an// YOU GUYS! Y’all crushed Showtime so much, I had to write a lil extra of the team figuring it all out! Truly thank you to everyone who enjoyed it, I cannot remember the last time I had a fic get so much support! TY 💐
-
It was hard for you and Aaron to go back to being at odds after being undercover. It's been weeks, but it’s taking some time for that mask to go completely back on at work. The team kicked it all back off again with a joke the second you sit down for a briefing.
“Thanks for joining us, Mrs. Hayes.” Morgan smirks, turning in his chair back and forth.
You roll your eyes while Emily sits down next to you and asks him, “You’re still stuck on that?”
“We watched them kiss how many times? You’ve moved on?”
You flip open your file, “You’re welcome for the obsession.”
Hotch doesn’t look up, “Focus, please.”
You look up and glance around at everyone in the room. Rossi’s eyes are already studying you with a small smile.
He taps his fingers on the table before speaking, “Let’s profile a hypothetical.”
The team begins looking between you and Aaron in a curious way.
Emily laughs, “No way. Not with this unit. Impossible.”
“Is it?” Rossi questions.
Hotch doesn’t look up from his file, and you take a sip of your coffee. No reaction.
JJ leans forward, joining their hypothetical, “Okay, so what was the trigger event?”
“Undercover assignment that required intimacy.” Rossi gestures between you two.
Morgan grins, “And boom, they’re both suddenly very convincing.”
“We’re right here.” You finally set down your file.
“Yes,” Garcia grins, “That’s what makes this fun!”
“That level of physical ease doesn’t come overnight.”
You don’t dare cut a look to Aaron, that would not go unnoticed right now. They go back and forth continuing to debate if Hotch was faking uncomfortability the first day undercover or if he was just uncomfortable under their eyes.
“At the risk of my job,” Garcia meekly raises her hand, “After the Flagstaff case I did look into their schedules-”
“Garcia!” Hotch warns.
She unsurprisingly barrels on anyway, “Their access badges have had the same arrival time since Halloween.”
“Lots of people arrive at the same time.”
“Y/n and Hotch also leave within three minutes of each other on non-field days.” Spencer states.
Hotch finally exhales one through his nose. You look up to the ceiling and fight the urge to just close your eyes.
“And they have the same gym sessions blocked out every Tuesday and Thursday, but their badges are never scanned in.”
“Oh my god!” JJ gasps.
Rossi squints, “Why are you so calm right now?”
“Because,” You keep your voice even, “this is entertaining.”
Emily’s eyes widen and she smacks your shoulder, “Oh my god.”
You look over to Aaron finally, the corner of his mouth twitching up barely.
“Hotch.” Morgan notices it too and calls him out.
No denial. Just silence.
Morgan leans back slowly, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
The realization sinks in over the rest of the team. They no longer shout their ideas and evidence over each other, instead they look between you two eagerly. Chomping at the bit for any and every detail.
“You aren’t denying it.” Emily is practically shaking your shoulders now.
You laugh while shrugging her away, “You’re profilers. Profile.”
“Oh, that is so confirmation!” Garcia squeals.
Morgan suddenly stands from his chair, “Months! This has been going on for months?”
Rossi smiles, still just looking between you at Hotch, “Minimum.”
“I feel betrayed,” Emily groans, “How many girls nights out have we had?”
“You let me make undercover kiss jokes for weeks.” Morgan chuckles, shaking his head in pure disbelief.
You can’t help but grin, “You seemed happy.”
“This is the most controlled long-con relationship in BAU history.” Spencer points out.
Hotch meets their eyes. No apology. Just a quiet and quick acknowledgement.
“Yes.”
Rossi claps one, “Well done. Both of you.”
“You realize that we’re never letting this go, right?”
You smile softly now, “We never never expected you would.”
“Human resources have been aware since the relationship started.” Hotch states.
“Which was when exactly?” JJ raises her brows.
You know that Hotch has a lot he wants to reassure the team about. The power imbalance. The age-gap. All of them are completely valid concerns.
Hotch finally closes his file and sets it back on the table. It’s clear they aren’t going to start this briefing anytime soon.
-
Towards the end of the day everyone is reviewing their reports at their desks, trying to get their work done to head home for the weekend. The bullpen is still riding the high of the new revelation, the energy still bouncing off of everyone. You contemplated working in the lair to get away from everyone’s teasing comments, but you know being trapped one on one with Garcia is far more dangerous than everyone else.
The elevator dings.
JJ looks up first, “Hey, Jack’s here.”
Hotch looks up immediately, coming to stand at the top of the stairs by the door to his office. His whole expression softens when Jack trots in with his backpack on and a paper in hand. He makes a beeline for his dad, but detours halfway. Straight to you.
You roll back from your desk in time for a big hug.
“Hi.”
You smile down at him and instinctively brush his hair back, “Hey, you.”
Morgan freezes mid sip and Emily’s brows raise a couple degrees.
JJ whispers, “Oh this is going to be good.”
Hotch clears his throat lightly, “Jack.”
He turns to look up at his dad, “What?”
“You wanna show me what you brought?” Hotch nods down to the piece of paper he has protectively in his hand.
“In a second,” He turns back to you, “Are you still coming over tonight?”
The bullpen goes totally silent.
You don’t miss a beat, “That depends. Did you do your chores already?”
“Yeah, Dad said we should do it before you came over this weekend.”
“Jack…” Hotch warns.
You can tell he’s just getting started.
“Look!” He finally presents the piece of paper he had been holding. It’s a drawing of three stick figures all standing together holding hands. It isn’t labeled with names, but the details make it’s clear who he drew. Jack, Aaron, and you. One of many drawings.
“This is a good one!” You smile softly and lean down to press a kiss to the top of his head, “Go show your dad.”
He launches off of you to chase up the stairs to his dad.
“We built a full behavioral timeline and Garcia hacked into numerous FBI databases when we could’ve just asked the witness.” Rossi shakes his head.
“Always ask the child.” JJ nods.
“Thanks, buddy.” Hotch takes the drawing from him and bends down to scoop him up in a hug.
“I know you said we’re not supposed to tell people at work-”
“It’s okay, buddy.” Aaron reassures.
“Weeks of deduction.” Morgan shakes his head.
“Hell, you should hire him.” Rossi chuckles, “He’s a natural.”
Jack looks confused, “Y/n said that honesty matters.”
You laugh, “Yes, I did. It does matter.”
You hear Emily huff an ‘mhm’ somewhere behind you. You’re sure the whole team just rolled their eyes.
Morgan walks up to Jack and offers him a fist bump, “You closed the case faster than all of us.”
Jack beams, “Does that mean I get a badge?”
“Okay,” Emily leans against the edge of her desk and asks, “Details, Agent.”
Jack nods seriously, “She sleeps over a lot.”
“Jack.”
Hotch’s warning to his son does nothing to stop the red that takes over your face. Your elbows are resting on your desk when you put your head down in your hands.
“What? Honesty matters.”
“Define ‘a lot’.” Morgan continues.
You look up and make eye contact with Aaron. Wordlessly, still holding each other’s gaze while letting them continue asking Jack a plethora of questions. You smile, quiet teasing with a shake of your head, “Rookie mistake.”
Aaron gives you a look. Warm and unguarded. His smile is real, full of life and tender. The expression that is totally foreign to the team on his face, but they now know it belongs to you.
summary: The BAU team is being sent to catch an unsub going after couples with age-gap relationships. How are things going to go when you have to go undercover with your boss in order to catch him?
word count: 7 K 🌵
-
“Alright,” Hotch’s voice evenly said, “Let’s go over what we know.”
Garcia clicks the remote. Four crime scene photos take over the screen. The team breaks their gaze on their files in front of them to look. Same town. Similar neighborhoods. Same brutality.
You take a long sip of your coffee. Trying anything to get your brain caught up with the team. You’ve been a part of the team for nearly nine-months, the newest and youngest addition. You thrive under the pressure, but seeing pictures like this at this hour of morning is something you hope to never get used to. You’ve gotten comfortable with the team at this point, facing countless horrors together is impossible not to bond someone. Except for Hotch. All frowns and corrections on the surface. You do a lot of things to make him frown. Some of the team had taller walls than others. Hotch being one of them. You tease him, but cling to the fact that his dark eyes follow you. Watch you when he thinks you won’t see. You can always feel it.
“All victims are couples,” Garcia looks over the group, ducking away from the images, “All of the attacks occurred in the Coyote Springs just outside Flagstaff, Arizona. All within a gated subdivision, heavy neighborhood watch presence, but it’s a large neighborhood. There’s nearly 6,000 residents in the community.”
“Woah, big neighborhood.” Emily sighs, looking back to the file.
Reid clears his throat, “The murders span six weeks. Each murder escalates in violence, but consistent within method. This suggests the unsub is a local. Or at least familiar with the area.”
“Not a drifter,” Morgan adds, “He knows their routines. Knows who belongs.”
Your gaze sharpens, “Which means he’s comfortable there.”
Hotch nods without looking up to acknowledge you, “And patient.”
Reid leans forward to add more, “There’s another commonality. Every couple has a significant age gap.”
“Yeah,” JJ agrees, “All of these women are at least fifteen years younger than their husbands.”
“That’s not a coincidence,” Prentiss confirms, “That’s motive.”
You speak without hesitation, “Resentment.”
Rossi turns to you, “Elaborate.”
“When I was working in hostage negotiation,” Your voice calm, “large age gaps in relationships came from extremist ideology and vigilante thinking. They see themselves as a moral authority. He isn’t killing these couples, he’s correcting something he sees as wrong.”
All eyes on you. Your eyes dart to Hotch.
“Theft of youth.”
Reid’s eyes light up, “A savior complex. He may believe he’s actually rescuing the younger woman from-”
“-a perceived predator,” Rossi finishes.
“Which makes Coyote Springs his hunting ground. His own aquarium. Everyone inside thinks they’re safe.” Emily continues.
“Yeah,” Morgan agrees, “This guy thrives on control. You flood the neighborhood with badges, he disappears.”
Prentiss tilts her head, “Unless he comes to us.”
You feel the shift before anyone could actually say it. Her eyes darting to you. Then Hotch.
Rossi’s eyes flick between you two now, “You’re thinking bait.”
It didn’t go over anyone’s heads that you and Hotch have a scarily similar age gap as the victims. Beautiful. Active. The perfect setup.
“I’m thinking opportunity.” Emily corrects, “Two people who could fit the pattern. A new couple moves in quietly. Lets the unsub think something perfect fell in his lap.”
“No.”
Hotch’s answer immediate.
You blink. Then laugh. “Wow, look at us already on the same page.”
His eyes turn to you now, sharp and warning, “This is not a game.”
“Never said it was,” You reply lightly, “I’m just agreeing that maybe the two of us playing house isn’t the best play.”
JJ steps in, “If the unsub is watching, he’s choosing couples that look stable. Happy.”
“Yet another reason this wouldn’t work.” You mutter, Rossi elbow in your side tells you he’s the only one that caught the comment.
“Which means?” Garcia questions.
“A married couple, or at least one that presents that way would statistically be the most appealing to draw him out.”
More eyes fall back to you.
You slowly look around, “Oh, absolutely not.”
Hotch doesn’t look at you, “Agreed.”
“You telling me you’re scared, Y/Ln?” Morgan grins.
You look him dead in the eye, “I’m telling you I’m smart enough to know that Hotch and I can’t sell married and in love.”
“Well,” Rossi turns his gaze over to the rest of the group, “Are there any other alternatives here on the team?”
The group looks around at each other. You know there aren’t any. You don’t need to look around to know that most of them are too close in age to raise that kind of brow.
“I can’t believe this.” You shake your head with a humorless laugh.
Hotch’s jaw tightens, “He’s looking for a performance.”
The rest of the room quiets at his words. You’d be ashamed to admit to the warmth pooling at the dark look on his eyes. This shouldn’t be able to work.
“Look, you’re both qualified.” Emily claps, “It wouldn’t be your first time going undercover.”
“I mean no offense by it, but Y/Ln is the perfect trophy wife bait.” Morgan holds up his hands in self defense.
“Somehow I’m still offended.”
