floor (good luck reordering those, Hotchner) pages scattering across the carpet as you hop up onto the wood.
You fist the loose fabric of his shirt and yank him in. Spread your legs. Hook them around his hips. Feel the solid… weight of him press right into your wet core. He gets harder and harder at just that.
What. A. Loser.
In a rush, he strips your panties away.
You catch the way his pupils blow wide as he thumbs over the sheer wet spot with barely disguised hunger before yanking them off entirely. They land squarely on a report - what kind, you have no idea. Unlike a certain someone, you’re not nearly enough of a workaholic to identify paperwork by font alone.
Silver linings.
A breathless tangle follows - your teeth catching his lower lip, his hands crashing into yours as he reaches for your chest while you fumble blindly for his back, both of you too rushed and desperate to coordinate a single move.
“Did you want me to touch you-” he hums, his mouth wet against your cheek, middle and ring fingers pumping firmly in and out of your swollen gummy walls. A shiver tears through you. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the cold kiss of the ring every time his hand disappears inside you.
“Like this,” he adds, and his free hand comes up just in time to cover your mouth, smothering the moan you can’t stop when his fingers curl perfectly into your sweet spot. “Every morning you watched me step out of the shower just to grab my clothes?”
Okay. Fine. He can gloat. Annoyingly, offensively, he does look hot like that.
All wet hair and trailing droplets, hot steam spilling in behind him, lashes still damp and somehow longer for it. Water sliding down those slanted shoulders, down his - unfortunately - freshly shaved chest, until the whole room smells like his aftershave and, inexplicably, cherry blossom shaving cream.
(Aaron Hotchner is so feminist he can’t even escape the pink tax? Please. As if.)
Droplets trace the softer plane of his stomach, slipping beneath the towel slung obscenely low on his hips, the sharp V there catching the light and your attention alike. Something shifts beneath the fabric every time he moves...
And just when you think he’s done enough damage, he casually swipes the wet fringe back with one hand. No ring during the shower, so for a split second he still feels… available - at least in your head.
You don’t even bother feeling guilty as his biceps flex, swell, go indecently solid (sleeper build fully activated) only for that one stubborn, coarse lock to drop right back onto his forehead, like it’s doing this on purpose.
Hell yes.
Oh. Sorry. Right. You’re supposed to be humiliating him back - and you very pointedly refuse to examine whether the smug curve of his mouth right now is because he clocked exactly where your thoughts just wandered.
“When you touched yourself in the shower, were you picturing me like this, or your wife?”
He scoffs, but offers no defense. No denial. He just looks at you wary. Like you’ve just put your finger on something you weren’t meant to see so clearly.
And the way his thumb joins the motion at your clit, the way he keeps fingering you so sloppily that the obscene sounds of your body fill the room more than your own voice - as if that alone is his answer - feels less like a rebuttal and more like… a reward?
“Is that why you never take the ring off?” you cry out. “Does - oh my god - does it turn you on, fingering me with – fuck - that?”
The words snag in your throat and dissolve into a sound so filthy you didn’t know you were capable of making it (Gideon is, incidentally, still very much alive and sojourning on the other side of the wall). You go light-headed, stars bursting behind your eyes every time his fingers sink deeper.
“What, sweetheart?” he coos.
“-suck my dick and balls,” you choke out in one breath.
He might be laughing at that. Or maybe that’s just the rush roaring in your ears as you claw at his shoulders, cutting off circulation in a desperate attempt to haul him closer as heat pools low and molten in your stomach.
Your head tips back, pleasure flaring so hot it feels like you might combust. He’s there instantly, mouth at your neck, the other hand steady at your back, soothing the frantic pulse under his wet lips.
“I’ve got you this time,” he murmurs there (who cares?)
His words land like a spell; you end up knocking more papers off the desk, dizzy as the ecstasy crests. Your orgasm billows and crashes through you in tidal waves, sweeping you off your feet.
You feel your walls flutter around his fingers as he rides you through it, until your head goes limp on his shoulder, boneless, his hand still steady at your waist.
His fingers are slick and glistening with you. So is his wedding ring.
You catch the caprice in his eyes as he looks at you and shamelessly draws his fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean. He hums, indulgent, eyelids melting shut as he savors you, and releases them with a lewd pop, the ring nudged higher on his finger.