Rossi raises a brow to you and Hotch, “The unsub is escalating. If we miss him again, someone else dies. This isn’t about what’s comfortable. It’s about leverage.”
Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. Silence stretches while everyone tries to come up with an alternative.
“So maybe it is the best play.” You sigh, coming to the same conclusion as the rest of the team. Your hand slides to cover your face with a groan.
“For what it’s worth, this is like so hot.” Garcia bites the end of her pen looking at you both, “So hot.”
“Babygirl.” Morgan sighs with the shake of his head.
“You’re enjoying this way too much, Pen.” You warn with a smile that is anything but friendly.
“Immensly.” She continues to beam.
A long pause.
Finally Hotch exhales, “If we do this-”
He pauses to read your face. You aren’t supposed to profile each other, but you can see he’s looking to see if you’re truly comfortable. If you can do this. You know you can. You give him a subtle nod.
“-we do everything by the book.” He continues, “Full surveillance. Backup within minutes. No unnecessary risks.”
You suddenly smirk, “You’re gonna hate every second of this.”
“Yes,” He said flatly.
You grin wider, “Then I’m in.”
He looks at you. Really looks.
“Wheels up in two hours. We prep covers immediately.”
Garcia squeals. Prentiss smirks at you. Morgan claps once.
This is going to get complicated.
-
The jet's familiar hum rings over them lowly. You’re curled sideways in your chair, Emily to your right. Hotch directly across from you, Rossi to his left. A table separating you both. Morgan was making calls to get a stakeout van for the rest of the team. They wouldn’t be the only eyes on you two while undercover, but they would be most watchful.
“Alright,” You smile, “Let’s build our beautiful lie.”
Hotch’s eyes dart to yours over his file, “We already have preliminary covers.”
“Preliminary is not convincing.” You reply, turning to Emily for help.
“She’s right.” She shrugs, “Especially since we know this unsub is watching his victims.”
He doesn’t argue, he simply sets down his file on the table.
“Progress.” You bite your cheek.
“Aaron Hayes. Attorney. Corporate litigation.”
“Third marriage,” You add with cheer, “Which no offence, you can sell.”
His mouth tightens, “It’s realistic considering the previous victims.”
“And it adds baggage.” You continue, “Baggage is realistic. That’s what he’ll like.”
Rossi raises his brows, “What about you?”
“Y/n Hayes.” You quickly reach out a hand to shake his with a pearly smile plastered to your face, “Twenty-six. Former marketing assistant. Now… professionally vague.”
“Trophy wife.” Hotch said flatly.
You beam, “Exactly.”
His eyes study you, “You’re sure you’re comfortable with this?”
“Hotch, you’ve seen me pretend to be sympathetic to truly terrible people. Being hot and underestimated is a vacation.”
He exhales quietly.
“I want to add something else.”
He looks back up.
“Power.”
He frowns, “Explain.”
“You’re already older. Already established. Already married multiple times, but I think we lean into it harder.” You lean back in your chair, “Make you a professor. Law school. Ethics. Authority.”
He immediately stiffens, “That’s unnecessary.”
“Is it?” You tilt your head, “Our unsub in punishing perceived imbalance. We don’t know how long he watches his victims, he may have already picked his next couple. But if we tip the scale? Give him something that makes his skin crawl.”
The jet goes silent as it’s clear he is contemplating your idea.
“A professor implies mentorship. Influence.”
“And the implication that I was dazzled,” You add lightly, “By your mind. Your status. Your power.”
The silence stretches back over the jet.
“That makes you uncomfortable.” You observe.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, again, “It complicates the dynamic.”
“That’s the point.”
He stares for a long moment, “Fine.”
You grin, “Great! So, how did we meet?”
“A conference.”
“Boring. Try again.”
He sighs, “Guest lecture. You were assisting with event coordination.”
“Ooh, I love that!” You agree, “I spilled coffee on you.”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did. You were very patient about it. Very kind. I thought you were intimidating.”
Hotch’s lips twitch into a smile for a split second before he could correct it . For a split second, you saw it.
“And then,” You continue, “you asked me to dinner. Which I declined. Twice.”
“Why twice?”
“Because it makes you chase.” You answer obviously, “And because neighbors love that kind of story.”
Hotch closes his file, “You’ve done this before.”
“Something tells me you really didn’t look at my resume all the times Straus sent it back when I was brought on.”
Rossi leans in closer to Hotch, “She did this for a year for the FBI. It was prior to the hostage negotiation.”
You watch the realization and curiosity pass over his face. He hadn’t looked into you much at all. There wasn’t much desire after Straus insisted upon you.
The jet began to descend shortly after that. By the time you guys touchdown, the local office had coordinated everything. A house at the end of a cul-de-sac in the middle of Coyote Springs. Clean title. Plausible history. A U-Haul full of furniture staged to look like it was from a loving family.
As soon as you both stepped onto the tarmac, you slid your hand into Hotch’s. Walking over to the small public airport rather than the waiting black SUVs with the rest of the team. Hotch froze for a half second.
“Breathe. Like you like me.”
“I don’t-”
“In character.” You correct yourself, “It's game on.”
Realistically the unsub could be anyone. Which is why they weren’t afforded with the luxury of riding with the rest of the team. The show has begun.
You keep your posture relaxed, smiling brightly. By the time Hotch parks the U-Haul in the driveway, three neighbors were already watching from their front porches.
“Showtime.” You give Hotch one last smile before hopping out of the truck.
You make your way around to his side, wrapping both arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek. You look at the house in front of you both. He stiffened again, then recovered. He slips an arm around your shoulders.
“There you go.” You whisper, “Professor Hayes.”
He glances down at you, “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” You tease.
They began unloading the truck under several curious eyes. You laugh loudly at his dry comments. Leaning into him. Stolen touches and passes. Selling the lie with ease.
“Newlyweds?” A voice calls out.
You turn to see a woman from two houses down. You answer without skipping a beat, “Six months!”
Hotch blinks, looking back down at you.
You tip your head forward before Hotch can flinch. Ripping off the bandaid. You knew he would tense if you didn’t catch him off guard. He’s still trying to protect you. You can feel the hesitation. Your lips are soft on his. Convincing. He relaxes into it.
When you pull back, the woman waves before heading inside. You look at Hotch, his eyes still on you.
“Relax.” You place a hand on his chest, “You’re doing great.”
His voice is low, “You don’t hesitate.”
You pull him down for a hug, whispering in his ear, “Neither does our unsub. We can’t afford to.”
You press another kiss to his cheek, grabbing another box out of the back of the truck and hauling it inside. Hotch stood for another second before grabbing something himself. He was beginning to have the feeling that this cover was going to test more than just his professionalism.
-
The surveillance van arrives a couple hours after they had returned the U-Haul. It pulls into their corner of Coyote Springs under the guise of a local internet provider. Uniforms are convincing, and plenty of equipment inside.
Garcia is already online and active before Morgan can put it in park. The cameras in the house are connected now. Her screens fill with all different angles. Street coverage. Door sensors. Motion alerts.
She hums in their earpieces, “For the record, the neighbors clocked you as ‘very affectionate’ within twelve minutes of you pulling in the driveway. Linda from two doors down texted her sister Sharon about you.”
You arch your brow, “What’d she say?”
You can practically hear Garcia’s grin, “Quote ‘The new wife is gorgeous and very young. He’s either lucky or stupid'."
”I’ll take it.” You hold up your mug of coffee in mock salute.
Word spreads fast in this neighborhood.
The team backs off for a while, letting them get settled together. Leaving you in a house that grows quieter and quieter. Heavier.
You open the fridge and take a peek inside, “We should establish routines.” you say, practical as ever, “Food. Morning patterns. Something that feels lived in.”
Hotch nods, “I’ll take mornings. Coffee. The paper.”
“I don’t do early.” You decide immediately, “But I’ll fake it if I have to.”
He glances at you, something like amusement flashing across his face before he hides it. “Noted.”
“I can handle dinner.” You decide, “What kind of trophy would I be without something warm on the table for you?”
You make a face at him that reveals your true feelings about that role you're playing. You still need to establish how much the mask stays on inside. You know the unsub was watching his victims, but not how. You start pulling ingredients and getting things ready on the stove.
“I can help.” He gets up from the counter, eager to wipe the sour look from your face.
“Respectfully, you moved us in today. You should shower.”
The way your grin lights up your face, turning back to the stove top without a care in the world, makes Hotch freeze. His heart skips a full beat. It already feels so domestic. You catch it and turn back, taking a half step closer to him.
“Don’t forget, I’m your hot twenty-six year old wife. Act like it.” You press a kiss to his cheek before he can protest. Now you actually focus on the stove, eventually hearing his steps take him away from the room.
By the time Hotch is done with his needed shower, he can smell the food coming from downstairs. Spaghetti. He’s impressed that you’ve even set the table. Creating the fantasy. Creating his illusion. You set down his plate at the end of the table, and you take the seat closest to his on the right.
“If we’re too distant we stand out, and now that we’re here-” Hotch clears his throat, “You’re right. I need to act like it. At any point now the unsub could be watching us.”
He smiles as if he hadn’t said something so horrifying. The place had already been swept for bugs, and now they had eyes on them. Now they would have to wait and see if the unsub was watching them too.
“I’m glad you’re officially on board.” You grin, placing your hand in his.
You guys both practically drag your feet cleaning up from dinner. Avoiding the bedroom. The last line to cross.
The room has been staged well, it’s a pretty room. A large bed right in the middle of it. Hotch pauses just behind you in the doorway, “We can take turns on the couch.”
You shake your head immediately, “No. Couples like us don’t do that.”
He exhales slowly, “Understood.”
You leave him in the bathroom and take your bag to the bathroom. You change quickly and then open the door back up while you take off your makeup and brush your teeth. After spitting in the sink, you look up in the mirror to see Aaron walking in. He’s changed into long pajama pants and a black t-shirt.
You were hoping if you were fast enough, Hotch would be in bed with the lights off by the time you came out. You blush when you notice him taking in your cover wardrobe. You’re supposed to be a young hot wife, that means little for the pajama department.
He begins brushing his teeth while you do your skincare. The silence stretching painfully rather than peacefully is the only clue that this isn’t real.
You’re nearly done by the time Hotch leaves and heads back to the bedroom. You follow after turning off the lights and pull back the covers. Total darkness and silence.
You lie on your back, your hands folded over your stomach, “Night, Hotch.”
“Goodnight.”
Neither of you sleep very well. He stares at the opposite wall. Plagued by listening to your soft breaths while you sleep. Morning comes too fast. He’s already up by the time your eyelids pull open.
You pad into the kitchen to see a pot of coffee on, Hotch manning the stove. He still has on his pajamas, his hair disheveled from sleep. You’re surprised he didn’t fix it first thing. But, this isn’t really him.
“Morning, professor.” Your voice lazy from sleep.
He freezes for half a second.
Then recovers, “Sleep well?”
You smile, taking steps closer to him. He reaches out an arm to wrap around your shoulders. The food smells good.
“Like a dream.” You lie. He knows.
You wrap your arms around his waist while you both sway together. You’d be ashamed to admit it once you were more awake, but you lean your weight against him to support.
By noon, you’re laying out by the pool. The bikini is not subtle. It isn’t meant to be.
Garcia groans over the comms you can all hear again, “This seems deeply unfair.”
“Tell me about it.” Emily whined.
Hotch watches from inside, his jaw tight, posture rigid. He knows exactly what you are doing and why it works. He’s almost alarmed at the pace you could set for the unsub.
Neighbors slow as they pass.
A man across the street checks his mail. Twice.
You don’t look at any of them. You keep your sunglasses on, body relaxed and unconcerned.
It’s bait.
And it’s effective.
Hotch’s eyes finally snap up from your figure when he sees someone approach the fence. A woman smiling brightly and waving you over. You get up from your lounge chair and walk over to her.
“Hi! I’m Linda. We’re having a block party on Friday, and I thought we’d invite the new couple!”
You smile, all warmth and charm, “Isn’t that sweet!”
Hotch steps out the back patio door and walks over to join you. His arm wraps around your lower back so his hand can find home on your hip. Linda notices. Everyone does.