You wish it could choke him. You also wish he’d fuck you right now, because that was so, so, so hot.
All smug, he starts, “Are you alri-”
You don’t let him finish.
You press your hand flat over his mouth. His gasp comes out muffled, warm against your palm, leaving it faintly damp. On instinct, you drag your hand down his lips, the dazed, almost drunk look on his face making it feel inevitable.
You press your index and middle finger between his mouth, still carrying a trace of tobacco from your cigarette, and he accepts them without hesitation.
You feel his tongue slide along the inside of your fingers, the light scrape of his teeth as you push them deeper, the pull of his cheeks hollowing around them. Another broken sound breaks free when you finally pull them back out.
“Fuck, Hotchner,” you groan.
The whore smiles back. He loosens his tie and drapes it over the back of the desk chair. You shrug out of your top and fling it somewhere over his head, your hands skating over the firm slope of his shoulders, disastrously enchanted by him. You start on the top buttons of his shirt-
-and he stops you.
His hands clamp around your hips, hauling you to the very edge of the desk. He grabs a handful of your ass and pulls you hard against the rigid line in his slacks. You roll your hips instinctively, angling yourself just right to feel all of him. Oh, fuck.
“Can you feel what you’re doing to me?” he groans through clenched teeth, rocking forward and dragging himself over your folds, landing perfectly against your clit.
“No,” you lie.
He chuckles - you keep getting distracted by his dimples, which is frankly becoming a liability.
“Well,” he says, pleased with himself, “don’t worry. You will.” (Boooo! Disappointing rebuttal, Hotchner!)
If you hadn’t already fucked this freak while you were both drunk out of your minds, you’d tease him back - ask if he’s referring to the inevitable thirty seconds he’ll last once he’s inside you.
Unfortunately, you do know better. You know exactly what you’re dealing with. You might’ve even fantasized about it. So the swallow that tightens your throat is probably nerves. Or anticipation. Annoying either way.
He buries his face in the soft center of your chest, dexterous hands spanning your breasts through the bra, squeezing with something feral, unthinking (is he in heat?). He taunts you with kisses there, then trails his wet mouth upward along your clavicle, to your neck, where he nips and sucks at your skin with his teeth before soothing it with his silver tongue.
Ever the overachiever, Aaron Big Hairy Hands Hotchner somehow manages, all at once, to use your tit as a stress ball (for his pleasure and, infuriatingly, yours), leave you fairly certain he’s branded you with a hickey somewhere along your neck, and - drumroll - magically unhook your bra one-handed.
Wow.
If there were ever a clearer sign that this man is married, this would be it. His wife must be thrilled about this particular domestic skill of his.
If you had any real say in the matter - which you don’t, lacking the legal standing, the joint bank account, the stamina to tolerate his infuriating habits for the rest of your life, and the sincere desire to procreate with him - you’d still have to admit he’s devastatingly gifted with his mouth. When he isn’t using it to talk, obviously.
Case in point: the sound you make, embarrassingly louder than intended, when his tongue finds your peaking nipple, laving it slowly while his hand methodically toys with the other nub.
“If anyone knocks to complain about the noise,” he mutters against your chest, voice muffled and haughty, “you’re the one opening the door.” He nips down a little harder for emphasis, teeth adding just enough friction.
You choke on another sound.
“Shit, Aaron-” He smiles when you say his name. Fucking loser. “You’re so good.”
“I know.”
You roll your eyes. They promptly stay lodged somewhere behind your skull as pleasure floods in - because, infuriatingly, this is one thing you can’t fault him for. And sharing desks, rooms, fries (and, you hope soon enough, fluids), spending this much time prisoner in his orbit, has made you very good at profiling that smug-on-the-surface ass of his.
(Ergo, you recognize a praise kink when you see one.)
“No, Aaron,” you insist, breathless, “really. You’re so – so - good at this.”
He moans your name into your breast, shameless. His hand slides lower, bunching your skirt up in his fist until his fingers find your clit again, circling it slow - because he’s a giver, because he wants to earn it, because he wants to be told again.
Your eyes snag on the strained fabric of his grey (yum) slacks, stretched to its limits, the thick outline of his dick twitching in what you very reasonably interpret as pure, unfiltered excitement. The darkened spot right where the tip presses is an indulgent little detail… one you’d very much like to greet with your own tongue.
(See? Textbook.)
You bite your bottom lip. The fact that he still has half his shirt buttoned while you’re basically naked - especially once Inseminator 3000 (After Dark Edition) finishes with your skirt - feels profoundly antifeminist.
“Are you comfortable sitting like this?” he asks, those worried, wet-puppy eyes fixed on you as you work at his buttons, manhandling his arms like a Ken doll just to rid him of the stupid shirt.
“Sure,” you shrug, tossing it onto the growing disaster on the floor.
He pulls a face - constipated, like he’s just bitten into something violently sour (a casual Tuesday, really). You read it instantly as you should’ve folded it, the way he folded your skirt, now resting primly beside his tie on the back of the desk chair. Whoops. Maybe he should’ve asked his wife…
“Hotchner, you really have to wash that shirt later,” you blurt. “It really, really, really stinks like smoke.” You punctuate it with a wet kiss to his shoulder, then look up at him, brows raised.
“I– I will. Must be the cotton-” Right. The premium cotton. One hundred percent natural, hand-picked by virgins at dawn, spun into thread by blessed artisans in Italy, stitched by tailors who’ve never known hardship. Yada yada. Your ass. You can practically hear the obnoxious old-money flex echoing in your head - even if, for once, he isn’t actually doing it.
“Thanks for worrying so much,” he adds. There’s something faintly melancholic in his tone, a dissonant buzz like all his alarms going off at once, when he cups your chin and tilts your face up, pressing a kiss to your mouth that tastes far too earnest for your liking. He lingers, thumb stroking the corner of your lips.
Where did the hoe go?
“You still cool with this?” you ask - checking in, technically - while your hand has very much wandered to his boob chest and is now lowkey fondling it. It would be awkward if he suddenly remembered his vows while you’re halfway to tonguing his nipple, right?
“Absolute- Jesus Christ,” he gasps. In your defense, he has very sensitive nipples.
Belts, though - you’re like a magpie. There’s something about the thickness where the leather folds into the buckle that makes your mouth water.
You’ve noticed it - unfortunately, far too often - how the belts he wears always sit just right, cinching his hips so profanely well that when your fingers move there it feels like déjà vu. Muscle memory, born of how many times you’ve already fantasized about this.
Your hands tremble a little as you work the buckle, brushing the smooth, polished leather - and fine, before his laser-beam eyes can lock onto you, you set it neatly on the chair. The slacks follow. You are not, however, entrusted with the folding.
(Unsurprising.)
(Rude.)
The restraint this requires deserves a medal. There’s a very real side quest screaming at you to bury your face in that bulge. Damn.
“There,” you say lightly once he’s finished carefully creasing and fussing over a pair of grey slacks that softly smell like tobacco and… bear a damp mark. “Happy now, Hotchner?”
“Jesus,” he sighs. He catches your wrist (hot) and guides it closer to his erection (extra hot). Your hand flares like it’s caught fire. Flames race up your arm, fed by nothing but strong wind until the heat spreads through the rest of your body. “Touch me.”
(Oh, Jesus, touch me? Denial is a river in Egypt. Your husband is gay.)
You trace the damp outline at the head through his boxers, letting your hand glide up and down his thick length before circling back to thumb the tip again.
You’re not entirely sure whether the sudden clench low in your… body is because of the very beautiful dick in front of you, or because the breathy, high sound he makes does things to your clit… ears. Ears. Through the haze, you barely register him rushing to free himself of his boxers, moving so fast his dick almost bounces straight into your hands.
“Damn, Hotchner, you’re so impatient,” you tease - purely for psychological warfare, obviously, because wow. You hate clichés, you really do, but his dick somehow looks even better than the first time you saw it. (Probably because you were drunk. Probably.)
“Don’t lie to me, I know all you want right now is my dick stretching that tight little pussy.”
Ok…?
Who taught him that? Has he been watching porn since you last left him unsupervised? The comeback curdles in your throat, and you have too much pride to simply say yes. (Yes, please?)
He’s already gloating.
You’re bewitched by the way the gold glints and shifts as his fist works him in a few slow strokes. You find yourself wondering whether the cool bite of the metal against his overheated skin feels as good as it did when his fingers were inside you.