“Aaron.” He extends his other hand to shake Linda’s.
It’s clear Linda is trying to hide her gaze on their PDA. She stutters out the time while focusing on your hand placed on Hotch’s warm chest. The rock the FBI provided glimmering brightly on your ring finger. The sun continues to beat down, Hotch very aware of how you’re all skin right now. He’s only touching bare skin. He vaguely hears you ask if you should bring anything. He misses the response.
“Lovely.” She waves, “We’ll see you then!”
Linda walks away, you wave goodbye as she walks back to her house.
“So, that's what it takes to get you to come outside?” You turn, Hotch’s hold still on you, “Linda?”
“What-”
“I mean, I’ve been out here for how long, Garcia?”
His hand tightens again, not expecting you to circle the team back in. He forgot their eyes and ears are on everything.
“Forty-five minutes.” She answers.
“Disappointing.” You whisper, it fans over his face.
“I’ll work on it.”
He leans down before you can pull another stunt, he presses a kiss to your brow.
-
Later Emily and Morgan come over under the guise of friends bringing a housewarming gift. They welcome them both in and accept the wine with hugs. They gather together in the kitchen, everyone’s face all smiles but Emily’s tone tells another story.
“I think we’ve got to work on being what the unsub is looking for.” She reminds, “You both need to work on being closer. Physically.”
Morgan nods, “She’s right. The profile says entitlement. Ownership. A guy who thinks he’s won.”
“You don’t protect, Y/n. You flaunt her.”
Hotch’s jaw tightens, “That’s not-”
“That’s the role,” She cuts in, “A man who would absolutely brag about locking down another wife half the age of the last one.”
Emily is exaggerating obviously, but she makes her point clear.
“I’m good, Hotch.” You smile, wrapping your hand around his arm and pulling him closer, “I’m not fragile.”
He exhales slowly. Once. Controlled.
“Understood.”
The shift is nearly immediate. You can feel it. He changes how he stands. How close he is. How his hand settles on your waist when you pass him in the kitchen. Unapologetic.
An arm draped over her shoulder as they sit on the front porch enjoying the summer night, the sky beginning to darken. Morgan and Emily left a little bit ago, leaving them alone again. This time you claim each other's space.
A neighbor you haven’t met jogs by on a late run, waving to them as she passes. Linda’s husband takes out the trash, putting it at the end of their driveway. A group of kids pass through on their bikes, loud yells and laughter.
Lots of activity in this neighborhood. Lots of eyes. You and Hotch are putting yourselves in full view.
“You good?” You ask quietly.
“Yes,” He answers, “Are you?”
You study him, “I’ve played worse roles than this.”
His mouth tightens, “That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No, but it gets the job done.”
You reach up to card your hands through his hair. Running along the side, pushing it back.
“Uhh, guys?” Garcia chimes in the earpiece. You both keep faces neutral.
“One of the exterior cameras just changed angles.”
You still. Hotch does too. You’re not sure you would be able to tell if you weren’t practically in his lap right now.
Inside the van, Rossi leans closer to the screen. “Did we do that?”
Garcia typing away furiously.
“No. And the system didn’t flag it either.”
Emily frowns, “Can someone access it remotely?”
Garcia hesitates before answering.
“If they had administration credentials they would have remote access.”
“So, the unsub is watching right now?” You ask, eyes still on Aaron.
“I would assume so since he adjusted the exterior to include you both in frame.”
“Let’s give him a show.”
You want to pull Aaron to you, but you know he needs to push this. He is the pursuer. Your hand is still in his hair when he leans down to connect your lips again. You don’t give him the chance to cut it short, leaning into him.
He opens his mouth wider to deepen the kiss, you sit up against him. Throwing one leg over his lap, practically indecent for the front yard.
“Take me to bed.” Your words are pressed against his lips.
Hotch stiffens under you for a second. His eyes wide, before you give a small nod. He picks you up from his lap, carrying you into the house. You let him set you down and pull him up the stairs by the collar of his shirt. Still full of smiles and teasing. Aaron corners you against a wall in the hallway, pressing hot kisses down your neck.
You push back from him, taking his hand and pulling him into the bedroom and shut the door. The second the door shuts, you both let go, but are still out of breath. Hotch paces a few feet away from you. The bedroom is one of the few places they didn’t put a camera.
“Garcia, did any other angles in the house change? Any interior cameras?” Your voice sounds a lot more calm and clear than you feel.
“Um,” She clears her throat, obviously still reeling from everything she just witnessed. “Uh-I-uh it looks like he has. The hallway is angled more in the bedroom than it was when it was installed. I think I can see if he’s watching.”
There’s a long pause while she works before she comes back on, “Wait, yes! He’s online. He’s still active on the hall camera. I’m guessing he’s waiting for the afterparty.”
Emily nods, “He’s watching for something. He wants to know if they fit his needs.”
Inside, the performance continues. You mess up your hair, Hotch’s to be fair already was. You change out of the clothes you had on before and opt for just one of Aaron’s law t-shirts. It feels right. Puts a little pressure on that authority insecurity.
“Is he still watching?” You ask Garcia.
“Mhm.”
You open the door and casually skip down the stairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. You're still flushed from the couch make out. Didn't have to fake that.
“Babygirl, you’re a genius.” Morgan claps.
It only needs to give the illusion they need. Just enough to piss him off.
-
You made brownies for the block party. Aaron had to run out to the store, leaving an opening for the unsub to approach as well. They don’t know his true patterns and if he’s confident enough to approach them both at once.
All morning there is activity out in the street. People are setting up tables, music, and food. It looks like they don’t do anything small here in Coyote Springs. You picked out the perfect summer sun dress, and curled your hair and leaving it down simply. It’s short enough to put your legs on display.
“Safe choice,” Hotch nods, looking at the tray covered in foil.
Safe to comment on the food, not the dress.
You smile up at him, “People trust baked goods.”
He opens the door for you both to walk out, and it’s already full. The party is already in full swing. People everywhere. Children running around. The smell of the grill takes over.
Too many faces.
You immediately feel your posture sag a little trying to keep track of everyone’s expressions while walking through. You keep one hand on the tray and the other curled possessively around Aaron’s bicep. You let him guide you around, introducing yourselves.
He leans down to press the occasional kiss to your lips, temple, brow. Anything to hear your low laugh. You both look inseparable.
From the street, it’s enviable.
From the cameras, he’s raging.
“We’ve got a lot of eyes.” Garcia says into the earpiece.
JJ watches over the crowd, “He’s here. He wouldn’t pass up this opportunity.”
You move slowly. Deliberately. Introductions begin to blur. Retirees, young families, couples who’ve lived here twenty years. Kids continue to race around playing. Teens hang back in groups, too cool to really participate. You laugh easily, leaning into Hotch. You even let him speak over you once or twice.
You both stop near Linda, who is holding court beside the grill and a whole table of food.
“Oh! You made it,” Linda says brightly. “And you brought something.”
“Brownies,” You smile. “I hope that’s okay.”
Linda takes the tray. “Oh, people will love you.”
Her gaze flicks to Hotch. “You’re a lucky man.”
Hotch smiles wide, proud, exactly the wrong way.
“I know,” he says. “I really do.”
The reaction is instant. Not from Linda.
From just behind her.
A boy, sixteen maybe seventeen goes still.
Too still.
You can feel pressure between your shoulder blades. Hotch squeezes your hand, he saw it too.
“Oh, where are my manners!” Linda sighs, “Meet my family. This is my husband Bill, and my son Matthew.”
She then turns where the other boy still watches.
“And this is my sister Sharon and her son Toby. They live just a couple streets down.”
Toby is tall, a little lanky. He wears a black hoodie despite the heat. He stands half in the shadow of a tree, his eyes won’t meet yours. Instead they’re on Hotch. Specifically where his hand is glued to your hip possessively. You shift closer and his grip bruises, Toby’s jaw tightens.
You turn to speak over Aaron’s shoulder so they won’t notice what you ask Garcia.
“Garcia, what do we know on Sharon and her son?”
There’s a pause. You turn back your attention to Linda and Sharon, waiting for her chipper voice to come on the earpiece.
“Let me see what I can find!” She eagerly begins typing. They had to move the surveillance van a couple streets down for the block party. It would be curious for them to be parked there with all the homeowners having a party together.
You keep smiling and turn your attention to Sharon and her son who hovers behind.
“So, how long have you guys lived here?”
“All of his life.” Sharon answers, smiling softly at him.
“Must be hard,” You reply gently, “watching things change. New people are moving in, although I hope we’re welcomed!”
Everyone laughs at your comment, except for Toby. His gaze has yet to leave Hotch’s touch.
Sharp. Hurt. Furious.
Hotch squeezes a warning.
His eyes flick up to your face for the first time.
You excuse yourself from the group to refill both of your drinks. When you return, you immediately slide onto Hotch’s lap. You dive back into conversation totally unphased, but in your peripheral you can see Toby’s hands clenching.
Hotch makes sure to brag about his job, about you, about how good his life is now. Toby is locked in with his full attention. Every laugh from you is a needle. Every kiss gasoline. Building.
“I’ve got something juicy,” Garcia jumps back in, “Sharon was just divorced from Toby’s father last March. They had been married for twenty-two years, but he moved out and left. And then six weeks ago it looks like he was re-married.”
“Right when the killings started.” Emily reminds.
“It get better-or worse, I don’t know which is-what way it-”
“Garcia.”
“He has been teaching the girls college soccer team almost as long as they were married. His new wife? She just graduated from the team last year. Can you spell slimy?”
Garcia gags over the earpiece nearly making you wince and yank it out of your ear.
“She’s twenty-four, he’s fourty-nine.”
Bingo.
You turn to look over Hotch’s shoulder to see Toby’s expression, only to find him missing. Linda’s son is gone now too.
“Does anyone have eyes on him?”
No answer.
You both thank people as you’re saying goodbye. Smiles. Keep the act flawless.
The house feels wrong the second your foot crosses the threshold. Hotch’s hand moves instinctively toward his weapon and stops. Static takes over the earpiece.
-
Back in the surveillance van, the team waits anxiously. Re-watching footage to see if they can spot him disappearing. Eerie silence from the couple undercover. Garcia watches the door shut and suddenly the screens turn to pixels, static playing over the speakers.
“What the hell is that?” Morgan yells.
“I don’t know! Something is blocking the signal.” Garcia types furiously.
“We’ve got to go in now.” Morgan grabs his vest and his gun.
“If he’s not with them, this will blow their cover. We’ll scare him away.” Rossi adds.
“It won’t matter if they’re dead. Toby is the unsub, I’m sure of it.”
-
Toby is standing in the living room, holding a gun he shouldn’t know how to handle. And it’s aimed right at you both. His hands are shaking. Your hand tightens around Aaron’s arm.
“Shut the door!” He yells, you both slowly step the rest of the way into the house and shut the door.
His face is pale, eyes wide, and breathing way too fast.
He raises the gun closer to them, “Upstairs. Now.”
Hotch manages to keep himself placed between you and the gun as he follows you both to the bedroom. Every step is deliberate, intentionally trying to put you in the least amount of harm.
“On your knees.”
Neither of them hesitates. Neither of you tries to reach for your weapon. Yet.
Hotch’s shoulders brush with yours. Toby paces in front of you, waving the gun wildly in their direction the entire time.
“You think you’re better than everyone!” He yells, “You think it’s okay to take whatever you want.”
You tilt your head slightly, “What did he take from you?”
You try to remind that Hotch is not his father, although with the anger in his eyes you’re not sure he can tell. His pacing stutters.
“You watch people like us?” You continue, “You think you’re correcting something?”
“Correcting what he’s taking!” He jabs the gun at Hotch’s chest. You feel the air get knocked out of your lungs.
“Correcting my theft of youth?”
Your words from the beginning of the case now echo with Hotch’s voice. Toby freezes.
“That’s what he did,” Toby’s voice growing hoarse, “He took her youth. He took our family and replaced it with something younger. Easier.”
Hotch swallows when Toby turns his focus onto you. He lets the barrel of the gun slide across your collarbone.
“It’s despicable. This is the same thing.” He gestures between you two.