You lift your palm toward his mouth; he spits into it (hot.)
So much so that you’re fairly certain you’re slicking the desk beneath you (and you really hope he doesn’t point it out) as you pump him from the base, overwhelmed by the sheer, dense weight of him settling into your hand.
His mouth crashes into yours (less a kiss than an open-mouthed whimper) before he swats your hand away, breath breaking around a desperate, unfinished “Please, or I-”
Booooo.
His broad palm presses to the center of your chest, easing you flat against the desk, lifting one leg to rest over his shoulder. “Are you sure this is comfortable for you?” he asks softly, thumb tracing the side of your calf before he kisses it.
So much for the wild, rough sex you were expecting.
“I am, Aaron. Don’t worry about me.”
He answers with a smile that’s almost too sweet for the situation, then bends to claim your lips again. He drifts to your ear, and a shiver crawls up your spine to settle exactly where his mouth nibbles.
“How come you’re wetter now than before?”
He punctuates the question by slapping the heavy length of himself against your puffy clit. The sound is absolutely lewd. He does it again. And again - careless of the bow in your back, careless of everything - until you have to fight not to pout and whine when his heat leaves you as he straightens, attention snagged by something just out of sight behind your head.
“Something wrong?” you ask.
He shakes his head, mutters something that barely escapes his chest, then reaches past you. There’s a dull thump behind your head, like something hitting the surface of the desk face-down. Whatever it is, it does something to him.
He dips back down to latch onto your nipples, mouth hot and reverent for a heartbeat, murmuring, “God, you’re so beautiful,” before pulling away again.
You clap a hand over your own mouth to smother the sound when his bulbous head starts gliding up and down your folds, dipping not even an inch at your entrance before dragging back to your clit, grinding himself down again.
He spits where his flushed head presses to you. You can feel slick drip between your thighs like honey.
“Remember who’s right on the other side of the wall, alright?” he murmurs, tapping the wall twice with his knuckles.
“You’re so fucking fun- oh fuck,” you choke into your fist just in time as he finally buries all of himself inside you.
Then he pulls out completely.
“Told you to be quieter, sweetheart.”
“Are you this much of an asshole when you fuck your wife too?” you snap back.
He answers by slamming hard into you again, hard. Another billow of white-hot pleasure consumes your body. At least he commits to it.
Your head tips back, mouth parting, as if something molten and gilded floods you from the inside out, only to be battered by restless winds that toss you everywhere at once. You’re buffeted and doomed.
You feel your walls clench and clamp around him, stretching you so, so, good that you almost understand the appeal of patience - of tolerating his endless bullshit - if this is what his dick feels like at the end of the day.
He lowers himself over you, crowding your space. He looks massive like this, shoulders broad, body a wall of heat and gluttonous weight.
“Do you have such a dirty mouth with the other guys you fuck,” he asks, hovering near your lips, “or are you only mean with me?” He claims your mouth in the same breath, kissing you hard, loud, like he’s showing off.
You feel him twitch inside you, like his body is begging him to move despite the careful mask of control. He never sounds less than earnest when he says things like this - smug to anyone else, maybe, but there’s always that edge underneath. That selfish hint of jealousy. Like he hates the idea that you aren’t entirely his.
What a greedy man.
“You might be surprised, but I go completely quiet if I get fucked right.”
He bites his lip, that stupid, infuriating smile flashing the second anyone so much as tosses him the idea of a challenge into his orbit (no glove required this time since you’re letting him take it raw. Ok… this one really sucked).
His hand slides to your hip and he starts rocking into you with fervor, driving his dick in and out of you like he’s got something to prove to you. Your legs are already folded tight against your chest beneath his weight, the angle humiliatingly perfect, reducing you to a whimpering mess as your eyes roll back.
He nips at the swell of your breast when your back arches up into him, and suddenly he’s everywhere - so much so you can’t tell where he starts and where you end, and yet you distinctly feel all of him, every throbbing vein of his thick cock grinding insistently into your walls.
Your fingers scrabble for purchase, dipping into his shoulders, then his biceps, desperate for something to steady you as his pace turns rougher.
“Does this feel good?” he asks, and the wet, obscene sound of it all seems to echo inside your skull when his hand presses to your lower belly, claiming the undeniable proof of how deep he really is.
“Yes - yes, you do feel good – fuck - when you commit to it,” you cry, words loosening and tangling together, collapsing into each other like one of those impossible Irish place names - Glassillaunvealnacurra, (located in the county of Galway): Little green island of the mouth of the weir.
It’s never resonated more than it does right now, as he hits your sweet spot and you’re still fighting to sound coherent, to convince him you possess the vocabulary of a fully grown adult while your body very clearly has other priorities.
You start matching his rhythm, meeting him halfway, chasing it. Your walls suddenly clamp hard around him, like it’s all tipping into too much.
“Jesus,” he hisses through his teeth, mouth falling open. “Don’t do that too often, or I’m not lasting as long as you think I will.”
“Need a break, Hotchner?”
He hums back, pleased, then leans down for another kiss. You breathe into each other’s mouths, unguarded, eyes locked as if you’re both checking – (dick) measuring (contest) - the damage you’re doing.
It’s so hot.
A dark, knowing smile curls on your lips at the exact same moment it blooms on his. You tip your head forward and steal it from him with a kiss.
Centuries of literature about soulmates, angelic women driving chosen men to abandon their humanity for something metaphysical - and your own road-to-Damascus moment hits you now.
It lands clean, without splintering you into a thousand pieces: that with his very ordinary, almost classic Disney-prince smile, the too-big-and-pointy nose, the smug eyes, Aaron (does he even have a middle name?) Hotchner (title? lineage? the second? the third?) was probably engineered by a higher power (a woman, thank you Mama Hotchner) to be your perfect fuck… buddy? Colleague? Fellow associate?
Fuck friend, if you were friends. Because the two of you together fuck on an almost transcendental plane. And if he weren’t married, you might even have the nerve to tell him you’ve finally identified a purpose for his otherwise profoundly meaningless life.
“Oh my god- just like that,” you moan as he rolls his hips and finds you perfectly, the impact ringing straight through you.
He’s pistoning into you now, relentless. Something goes skidding off the desk - there’s a dull, graceless crash, then the muted shatter of something that sounds like glass swallowed by carpet. You’re too dizzy to look. So is he. He tips his head forward onto your shoulder, breath breaking against your salty skin.
You tense all at once, toes curling where your feet rest on his shoulders as his hand circles your aching clit. The rooftop vanishes. The same night where you were carelessly smoking, blurring license plates, opens back up, limpid and vast. You’re drenched in starlight, gilded.
The pain is sharp enough to pull sounds from your throat before you can stop them, but what follows is so achingly sweet you never want it to end. There is no part of you that wants escape from it. Your body yields, your thoughts scatter, your soul settles - finding rest nowhere else but in him.
“Aaron-” is all you manage.
It isn’t pain of the body alone, though your body does not escape it. It participates fully, trembling, responding. And yet what you feel goes beyond flesh.
“Wow… look at you,” he rasps. Your walls are still fluttering, pulsing tight around him, and he doesn’t let up - keeps thrusting, keeps stroking your clit with the same ruthless focus, staying with you through the last shattering waves of your ecstasy.
A thin, high sound slips from his mouth as you writhe, oversensitive, his rhythm turning frantic. He folds down over you, kisses your lips, then trails a wet path to your ear.
“Can I-” he asks, sheepish.
“Yes, Aaron.” Your hand slides over his back, tracing the broad muscles there, keeping him exactly where he is. “Please. Don’t move.”
You seal the unspoken (though you know exactly what he’s asking for) permission with a soft kiss to his mouth, lips flushed pink and swollen, unmistakably marked by how many times he’s already tasted you tonight.
He moans into it, hips jerking as you feel each pulse of his heat spill into you, the way he fucks his release deeper and deeper into your pussy, until he finally gives in - hollowed out - collapsing between the swell of your breasts.
“Do you think we’ll still be employed by tomorrow?” you ask, fingers slipping absently into his hair, threading there, even if whatever this is only exists on borrowed time.
You feel his chuckle rumble through your chest, low enough it almost kick-starts your heart again, like a defibrillator.
“Jason-” Oh, for fuck’s sake. Of course he calls your boss by his first name, absolute teacher’s pet. “-sleeps with earplugs ever since that case we had in Iowa,” he adds. “Remember the newlyweds?”