You hold his gaze, “I chose him. He didn’t take anything from me.”
Your voice softens, “And I don’t regret it.”
The truth in your voice is unmistakable. Hotch feels it like a shockwave. An earthquake.
“You don’t want to kill us.” You voice gentle, calming the room, “You want someone to admit what happened to you was wrong. That it was fucked up.”
Toby’s hands shake more, his eyes fill.
“He didn’t even talk to me about it. He just moved out.”
You nod, “Don’t you want it to stop hurting?”
His head bobs.
“Then put the gun down.”
He hesitates.
Hotch keeps his voice low and steady. Using his dad voice, “You’re not a monster. You’re a kid that got left behind.”
The gun lowers. Just enough. You reach forward and take the gun from his grasp and pass it back to Hotch immediately. You kneel beside him while he cries. Morgan breaks through the door, armed and ready.
“It’s okay, we’re all safe now.”
Red and blue lights take over the room flashing in from the window. Morgan takes Toby down to the cars to bring him into the station. An ambulance. Police. Statements. Protocols.
-
The team gathers in the living room to discuss everything that just unfolded and establishing a time to meet at the jet.
“Sharon works for CPI Security. That’s how Toby was able to access the homes and the cameras. He was using her devices.” Garcia explains their total blackout on seeing and hearing them. Toby was smarter than they had thought. That’s how he was without a trace. The team gives them a couple looks, quiet comments about their act while they try to wrap things up.
“Enough!” You shout, “I would like to shower and then get on a plane and go home! Is that too much to ask for?”
“No ma’am!”
“We’re going!”
“Okay, okay!”
Rossi leaves to go get one of the SUVS so they can head to the airport. It would be a late night flight home. You and Aaron are left with a few officers downstairs taking pictures and taking statements while you both pack up your belongings.
“Well, I suppose I will have to give this back to evidence.” You sigh, holding up the rock on your ring finger to the light with a chuckle.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’ll take some getting used to. You’ll feel lighter.”
You roll your eyes, putting your toiletries away, looking at him in the mirror.
Leaning your hip against the counter you look up at him, soft now and unguarded. “You were very convincing. You stepped it up.”
He matches your lean, a step closer.
“You were extraordinary from the beginning.”
The smile on your face shifts into something real, “You used my words back there.”
“I know.” He says, “I know what they mean to you.”
A beat passes. You swallow, his eyes follow down your throat. One he has kissed numerous times now.
“Do you regret it?” he asks.
You shake your head without hesitation, “Not even a little.”
Hotch reaches out, slowly. Deliberate. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is warm. Bare. Uncharacteristically gentle.
“Neither do I.”
-
The jet hums as it cuts through the dark sky. Hotch sits at the table with a file open in front of him that he is definitely not reading. You took the same seat across from him as usual. Emily and Rossi join the table, Morgan and Garcia sit on the couch facing them with wide grins.
For the first six minutes of the flight, no one says a thing.
“So,” Morgan starts far too casually, “We gonna talk about the kissing, or are we pretending none of that ever happened?”
You close your eyes.
Hotch exhales through his nose.
JJ doesn’t even look up from her tablet, “I witnessed at least nine when I was on cams.”
Garcia gasps, “I’ve got so many screenshots-
“Garcia.” Hotch warns.
You groan, “Oh my god.”
Rossi smiles into his coffee, “You know, I’ve been undercover a lot. But I’ve never seen Hotch commit like that.”
Morgan grins, “My boss went from ‘don’t touch me’ to ‘this is my wife, don’t even breathe in her direction’ in twenty-four hours.”
Hotch clears his throat, “Focus.”
“Sir,” Emily smiles, “You grabbed her waist every time someone looked at her for more than two seconds.”
“That was tactical.”
You snort loudly before you can even stop it.
Morgan points immediately, “See! She knew it!”
Garcia’s cuts in, “And can we discuss the wardrobe?”
You straighten in your seat, “Garcia-”
“The bikini,” She barrels on, “The sundress. The backless sundress. The way you were charming everyone and-”
“Garcia!” You say both mortified and laughing.
JJ smiles, “To be fair, it worked. He didn’t stand a chance.”
“Hotch or Toby?” Rossi asks with a jab.
Hotch’s ears turn red.
“Well, technically Y/n is closer in age to Toby than she is to Hotch.” Reid interjects.
“Please, don’t ever remind me of that again.” You shake your head, a sour look on your face.
“I would also not like to be reminded of that.” Hotch agrees.
Rossi raises his brow still looking at Hotch.
“It was part of the profile.” He reminds.
Impossibly so, Rossi’s brow aims higher at Aaron’s answer, “You told three different men you were ‘very lucky’ and ‘not stupid enough to mess this up’.”
Silence.
Your lips twitch with a smile as you look over to him, “You did?”
His jaw tightens, “That… may have come up.”
Morgan outright laughs, “Boss, you were bragging.”
You cover your face with one hand, “I can never show my face in Arizona again.”
“You absolutely can,” Emily disagrees, “You own that cul-de-sac now. Whatever you two were doing, it sold and it worked.”
Reid nods, “Yeah, no notes. Except, next time? I want hazard pay for having to watch all that.”
"Me on the other hand, " Garcia grins wickedly, "I saved it all!"
“You’re welcome, you pervs!”
You toss a harmless handful of plane popcorn at them, rolling your eyes. There’s an unguarded and warm smile on your face that makes Hotch shake his head watching it all unfold.
Hours later it’s early morning on the east coast when they finally land on the tarmac.
“Debrief tomorrow at 9AM.” Hotch says, “Get some rest.”
The team disperses, still chuckling and yawning as they walk to their cars. The cabin is quiet as you lean back in your seat while Hotch packs up his briefcase.
“You think any of them bought it?” You ask, a soft smile on your face. Honest and open.
He flashes you his rare smile. The one usually saved for you and Jack on the weekends.
“Probably not.”
extra of the team finding out here!
an// all too aware of the fact that it’s been almost two years since i’ve written for Hotch, but I am obsessed all over again i fear. i had so much fun writing for him again!
summary: The BAU team is being sent to catch an unsub going after couples with age-gap relationships. How are things going to go when you have to go undercover with your boss in order to catch him?
word count: 7 K 🌵
-
“Alright,” Hotch’s voice evenly said, “Let’s go over what we know.”
Garcia clicks the remote. Four crime scene photos take over the screen. The team breaks their gaze on their files in front of them to look. Same town. Similar neighborhoods. Same brutality.
You take a long sip of your coffee. Trying anything to get your brain caught up with the team. You’ve been a part of the team for nearly nine-months, the newest and youngest addition. You thrive under the pressure, but seeing pictures like this at this hour of morning is something you hope to never get used to. You’ve gotten comfortable with the team at this point, facing countless horrors together is impossible not to bond someone. Except for Hotch. All frowns and corrections on the surface. You do a lot of things to make him frown. Some of the team had taller walls than others. Hotch being one of them. You tease him, but cling to the fact that his dark eyes follow you. Watch you when he thinks you won’t see. You can always feel it.
“All victims are couples,” Garcia looks over the group, ducking away from the images, “All of the attacks occurred in the Coyote Springs just outside Flagstaff, Arizona. All within a gated subdivision, heavy neighborhood watch presence, but it’s a large neighborhood. There’s nearly 6,000 residents in the community.”
“Woah, big neighborhood.” Emily sighs, looking back to the file.
Reid clears his throat, “The murders span six weeks. Each murder escalates in violence, but consistent within method. This suggests the unsub is a local. Or at least familiar with the area.”
“Not a drifter,” Morgan adds, “He knows their routines. Knows who belongs.”
Your gaze sharpens, “Which means he’s comfortable there.”
Hotch nods without looking up to acknowledge you, “And patient.”
Reid leans forward to add more, “There’s another commonality. Every couple has a significant age gap.”
“Yeah,” JJ agrees, “All of these women are at least fifteen years younger than their husbands.”
“That’s not a coincidence,” Prentiss confirms, “That’s motive.”
You speak without hesitation, “Resentment.”
Rossi turns to you, “Elaborate.”
“When I was working in hostage negotiation,” Your voice calm, “large age gaps in relationships came from extremist ideology and vigilante thinking. They see themselves as a moral authority. He isn’t killing these couples, he’s correcting something he sees as wrong.”
All eyes on you. Your eyes dart to Hotch.
“Theft of youth.”
Reid’s eyes light up, “A savior complex. He may believe he’s actually rescuing the younger woman from-”
“-a perceived predator,” Rossi finishes.
“Which makes Coyote Springs his hunting ground. His own aquarium. Everyone inside thinks they’re safe.” Emily continues.
“Yeah,” Morgan agrees, “This guy thrives on control. You flood the neighborhood with badges, he disappears.”
Prentiss tilts her head, “Unless he comes to us.”
You feel the shift before anyone could actually say it. Her eyes darting to you. Then Hotch.
Rossi’s eyes flick between you two now, “You’re thinking bait.”
It didn’t go over anyone’s heads that you and Hotch have a scarily similar age gap as the victims. Beautiful. Active. The perfect setup.
“I’m thinking opportunity.” Emily corrects, “Two people who could fit the pattern. A new couple moves in quietly. Lets the unsub think something perfect fell in his lap.”
“No.”
Hotch’s answer immediate.
You blink. Then laugh. “Wow, look at us already on the same page.”
His eyes turn to you now, sharp and warning, “This is not a game.”
“Never said it was,” You reply lightly, “I’m just agreeing that maybe the two of us playing house isn’t the best play.”
JJ steps in, “If the unsub is watching, he’s choosing couples that look stable. Happy.”
“Yet another reason this wouldn’t work.” You mutter, Rossi elbow in your side tells you he’s the only one that caught the comment.
“Which means?” Garcia questions.
“A married couple, or at least one that presents that way would statistically be the most appealing to draw him out.”
More eyes fall back to you.
You slowly look around, “Oh, absolutely not.”
Hotch doesn’t look at you, “Agreed.”
“You telling me you’re scared, Y/Ln?” Morgan grins.
You look him dead in the eye, “I’m telling you I’m smart enough to know that Hotch and I can’t sell married and in love.”
“Well,” Rossi turns his gaze over to the rest of the group, “Are there any other alternatives here on the team?”
The group looks around at each other. You know there aren’t any. You don’t need to look around to know that most of them are too close in age to raise that kind of brow.
“I can’t believe this.” You shake your head with a humorless laugh.
Hotch’s jaw tightens, “He’s looking for a performance.”
The rest of the room quiets at his words. You’d be ashamed to admit to the warmth pooling at the dark look on his eyes. This shouldn’t be able to work.
“Look, you’re both qualified.” Emily claps, “It wouldn’t be your first time going undercover.”
“I mean no offense by it, but Y/Ln is the perfect trophy wife bait.” Morgan holds up his hands in self defense.
“Somehow I’m still offended.”
Rossi raises a brow to you and Hotch, “The unsub is escalating. If we miss him again, someone else dies. This isn’t about what’s comfortable. It’s about leverage.”
Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. Silence stretches while everyone tries to come up with an alternative.
“So maybe it is the best play.” You sigh, coming to the same conclusion as the rest of the team. Your hand slides to cover your face with a groan.
“For what it’s worth, this is like so hot.” Garcia bites the end of her pen looking at you both, “So hot.”
“Babygirl.” Morgan sighs with the shake of his head.
“You’re enjoying this way too much, Pen.” You warn with a smile that is anything but friendly.
“Immensly.” She continues to beam.
A long pause.
Finally Hotch exhales, “If we do this-”
He pauses to read your face. You aren’t supposed to profile each other, but you can see he’s looking to see if you’re truly comfortable. If you can do this. You know you can. You give him a subtle nod.
“-we do everything by the book.” He continues, “Full surveillance. Backup within minutes. No unnecessary risks.”
You suddenly smirk, “You’re gonna hate every second of this.”
“Yes,” He said flatly.
You grin wider, “Then I’m in.”
He looks at you. Really looks.
“Wheels up in two hours. We prep covers immediately.”
Garcia squeals. Prentiss smirks at you. Morgan claps once.
This is going to get complicated.