“Oh my god, yes. I could hear them all the way from the other end of the corridor,” you groan. “You were closer, right? Must’ve been hell.”
“You have no idea,” he says, chuckling again. “So… small mercies. At least on that front.”
“Right,” you huff trough your nose. “I don’t think we were that bad, though. Right?”
“Not bad at all,” he repeats, smirking.
You roll your eyes. You’re fairly certain he’s talking about something else entirely.
Still, he’s not quite as disposable as you imagined. Not when he’s careful easing you down from the desk, not when he takes his time cleaning you up with a tenderness you absolutely did not earn and certainly did not request.
Of course, any illusion of growth evaporates the moment he starts treasure-hunting your bra and panties from around the room, launching into a condescending lecture about procedure.
Apparently, even in the heat of the moment, garments should be discarded with intention - placed neatly and thoughtfully - rather than “launched indiscriminately,” thus sparing oneself the moral failing of later having to wear them “crumpled and compromised.”
“You know,” you deadpan, “if you wanted a souvenir, you could’ve just snagged my panties and tucked them into the Barbie Dream Closet you call a go-bag instead of inventing all of this.”
You watch, fascinated, as his face goes entirely, spectacularly pink in record time.
“I’m joking, Hotchner. Relax. No need to get all pent-up.”
Unlike his theory on orderly undressing, you’re increasingly convinced chaos is the superior system, everything is right where you can see it.
You spot your cigarette pack immediately (half-open, a couple already making a bid for freedom), sitting beside the wreckage of whatever just shattered on the floor, ergo, the mystery object that took a dive off the desk a few moments ago.
A frame. Is this Hotch’s?
You pick it up gingerly, trying not to bleed.
Your stomach may be folded clean in half, but you cannot deny that Haley looks absolutely ethereal in white.
Well.
You rummage for whatever that FBI-issued compartmentalization bullshit was supposed to teach you… anything that might buy you one quiet cigarette before guilt comes crashing in.
You slide the glass door open to the balcony and lean into the frame, letting the night breathe back into you.
“Want a smoke?” you ask.
“Sure,” he says, already positioning himself opposite you, back against the door, holding it ajar so the breeze drifts inside. In your head, at least, the airflow feels intentional, like physics itself is trying to draw a clean, hygienic, line between you.
He does that infuriatingly hot thing you only ever see in edgy rom-coms: lights your cigarette for you, cupping the flame with his broad hand, shielding it from the wind until you finally get your hit.
The flame flickers, and in that brief glow you catch how earnestly he’s looking at you, how soft his smile turns when your eyes meet. Shit. You blow the smoke outward like you’re supposed to, but the wind betrays you, curling it right back in, clinging to your clothes, your skin, drifting toward him anyway.
You pass him the cigarette. His fingers linger on yours.
You hate how reliably hot it is when he hollows his cheeks, how his face shifts from constipated to almost human (relaxed would be generous) the deeper the smoke settles in his lungs. The ritual repeats: he exhales into the night, the smoke loops back, and then the cigarette is returned to you, warm from his fingers. Back and forth.
Shared breath. Shared silence.
And you think – unhelpfully - about how he seems more faithful to you in these moments than to the person he’s sworn loyalty to. About how that same softness in his voice, the one he reserves for her, carries the weight of his biggest lies.
You wonder if one day he’ll manage to deceive you just as effortlessly as he’s deceiving Haley now.
Phi's Corner: I’m sorry, friends... my eyes gave up halfway through rereading this all in one go (instead of the tiny chunks I wrote it in), so if anything’s wonky or not flowing quite right… I’m sorryyyyyy I’m going to sleep now!!
LOOK AT THIS GODDAMN MASTERPIECE REARRANGING MY MIND , BODY AND SOUL. OH PATHETIC AARON HOTCHNER YOU ARE SO SPECIAL TO MEEEEEE💞 YOU KNOW IT'S A GOOD SMUT WHEN YOU COME AWAY 😏 EDUCATED. GOD THE DESCRIPTIONS I AM IN AWEEEEEE. THE GRAPHICS ALWAYS DELIVER. I AM IN AWEEE I AM UNWELL I AM DANGER TO THE PUBLIC I AM CLIMBING THE WALLS AND EATING THEM GODDAMNNNN. PHIIIIII