-
The jet's familiar hum rings over them lowly. You’re curled sideways in your chair, Emily to your right. Hotch directly across from you, Rossi to his left. A table separating you both. Morgan was making calls to get a stakeout van for the rest of the team. They wouldn’t be the only eyes on you two while undercover, but they would be most watchful.
“Alright,” You smile, “Let’s build our beautiful lie.”
Hotch’s eyes dart to yours over his file, “We already have preliminary covers.”
“Preliminary is not convincing.” You reply, turning to Emily for help.
“She’s right.” She shrugs, “Especially since we know this unsub is watching his victims.”
He doesn’t argue, he simply sets down his file on the table.
“Progress.” You bite your cheek.
“Aaron Hayes. Attorney. Corporate litigation.”
“Third marriage,” You add with cheer, “Which no offence, you can sell.”
His mouth tightens, “It’s realistic considering the previous victims.”
“And it adds baggage.” You continue, “Baggage is realistic. That’s what he’ll like.”
Rossi raises his brows, “What about you?”
“Y/n Hayes.” You quickly reach out a hand to shake his with a pearly smile plastered to your face, “Twenty-six. Former marketing assistant. Now… professionally vague.”
“Trophy wife.” Hotch said flatly.
You beam, “Exactly.”
His eyes study you, “You’re sure you’re comfortable with this?”
“Hotch, you’ve seen me pretend to be sympathetic to truly terrible people. Being hot and underestimated is a vacation.”
He exhales quietly.
“I want to add something else.”
He looks back up.
“Power.”
He frowns, “Explain.”
“You’re already older. Already established. Already married multiple times, but I think we lean into it harder.” You lean back in your chair, “Make you a professor. Law school. Ethics. Authority.”
He immediately stiffens, “That’s unnecessary.”
“Is it?” You tilt your head, “Our unsub in punishing perceived imbalance. We don’t know how long he watches his victims, he may have already picked his next couple. But if we tip the scale? Give him something that makes his skin crawl.”
The jet goes silent as it’s clear he is contemplating your idea.
“A professor implies mentorship. Influence.”
“And the implication that I was dazzled,” You add lightly, “By your mind. Your status. Your power.”
The silence stretches back over the jet.
“That makes you uncomfortable.” You observe.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, again, “It complicates the dynamic.”
“That’s the point.”
He stares for a long moment, “Fine.”
You grin, “Great! So, how did we meet?”
“A conference.”
“Boring. Try again.”
He sighs, “Guest lecture. You were assisting with event coordination.”
“Ooh, I love that!” You agree, “I spilled coffee on you.”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did. You were very patient about it. Very kind. I thought you were intimidating.”
Hotch’s lips twitch into a smile for a split second before he could correct it . For a split second, you saw it.
“And then,” You continue, “you asked me to dinner. Which I declined. Twice.”
“Why twice?”
“Because it makes you chase.” You answer obviously, “And because neighbors love that kind of story.”
Hotch closes his file, “You’ve done this before.”
“Something tells me you really didn’t look at my resume all the times Straus sent it back when I was brought on.”
Rossi leans in closer to Hotch, “She did this for a year for the FBI. It was prior to the hostage negotiation.”
You watch the realization and curiosity pass over his face. He hadn’t looked into you much at all. There wasn’t much desire after Straus insisted upon you.
The jet began to descend shortly after that. By the time you guys touchdown, the local office had coordinated everything. A house at the end of a cul-de-sac in the middle of Coyote Springs. Clean title. Plausible history. A U-Haul full of furniture staged to look like it was from a loving family.
As soon as you both stepped onto the tarmac, you slid your hand into Hotch’s. Walking over to the small public airport rather than the waiting black SUVs with the rest of the team. Hotch froze for a half second.
“Breathe. Like you like me.”
“I don’t-”
“In character.” You correct yourself, “It's game on.”
Realistically the unsub could be anyone. Which is why they weren’t afforded with the luxury of riding with the rest of the team. The show has begun.
You keep your posture relaxed, smiling brightly. By the time Hotch parks the U-Haul in the driveway, three neighbors were already watching from their front porches.
“Showtime.” You give Hotch one last smile before hopping out of the truck.
You make your way around to his side, wrapping both arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek. You look at the house in front of you both. He stiffened again, then recovered. He slips an arm around your shoulders.
“There you go.” You whisper, “Professor Hayes.”
He glances down at you, “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” You tease.
They began unloading the truck under several curious eyes. You laugh loudly at his dry comments. Leaning into him. Stolen touches and passes. Selling the lie with ease.
“Newlyweds?” A voice calls out.
You turn to see a woman from two houses down. You answer without skipping a beat, “Six months!”
Hotch blinks, looking back down at you.
You tip your head forward before Hotch can flinch. Ripping off the bandaid. You knew he would tense if you didn’t catch him off guard. He’s still trying to protect you. You can feel the hesitation. Your lips are soft on his. Convincing. He relaxes into it.
When you pull back, the woman waves before heading inside. You look at Hotch, his eyes still on you.
“Relax.” You place a hand on his chest, “You’re doing great.”
His voice is low, “You don’t hesitate.”
You pull him down for a hug, whispering in his ear, “Neither does our unsub. We can’t afford to.”
You press another kiss to his cheek, grabbing another box out of the back of the truck and hauling it inside. Hotch stood for another second before grabbing something himself. He was beginning to have the feeling that this cover was going to test more than just his professionalism.
-
The surveillance van arrives a couple hours after they had returned the U-Haul. It pulls into their corner of Coyote Springs under the guise of a local internet provider. Uniforms are convincing, and plenty of equipment inside.
Garcia is already online and active before Morgan can put it in park. The cameras in the house are connected now. Her screens fill with all different angles. Street coverage. Door sensors. Motion alerts.
She hums in their earpieces, “For the record, the neighbors clocked you as ‘very affectionate’ within twelve minutes of you pulling in the driveway. Linda from two doors down texted her sister Sharon about you.”
You arch your brow, “What’d she say?”
You can practically hear Garcia’s grin, “Quote ‘The new wife is gorgeous and very young. He’s either lucky or stupid'."
”I’ll take it.” You hold up your mug of coffee in mock salute.
Word spreads fast in this neighborhood.
The team backs off for a while, letting them get settled together. Leaving you in a house that grows quieter and quieter. Heavier.
You open the fridge and take a peek inside, “We should establish routines.” you say, practical as ever, “Food. Morning patterns. Something that feels lived in.”
Hotch nods, “I’ll take mornings. Coffee. The paper.”
“I don’t do early.” You decide immediately, “But I’ll fake it if I have to.”
He glances at you, something like amusement flashing across his face before he hides it. “Noted.”
“I can handle dinner.” You decide, “What kind of trophy would I be without something warm on the table for you?”
You make a face at him that reveals your true feelings about that role you're playing. You still need to establish how much the mask stays on inside. You know the unsub was watching his victims, but not how. You start pulling ingredients and getting things ready on the stove.
“I can help.” He gets up from the counter, eager to wipe the sour look from your face.
“Respectfully, you moved us in today. You should shower.”
The way your grin lights up your face, turning back to the stove top without a care in the world, makes Hotch freeze. His heart skips a full beat. It already feels so domestic. You catch it and turn back, taking a half step closer to him.
“Don’t forget, I’m your hot twenty-six year old wife. Act like it.” You press a kiss to his cheek before he can protest. Now you actually focus on the stove, eventually hearing his steps take him away from the room.
By the time Hotch is done with his needed shower, he can smell the food coming from downstairs. Spaghetti. He’s impressed that you’ve even set the table. Creating the fantasy. Creating his illusion. You set down his plate at the end of the table, and you take the seat closest to his on the right.
“If we’re too distant we stand out, and now that we’re here-” Hotch clears his throat, “You’re right. I need to act like it. At any point now the unsub could be watching us.”
He smiles as if he hadn’t said something so horrifying. The place had already been swept for bugs, and now they had eyes on them. Now they would have to wait and see if the unsub was watching them too.
“I’m glad you’re officially on board.” You grin, placing your hand in his.
You guys both practically drag your feet cleaning up from dinner. Avoiding the bedroom. The last line to cross.
The room has been staged well, it’s a pretty room. A large bed right in the middle of it. Hotch pauses just behind you in the doorway, “We can take turns on the couch.”
You shake your head immediately, “No. Couples like us don’t do that.”
He exhales slowly, “Understood.”
You leave him in the bathroom and take your bag to the bathroom. You change quickly and then open the door back up while you take off your makeup and brush your teeth. After spitting in the sink, you look up in the mirror to see Aaron walking in. He’s changed into long pajama pants and a black t-shirt.
You were hoping if you were fast enough, Hotch would be in bed with the lights off by the time you came out. You blush when you notice him taking in your cover wardrobe. You’re supposed to be a young hot wife, that means little for the pajama department.
He begins brushing his teeth while you do your skincare. The silence stretching painfully rather than peacefully is the only clue that this isn’t real.
You’re nearly done by the time Hotch leaves and heads back to the bedroom. You follow after turning off the lights and pull back the covers. Total darkness and silence.
You lie on your back, your hands folded over your stomach, “Night, Hotch.”
“Goodnight.”
Neither of you sleep very well. He stares at the opposite wall. Plagued by listening to your soft breaths while you sleep. Morning comes too fast. He’s already up by the time your eyelids pull open.
You pad into the kitchen to see a pot of coffee on, Hotch manning the stove. He still has on his pajamas, his hair disheveled from sleep. You’re surprised he didn’t fix it first thing. But, this isn’t really him.
“Morning, professor.” Your voice lazy from sleep.
He freezes for half a second.
Then recovers, “Sleep well?”
You smile, taking steps closer to him. He reaches out an arm to wrap around your shoulders. The food smells good.
“Like a dream.” You lie. He knows.
You wrap your arms around his waist while you both sway together. You’d be ashamed to admit it once you were more awake, but you lean your weight against him to support.
By noon, you’re laying out by the pool. The bikini is not subtle. It isn’t meant to be.
Garcia groans over the comms you can all hear again, “This seems deeply unfair.”
“Tell me about it.” Emily whined.
Hotch watches from inside, his jaw tight, posture rigid. He knows exactly what you are doing and why it works. He’s almost alarmed at the pace you could set for the unsub.
Neighbors slow as they pass.
A man across the street checks his mail. Twice.
You don’t look at any of them. You keep your sunglasses on, body relaxed and unconcerned.
It’s bait.
And it’s effective.
Hotch’s eyes finally snap up from your figure when he sees someone approach the fence. A woman smiling brightly and waving you over. You get up from your lounge chair and walk over to her.
“Hi! I’m Linda. We’re having a block party on Friday, and I thought we’d invite the new couple!”
You smile, all warmth and charm, “Isn’t that sweet!”
Hotch steps out the back patio door and walks over to join you. His arm wraps around your lower back so his hand can find home on your hip. Linda notices. Everyone does.
“Aaron.” He extends his other hand to shake Linda’s.
It’s clear Linda is trying to hide her gaze on their PDA. She stutters out the time while focusing on your hand placed on Hotch’s warm chest. The rock the FBI provided glimmering brightly on your ring finger. The sun continues to beat down, Hotch very aware of how you’re all skin right now. He’s only touching bare skin. He vaguely hears you ask if you should bring anything. He misses the response.
“Lovely.” She waves, “We’ll see you then!”
Linda walks away, you wave goodbye as she walks back to her house.
“So, that's what it takes to get you to come outside?” You turn, Hotch’s hold still on you, “Linda?”
“What-”
“I mean, I’ve been out here for how long, Garcia?”
His hand tightens again, not expecting you to circle the team back in. He forgot their eyes and ears are on everything.
“Forty-five minutes.” She answers.
“Disappointing.” You whisper, it fans over his face.
“I’ll work on it.”
He leans down before you can pull another stunt, he presses a kiss to your brow.
-
Later Emily and Morgan come over under the guise of friends bringing a housewarming gift. They welcome them both in and accept the wine with hugs. They gather together in the kitchen, everyone’s face all smiles but Emily’s tone tells another story.
“I think we’ve got to work on being what the unsub is looking for.” She reminds, “You both need to work on being closer. Physically.”
Morgan nods, “She’s right. The profile says entitlement. Ownership. A guy who thinks he’s won.”
“You don’t protect, Y/n. You flaunt her.”
Hotch’s jaw tightens, “That’s not-”
“That’s the role,” She cuts in, “A man who would absolutely brag about locking down another wife half the age of the last one.”
Emily is exaggerating obviously, but she makes her point clear.
“I’m good, Hotch.” You smile, wrapping your hand around his arm and pulling him closer, “I’m not fragile.”
He exhales slowly. Once. Controlled.
“Understood.”
The shift is nearly immediate. You can feel it. He changes how he stands. How close he is. How his hand settles on your waist when you pass him in the kitchen. Unapologetic.
An arm draped over her shoulder as they sit on the front porch enjoying the summer night, the sky beginning to darken. Morgan and Emily left a little bit ago, leaving them alone again. This time you claim each other's space.
A neighbor you haven’t met jogs by on a late run, waving to them as she passes. Linda’s husband takes out the trash, putting it at the end of their driveway. A group of kids pass through on their bikes, loud yells and laughter.
Lots of activity in this neighborhood. Lots of eyes. You and Hotch are putting yourselves in full view.
“You good?” You ask quietly.
“Yes,” He answers, “Are you?”
You study him, “I’ve played worse roles than this.”
His mouth tightens, “That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No, but it gets the job done.”
You reach up to card your hands through his hair. Running along the side, pushing it back.
“Uhh, guys?” Garcia chimes in the earpiece. You both keep faces neutral.
“One of the exterior cameras just changed angles.”
You still. Hotch does too. You’re not sure you would be able to tell if you weren’t practically in his lap right now.
Inside the van, Rossi leans closer to the screen. “Did we do that?”
Garcia typing away furiously.
“No. And the system didn’t flag it either.”
Emily frowns, “Can someone access it remotely?”
Garcia hesitates before answering.
“If they had administration credentials they would have remote access.”
“So, the unsub is watching right now?” You ask, eyes still on Aaron.
“I would assume so since he adjusted the exterior to include you both in frame.”
“Let’s give him a show.”
You want to pull Aaron to you, but you know he needs to push this. He is the pursuer. Your hand is still in his hair when he leans down to connect your lips again. You don’t give him the chance to cut it short, leaning into him.
He opens his mouth wider to deepen the kiss, you sit up against him. Throwing one leg over his lap, practically indecent for the front yard.
“Take me to bed.” Your words are pressed against his lips.
Hotch stiffens under you for a second. His eyes wide, before you give a small nod. He picks you up from his lap, carrying you into the house. You let him set you down and pull him up the stairs by the collar of his shirt. Still full of smiles and teasing. Aaron corners you against a wall in the hallway, pressing hot kisses down your neck.
You push back from him, taking his hand and pulling him into the bedroom and shut the door. The second the door shuts, you both let go, but are still out of breath. Hotch paces a few feet away from you. The bedroom is one of the few places they didn’t put a camera.
“Garcia, did any other angles in the house change? Any interior cameras?” Your voice sounds a lot more calm and clear than you feel.
“Um,” She clears her throat, obviously still reeling from everything she just witnessed. “Uh-I-uh it looks like he has. The hallway is angled more in the bedroom than it was when it was installed. I think I can see if he’s watching.”
There’s a long pause while she works before she comes back on, “Wait, yes! He’s online. He’s still active on the hall camera. I’m guessing he’s waiting for the afterparty.”
Emily nods, “He’s watching for something. He wants to know if they fit his needs.”
Inside, the performance continues. You mess up your hair, Hotch’s to be fair already was. You change out of the clothes you had on before and opt for just one of Aaron’s law t-shirts. It feels right. Puts a little pressure on that authority insecurity.
“Is he still watching?” You ask Garcia.
“Mhm.”
You open the door and casually skip down the stairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. You're still flushed from the couch make out. Didn't have to fake that.
“Babygirl, you’re a genius.” Morgan claps.
It only needs to give the illusion they need. Just enough to piss him off.
-
You made brownies for the block party. Aaron had to run out to the store, leaving an opening for the unsub to approach as well. They don’t know his true patterns and if he’s confident enough to approach them both at once.
All morning there is activity out in the street. People are setting up tables, music, and food. It looks like they don’t do anything small here in Coyote Springs. You picked out the perfect summer sun dress, and curled your hair and leaving it down simply. It’s short enough to put your legs on display.
“Safe choice,” Hotch nods, looking at the tray covered in foil.
Safe to comment on the food, not the dress.
You smile up at him, “People trust baked goods.”
He opens the door for you both to walk out, and it’s already full. The party is already in full swing. People everywhere. Children running around. The smell of the grill takes over.
Too many faces.
You immediately feel your posture sag a little trying to keep track of everyone’s expressions while walking through. You keep one hand on the tray and the other curled possessively around Aaron’s bicep. You let him guide you around, introducing yourselves.
He leans down to press the occasional kiss to your lips, temple, brow. Anything to hear your low laugh. You both look inseparable.
From the street, it’s enviable.
From the cameras, he’s raging.
“We’ve got a lot of eyes.” Garcia says into the earpiece.
JJ watches over the crowd, “He’s here. He wouldn’t pass up this opportunity.”
You move slowly. Deliberately. Introductions begin to blur. Retirees, young families, couples who’ve lived here twenty years. Kids continue to race around playing. Teens hang back in groups, too cool to really participate. You laugh easily, leaning into Hotch. You even let him speak over you once or twice.
You both stop near Linda, who is holding court beside the grill and a whole table of food.
“Oh! You made it,” Linda says brightly. “And you brought something.”
“Brownies,” You smile. “I hope that’s okay.”
Linda takes the tray. “Oh, people will love you.”
Her gaze flicks to Hotch. “You’re a lucky man.”
Hotch smiles wide, proud, exactly the wrong way.
“I know,” he says. “I really do.”
The reaction is instant. Not from Linda.
From just behind her.
A boy, sixteen maybe seventeen goes still.
Too still.
You can feel pressure between your shoulder blades. Hotch squeezes your hand, he saw it too.
“Oh, where are my manners!” Linda sighs, “Meet my family. This is my husband Bill, and my son Matthew.”
She then turns where the other boy still watches.
“And this is my sister Sharon and her son Toby. They live just a couple streets down.”
Toby is tall, a little lanky. He wears a black hoodie despite the heat. He stands half in the shadow of a tree, his eyes won’t meet yours. Instead they’re on Hotch. Specifically where his hand is glued to your hip possessively. You shift closer and his grip bruises, Toby’s jaw tightens.
You turn to speak over Aaron’s shoulder so they won’t notice what you ask Garcia.
“Garcia, what do we know on Sharon and her son?”
There’s a pause. You turn back your attention to Linda and Sharon, waiting for her chipper voice to come on the earpiece.
“Let me see what I can find!” She eagerly begins typing. They had to move the surveillance van a couple streets down for the block party. It would be curious for them to be parked there with all the homeowners having a party together.
You keep smiling and turn your attention to Sharon and her son who hovers behind.
“So, how long have you guys lived here?”
“All of his life.” Sharon answers, smiling softly at him.
“Must be hard,” You reply gently, “watching things change. New people are moving in, although I hope we’re welcomed!”
Everyone laughs at your comment, except for Toby. His gaze has yet to leave Hotch’s touch.
Sharp. Hurt. Furious.
Hotch squeezes a warning.
His eyes flick up to your face for the first time.
You excuse yourself from the group to refill both of your drinks. When you return, you immediately slide onto Hotch’s lap. You dive back into conversation totally unphased, but in your peripheral you can see Toby’s hands clenching.
Hotch makes sure to brag about his job, about you, about how good his life is now. Toby is locked in with his full attention. Every laugh from you is a needle. Every kiss gasoline. Building.
“I’ve got something juicy,” Garcia jumps back in, “Sharon was just divorced from Toby’s father last March. They had been married for twenty-two years, but he moved out and left. And then six weeks ago it looks like he was re-married.”
“Right when the killings started.” Emily reminds.
“It get better-or worse, I don’t know which is-what way it-”
“Garcia.”
“He has been teaching the girls college soccer team almost as long as they were married. His new wife? She just graduated from the team last year. Can you spell slimy?”
Garcia gags over the earpiece nearly making you wince and yank it out of your ear.
“She’s twenty-four, he’s fourty-nine.”
Bingo.
You turn to look over Hotch’s shoulder to see Toby’s expression, only to find him missing. Linda’s son is gone now too.
“Does anyone have eyes on him?”
No answer.
You both thank people as you’re saying goodbye. Smiles. Keep the act flawless.
The house feels wrong the second your foot crosses the threshold. Hotch’s hand moves instinctively toward his weapon and stops. Static takes over the earpiece.
-
Back in the surveillance van, the team waits anxiously. Re-watching footage to see if they can spot him disappearing. Eerie silence from the couple undercover. Garcia watches the door shut and suddenly the screens turn to pixels, static playing over the speakers.
“What the hell is that?” Morgan yells.
“I don’t know! Something is blocking the signal.” Garcia types furiously.
“We’ve got to go in now.” Morgan grabs his vest and his gun.
“If he’s not with them, this will blow their cover. We’ll scare him away.” Rossi adds.
“It won’t matter if they’re dead. Toby is the unsub, I’m sure of it.”
-
Toby is standing in the living room, holding a gun he shouldn’t know how to handle. And it’s aimed right at you both. His hands are shaking. Your hand tightens around Aaron’s arm.
“Shut the door!” He yells, you both slowly step the rest of the way into the house and shut the door.
His face is pale, eyes wide, and breathing way too fast.
He raises the gun closer to them, “Upstairs. Now.”
Hotch manages to keep himself placed between you and the gun as he follows you both to the bedroom. Every step is deliberate, intentionally trying to put you in the least amount of harm.
“On your knees.”
Neither of them hesitates. Neither of you tries to reach for your weapon. Yet.
Hotch’s shoulders brush with yours. Toby paces in front of you, waving the gun wildly in their direction the entire time.
“You think you’re better than everyone!” He yells, “You think it’s okay to take whatever you want.”
You tilt your head slightly, “What did he take from you?”
You try to remind that Hotch is not his father, although with the anger in his eyes you’re not sure he can tell. His pacing stutters.
“You watch people like us?” You continue, “You think you’re correcting something?”
“Correcting what he’s taking!” He jabs the gun at Hotch’s chest. You feel the air get knocked out of your lungs.
“Correcting my theft of youth?”
Your words from the beginning of the case now echo with Hotch’s voice. Toby freezes.
“That’s what he did,” Toby’s voice growing hoarse, “He took her youth. He took our family and replaced it with something younger. Easier.”
Hotch swallows when Toby turns his focus onto you. He lets the barrel of the gun slide across your collarbone.
“It’s despicable. This is the same thing.” He gestures between you two.
You hold his gaze, “I chose him. He didn’t take anything from me.”
Your voice softens, “And I don’t regret it.”
The truth in your voice is unmistakable. Hotch feels it like a shockwave. An earthquake.
“You don’t want to kill us.” You voice gentle, calming the room, “You want someone to admit what happened to you was wrong. That it was fucked up.”
Toby’s hands shake more, his eyes fill.
“He didn’t even talk to me about it. He just moved out.”
You nod, “Don’t you want it to stop hurting?”
His head bobs.
“Then put the gun down.”
He hesitates.
Hotch keeps his voice low and steady. Using his dad voice, “You’re not a monster. You’re a kid that got left behind.”
The gun lowers. Just enough. You reach forward and take the gun from his grasp and pass it back to Hotch immediately. You kneel beside him while he cries. Morgan breaks through the door, armed and ready.
“It’s okay, we’re all safe now.”
Red and blue lights take over the room flashing in from the window. Morgan takes Toby down to the cars to bring him into the station. An ambulance. Police. Statements. Protocols.
-
The team gathers in the living room to discuss everything that just unfolded and establishing a time to meet at the jet.
“Sharon works for CPI Security. That’s how Toby was able to access the homes and the cameras. He was using her devices.” Garcia explains their total blackout on seeing and hearing them. Toby was smarter than they had thought. That’s how he was without a trace. The team gives them a couple looks, quiet comments about their act while they try to wrap things up.
“Enough!” You shout, “I would like to shower and then get on a plane and go home! Is that too much to ask for?”
“No ma’am!”
“We’re going!”
“Okay, okay!”
Rossi leaves to go get one of the SUVS so they can head to the airport. It would be a late night flight home. You and Aaron are left with a few officers downstairs taking pictures and taking statements while you both pack up your belongings.
“Well, I suppose I will have to give this back to evidence.” You sigh, holding up the rock on your ring finger to the light with a chuckle.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’ll take some getting used to. You’ll feel lighter.”
You roll your eyes, putting your toiletries away, looking at him in the mirror.
Leaning your hip against the counter you look up at him, soft now and unguarded. “You were very convincing. You stepped it up.”
He matches your lean, a step closer.
“You were extraordinary from the beginning.”
The smile on your face shifts into something real, “You used my words back there.”
“I know.” He says, “I know what they mean to you.”
A beat passes. You swallow, his eyes follow down your throat. One he has kissed numerous times now.
“Do you regret it?” he asks.
You shake your head without hesitation, “Not even a little.”
Hotch reaches out, slowly. Deliberate. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is warm. Bare. Uncharacteristically gentle.
“Neither do I.”
-
The jet hums as it cuts through the dark sky. Hotch sits at the table with a file open in front of him that he is definitely not reading. You took the same seat across from him as usual. Emily and Rossi join the table, Morgan and Garcia sit on the couch facing them with wide grins.
For the first six minutes of the flight, no one says a thing.
“So,” Morgan starts far too casually, “We gonna talk about the kissing, or are we pretending none of that ever happened?”
You close your eyes.
Hotch exhales through his nose.
JJ doesn’t even look up from her tablet, “I witnessed at least nine when I was on cams.”
Garcia gasps, “I’ve got so many screenshots-
“Garcia.” Hotch warns.
You groan, “Oh my god.”
Rossi smiles into his coffee, “You know, I’ve been undercover a lot. But I’ve never seen Hotch commit like that.”
Morgan grins, “My boss went from ‘don’t touch me’ to ‘this is my wife, don’t even breathe in her direction’ in twenty-four hours.”
Hotch clears his throat, “Focus.”
“Sir,” Emily smiles, “You grabbed her waist every time someone looked at her for more than two seconds.”
“That was tactical.”
You snort loudly before you can even stop it.
Morgan points immediately, “See! She knew it!”
Garcia’s cuts in, “And can we discuss the wardrobe?”
You straighten in your seat, “Garcia-”
“The bikini,” She barrels on, “The sundress. The backless sundress. The way you were charming everyone and-”
“Garcia!” You say both mortified and laughing.
JJ smiles, “To be fair, it worked. He didn’t stand a chance.”
“Hotch or Toby?” Rossi asks with a jab.
Hotch’s ears turn red.
“Well, technically Y/n is closer in age to Toby than she is to Hotch.” Reid interjects.
“Please, don’t ever remind me of that again.” You shake your head, a sour look on your face.
“I would also not like to be reminded of that.” Hotch agrees.
Rossi raises his brow still looking at Hotch.
“It was part of the profile.” He reminds.
Impossibly so, Rossi’s brow aims higher at Aaron’s answer, “You told three different men you were ‘very lucky’ and ‘not stupid enough to mess this up’.”
Silence.
Your lips twitch with a smile as you look over to him, “You did?”
His jaw tightens, “That… may have come up.”
Morgan outright laughs, “Boss, you were bragging.”
You cover your face with one hand, “I can never show my face in Arizona again.”
“You absolutely can,” Emily disagrees, “You own that cul-de-sac now. Whatever you two were doing, it sold and it worked.”
Reid nods, “Yeah, no notes. Except, next time? I want hazard pay for having to watch all that.”
"Me on the other hand, " Garcia grins wickedly, "I saved it all!"
“You’re welcome, you pervs!”
You toss a harmless handful of plane popcorn at them, rolling your eyes. There’s an unguarded and warm smile on your face that makes Hotch shake his head watching it all unfold.
Hours later it’s early morning on the east coast when they finally land on the tarmac.
“Debrief tomorrow at 9AM.” Hotch says, “Get some rest.”
The team disperses, still chuckling and yawning as they walk to their cars. The cabin is quiet as you lean back in your seat while Hotch packs up his briefcase.
“You think any of them bought it?” You ask, a soft smile on your face. Honest and open.
He flashes you his rare smile. The one usually saved for you and Jack on the weekends.
“Probably not.”
extra of the team finding out here!
an// all too aware of the fact that it’s been almost two years since i’ve written for Hotch, but I am obsessed all over again i fear. i had so much fun writing for him again!
Hellooo, i hope i'm not too late to make a request, i don't have many ideas, but how about Sevika fucking reader a little too rough and having to pass ointment on her afterwards?
content : sevika is described to have both arms, post sex care, smoking, oil/ointment massage
Yeah, Sevika was a rough fuck. She didn’t exactly know how to take it easy. You didn’t mind. You loved the way she fucked.
Except some days she left you more sore than the others and today was exactly like that. Your body throbbed with the ache, and you couldn’t move no matter how much you tried. The lights were on now and Sevika was lighting a cigar as she stared at nothing in particular.
You leaned closer, a tired smile on your face.
“My body hurts so bad,” you complained.
Sevika turned to you, a little furrow forming between her brows, “since how long?”
“Since we’ve done the deed,” you answered truthfully, not accusatory.
Without a word, Sevika got up from the bed and walked over to the closet.
Your eyes followed, and you asked, “what are you doing?”
She didn’t answer and retrieved a tiny little bottle from inside. You stared, watching as she uncapped it and poured some sort of an ointment on two of her thick fingers. She rubbed it on both hands, warming it up.
Sevika gestured you to lay down on the mattress on your back, and you obeyed.
“What are you doing?” You asked.
“Giving you a massage,” Sevika simply said, cigar resting on the corner of her lip as she leaned down, “just relax for me.”
“O-okay…”
You let your tense body relax, breathing slowly as Sevika worked her hands on your body. She was gentle, rubbing and massaging your body gently as she watched you with the softest gaze ever.
Her fingers pressed around the knots of tense muscles, easing the tension away with her expert fingers. Her hands lingered in places that ached the most as if she just knew how you felt without you needing to word it out.
“That’s it, my sweetness.” Sevika smiled a little, mumbling while her lips still held the cigar.
Once she was done, she moved back and blew the smoke out through her nose before she helped you sit up with your back against the headboard of the bed.
“Thank you, baby,” you pulled the blankets around your shoulders, “can we go for a bath after you’re done with that?”
Sevika nodded, “of course, baby. That’s a must.”
You giggled, tugging her closer, “you always take care of me.”
“Shouldn’t be fucking you if I can’t take care of you after.”
a short something? idk sevikas the only character i can write for rn sorry chat. this is also a draft that i scrapped and came back to so if it sucks myyyy bad.
Lowkey quiet grumpy!sevika x lovey-shy! reader
warnings(?): mention of a Blunt and smoking?!. all fluff. wlw intended. Use of she/her for reader.
- Sevika likes to be soft and touchy.
You were sat facing Sevika, straddling her abs. Both of you in for the night. Which was a rarity given how Sevika was always out working. She was sat up against the bed frame, her toned body, warm underneath your thighs, and it made your head slightly dizzy. That or it was because of the blunt between her fingers.
“Vika stop looking at me like that” your voice came out soft as you zoned back in and realized she had been looking at you with the upmost softest of looks. Which was reserved only for you. Though Sevika would never admit that.
She grumbled before moving the blunt towards your mouth. Watching carefully as your lips touched it and inhaled the smoke in. You blew it out in her face like she’d done to you many times, her reaction making you giggle, and she grunted in response.
Sevikas flesh hand moving to rub the fat on your thigh. Her metal fingers holding the blunt up and ready for her to hit it. that grumpy scowl stayed stuck to those plump lips of hers. Still swollen from all kissing you just got done doing. “You know they say it’s a sin to look this pretty”
Sevikas gruff voice made your skin feel hot. Her lips twitching into that smirk she was always wearing. Watching as your face flushed. She thought you were so cute, shy, all just for her. “Come on pretty girl don’t get so shy now”
You huffed out in response. Your eyes catching her soft ones. Though, there was a glint of something swirling inside of them, but you chose not to comment on that. “Sev why are you sweet talkin’ me?” Your voice soft yet humorous. You didn’t do too well with such compliments as they either made you awkward or shy, and with Sevika they always made you shy.
She shook her head, letting out a gravely chuckle, and moved to hit her blunt once more. Watching your face as she did so. There was something so hot about the way Sevika smoked, you couldn’t tell if it was because of Sevikas low eyes, or maybe the way her hands were always on you when she smoked, or because she was staring right into your eyes as she did it. Didn’t matter it all made your skin feel hot.
“I can’t compliment my girl now? Wow” her voice feigned innocence. She knew exactly what she was doing. But she was too good at it so you could never be that mad at her.
“Sevika now you know damn well-“ your voice was cut off as her flesh hand found your throat. Gently bringing you down to her lips. Kissing you deeply, roughly, but sweet all at once.
“Shut up” Sevikas voice was muffled, letting both of you catch your breath before going back in, kissing you harder.
Okay lmk how I did. This is my first actual fic and I’m very proud of it!! Also this is my first time trying to make it pretty looking so lmk how I did- I’ve reread this like 3 times and I feel like it sounds like butt free me bro
Sevika gives reader some money to go buy a thing she needs and says "you can bring something you want too." but reader is autistic as fuck and takes that too literally. When reader returns, she starts to place the stuff on the table, and everything is normal, until reader pulls a fucking puppy out of the bag
Sevika should’ve known never to just give you money and let you be with it but you genuinely didn’t know what to do with so much money when she did hand you a fat wad of cash.
See, it was always fun being outside with CEO!Sevika but sometimes she did overwhelming things like this.
You stood in the middle of the store as she waved vaguely with one hand indicating that you had the free will of getting whatever while she was going to go handle some business. She nodded to the car waiting outside, and tilted her head in question— “okay?”
And you nodded.
She walked off.
Now you were standing in the middle of a store a little too expensive with a wad of cash that your girlfriend had just given you for shopping.
You sighed and kept walking, wondering what to do with the money. It wasn’t that you were confused— okay maybe you were— but that’s because you couldn’t decide what to buy since you could practically buy anything now.
-
You walked back in the lavish penthouse quietly, hands holding your bag tight but carefully as if you were guarding something very precious in it— which you were.
“Where were you?” Sevika asked, voice light, not interrogative as she watched the lights of the cityscape through one of the ceiling-high windows.
You gulped, “sorry, am I too late?”
Sevika laughed softly, “I’m not your mother,” she paused, surveying you with her relaxed grey eyes.
Then she saw your bag move. Her eyebrows furrowed. “What’s that..?”
“Oh,” you looked down, opening it and bringing out a puppy.
Sevika stared at it— brain completely blanking as she stepped closer. The puppy tilted its head, staring back at her intently as if trying to charm her.
Sevika opened her mouth, then closed it again. “You bought a dog…”
You nodded. “She’s so cute, isn’t she?”
“She’s tiny.”
The puppy squirmed, tail thumping harder, clearly enchanted by the tall woman with the scary voice. Sevika looked down at it again. The puppy looked up at her.
You answered. “She’s a baby.”
“Why is it staring at me like that?”
“She likes you.”
The puppy sneezed.
Sevika swore her heart just melted and without a second thought she took the little creature from your arms, cradling it as if it were something of endless value and precious.
“We’re keeping her,” Sevika said, tone final and concluding
You laughed softly, smiling.
The puppy reached up and licked Sevika’s chin, staring up at her expectedly. Sevika scratched the back of its little ears, a fond look in her eyes.
“She’s our little baby now.” Sevika said, and you couldn’t help feeling your heart warm over.
has anyone else noticed the amount of AI images used within fanfictions recently, it breaks my heart every time, keep the damn AI out of fanfiction pleaasse. It's literally the only space left on the damn web not infected.
summary: you're forced to share a hotel room with your boss, gasp! based on this request!
warnings: smut!!! unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), lots of sex jokes, at least 4k words of build up and sexual tension because i was #ovulating, strip poker, hotch almost jizzes in his pants at the sight of your boobs, this fic is baso me spreading the pathetic!hotch agenda, like he’s so desperate and touch starved in this it’s not even funnyyy, overstimulation, creampie, alcohol consumption, r has hair long enough to tug
wc: 8.7k
✰ masterlist
You taste metal before you realise you’ve bitten too far. A stinging telegram from skin you’ve been gnawing at since you got into the car. It’s a habit you never quite managed to break, surrendering crescents of yourself to restless teeth.
“Quit that,” Hotch says, cutting you a quick sideways glance. It’s meant to be a reprimand, but there’s no real bite in it, only the bite of your own teeth on your nails.
You drop your hands into your lap like a guilty child.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, making a turn onto the main road.
“You think I’m biting my nails because I’m hungry?”
“No. I know you only bite your nails when you’re overthinking. And I know you’re more inclined to talk when you’re not running on an empty stomach.”
You glance out the passenger window, taking notice of the rain that has thickened since you bolted to the car. The prison is already a smear in the rear-view mirror, tucked so far into nowhere it feels less like an institution and more like a secret earth is ashamed of. You imagine its architects deciding it should be placed where even guilt would have trouble finding it.
“There’s a diner about half an hour up the road,” he tries again. “Good coffee. Bad pie.”
You consider it, and on any other night you’d say yes without thinking, like you’ve done countless times before. But you remember that tonight, you’re not heading home. You’re heading back to the hotel room you’re sharing with your boss. The same four beige walls that felt far too small last night.
You hadn’t realised that sharing a bed would also mean sharing melatonin. Though clearly Hotch got the better end of the deal, sleeping like a man immune to proximity-induced panic while you lay still, every muscle tense, your heart hammering as if trying to pound thoughts into words you had no business thinking.
“Can’t we make the drive back home tonight?” you ask, shifting to look at him. “I can drive most of the way if you want to doze off.”
“I think given the weather and your driving skills, that wouldn’t be a wise choice.”
“What’s wrong with my driving skills?”
“You once reversed into a mailbox.”
You scoff. “You weren’t even in the car when that happened.”
“No,” he says, unbothered, “but I did have to file the vehicle incident report explaining why the Bureau SUV suddenly had a dent in the rear bumper.”
You glance out again and he’s right. Sheets of rain blur the road, the wipers swiping furiously just to keep a sliver of the world in view. You’d sooner chew down a mouthful of nails than attempt to drive in this, and considering Hotch handled the entire drive here and carried most of the interview, it hardly seems fair to pester him to slog through another four hours just so you can sleep in your own bed.
“You did well,” he offers obligingly, and you know he’s trying to patch up your bruised ego.
You hadn’t imagined your last few days with the BAU would involve revisiting what was meant to be a closed case. But new evidence had surfaced, linking back to one of your consults which, after this week, wouldn’t even be yours anymore. It would probably be passed on to JJ or Morgan, but you’d insisted on coming, unwilling to leave loose ends behind.
That insistence had landed you on a two-day trip with Hotch accompanied by a night in a cheap, overbooked hotel, one bed, a sleepless night yesterday, and the creeping dread of repeating it again tonight.
“You’re lying. I barely got him to talk.”
“You did more than you realise. We managed to get a name.”
We. You turn your head and catch the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “You managed to get a name,” you correct.
His shoulders lift in a slight shrug, eyes still on the road. “It was a team effort.”
“Well, I suppose it's not really going to be my problem anymore after this week.” You exhale, resting your temple against the cold glass.
“Do you need me to stop anywhere before the hotel?”
“Yes, actually.” You turn towards him with a half-smile, because if you’re going to be forced to share the covers with Hotch again, you’re not doing it sober. “Pretty sure there’s a gas station off the next exit, if you wouldn’t mind?”
He nods, and you go back to overthinking the bane of your existence until Hotch finally pulls into the saddest-looking gas station you’ve ever seen.
“Do you need anything?” you ask, unclipping your seatbelt and letting it snap back harder than necessary, purely because you know it irritates him.
His jaw tics. “You can take it off without assaulting the mechanism, you know.”
“So nothing, then?”
“Coffee. If they have it.”
“Sure.” You pause, then grin at him. “I’ll get you a drink.”
You’re out of the car before he can clarify that he meant just coffee. The cold air immediately slides under your coat, no matter how tightly you pull it around yourself. The rain’s turned into that annoying misty kind—so light it shouldn’t count, but somehow it still sticks to your hair and makes you feel damp and miserable. You jog the last few steps to the door.
Inside, it smells vaguely of lemon cleaning wipes, which is funny, because absolutely nothing in here looks like it’s been cleaned. You don’t bother searching for the coffee machine since technically, you’re not taking orders from your Unit Chief anymore.
You make a beeline for the back fridges instead.
Rows of cheap wine stare back at you—the kind that would give Rossi a heart attack. You pick the worst looking bottle out of pure spite, already planning on texting him a picture just to ruin his evening. Then, for insurance, you grab a few miniature bottles of whiskey. On your way to the till, you snatch a bag of popcorn. The sweet kind.
Once you’ve paid, you head back to the car. Hotch reaches across to push the door open for you, and you slide in. The bag clinks in your hands, immediately giving away your intentions—something he’s clearly clocked, judging by the look he gives you.
“Sorry. The coffee machine was broken, so I got wine instead. Or whisky. Whatever floats your boat on this fine night.”
“Please tell me there's at least water in there.”
You reach into the bag and pull out a bottle, dropping it into the cup holder between you. “Have a little faith.”
He shakes his head in that disappointed-dad way he’s perfected over the years and shifts the car back into drive. The wipers groan across the windshield, and you take the moment to pull the questionable wine out of the bag to send a picture to Rossi.
You get a reply just as Hotch is turning into the hotel’s car park.
Rossi: Is this a cry for help? Tell me that’s not going in your body. 💀🍷
You leave him on read, taking your clinking bottles with you as you follow Hotch out of the car and into the building. The two of you are quiet as you watch him fumble with the key to your room. Yes—key, not card, because it’s that ancient. Yet, for a man who can dismantle a Glock blindfolded, he still manages to miss the hole twice.
“Any time today would be nice.”
He exhales through his nose, slotting the key in on the third try. “You could always help.”
“Sure. Usually you just line it up and get it in the hole. Works for me most of the time.”
He goes still for half a second. Then, without looking at you, “You know there are moments I genuinely regret encouraging you to speak.”
The lock finally clicks and he pushes the door open for you.
“Would you look at that,” you say as you brush past him, “you can find the spot.”
The room is exactly as small as you remember, and somehow the freshly made bed almost makes it look worse. Hotch had made it this morning while you were brushing your teeth, tighter and straighter than housekeeping ever could. Pillows fluffed and aligned, corners tucked. True military craftsmanship from a meticulous dork.
A meticulous dork who is now taking off his jacket and folding it neatly over his go-bag and suddenly—though not surprisingly—your eyes are glued to the way his white shirt pulls across his shoulders.
You rip your gaze away and begin unpacking your haul.
“You want the shower first?” he asks, and you glance at him, pretending it’s the first time you’ve looked at him since walking in.
“Nope. I want alcohol.”
He shakes his head, grabs his toiletry bag, and disappears into the tiny bathroom.
You’re about to enjoy the way this glorified paint thinner will probably strip your taste buds, when you realise there’s a slight problem. It’s a corked bottle and not a twist-off. You try using your nails to get it open, and then your sheer willpower.
Unfortunately it does not respond to either.
You give it one more useless tug before raising your voice.
“Hotch?”
Water is running. He does not answer.
You try again, louder. “Hotch!”
“What?” he calls through the door, voice muffled.
“Are you decent?”
There’s the faintest pause—long enough for you to smile to yourself because you can’t help but imagine him…not decent.
“Yes,” he says cautiously. “Why?”
“I need help.”
“With what?”
“Alcohol-related emergency.”
You hear him sigh, followed by the water shutting off. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opens and he steps out, with only his belt missing. Interesting. He’s a belt off first kind of guy.
He looks at the bottle, then at you. “You bought wine without a corkscrew.”
You hold it out to him. “Let me take this as a moment to remind you that I never handed paperwork in late, never took a sick day, never complained about overtime. I was, arguably, the model team member. This is the least you can do to show appreciation.”
He doesn’t argue. Just takes the bottle from your hands and sits on the edge of the bed with it.
Legs spread. Grey slacks pulling just slightly at the seams. Broad thighs taking up most of the mattress. He settles the bottle between them, and you do your absolute best to focus on the glass instead of the fabric creasing over muscle and the very distracting proximity of…everything else.
He braces the bottle with one hand around the base and you forget how to form actual sentences. With his other hand, he uses his thumb to push the cork down into the bottle, veins flexing with each movement.
The cork gives a soft, breathy sound as it starts to sink into the neck of the bottle, and you’re just standing there—useless, wine thirsty, and uncomfortably aware of the fact that this should not be as attractive as it is.
He pulls his hand back as soon as the cork pops and sinks into the bottle, wiping his thumb absently against his thigh and you’re pretty much drooling at the sight, while he looks up at you, unfazed.
“Happy now?”
“Mhm. Ecstatic. Guess you’ve got just as much trouble pulling out as you do finding the hole.”
“You know I can request to have you transferred earlier than Friday.”
“Go ahead,” you say, scanning the room for glasses. “Knock yourself out.” There are none. No glasses. No mugs. Not even a questionable plastic cup.
“You want to take your wine so I can go shower?” he asks flatly.
“You’re not joining me?”
His eyes shift between you and the bottle. “How much was this?”
“Four ninety-nine.” You scrunch your nose as he brings it to his face and smells it. “Come on, you have to toast me. Rossi denied me a leaving party because apparently switching departments doesn't count as officially leaving.”
He lets out a slow breath. “You want a toast?”
“Yes.” You nod. “Or you could list your top five things about working with me. Or both. I have time.”
“Fine,” he resigns, moving along the edge of the bed to make space for you. “One toast.”
You grin as you drop down beside him, your knees touching. You watch as he brings the bottle closer to his lips and mulls over what to say.
“To the fact you never did anything halfway,” he says earnestly and it catches you off guard. You were fully expecting something sarcastic like to the number of sex jokes you made on federal payroll. “Cases, paperwork, people,” he continues. “You were all in. Always.”
And then he tilts the bottle back. You shouldn’t stare, but you do. The way his mouth wraps around the glass, the slow swallow, the faint scrunch of his brows as the taste hits. He pulls it away with a barely-supressed grimace.
“That’s awful,” he scoffs, handing it to you.
Your fingers brush when you take it, and you can’t help but wonder if his thumb still tastes like wine. You lift the bottle, deliberately pressing your mouth to the exact spot his lips just were, and you catch the way his eyes flick down to follow the movement before meeting yours again.
You take a swig, more than you should because it burns. “God—that’s fucking vile.”
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Told you.”
“Now you have to help me finish it. Otherwise I’ll die, and you’ll have to do the paperwork.”
“That’s manipulative.”
You shrug. “Is it? Thought extra paperwork would be your kind of foreplay.”
His lips twitch, and you almost catch the smile he’s trying so hard to suppress it’s making him look constipated. “You have a foul mouth,” he mutters, taking the bottle back and bringing it to his lips.
“Is that the first of the five things you like about me?”
He pauses mid-sip, lowers the bottle just enough to give you that painfully patient stare. “We are not making a list.”
“So that’s a yes?”
He takes another swig, getting him out of answering. When he hands the bottle back, you notice his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, despite you having a firm hold on it.
“Fine. No list. I’ll just assume it’s implied.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“It really isn’t.”
You roll your eyes, taking two big gulps that almost make your eyes water.
The back and forth continues until the bottle is completely empty, along with the mini bottles of whiskey you picked up. The popcorn is gone too, aside from the sad trail of it now crushed into the hotel carpet from your failed attempt to open the bag like a normal person.
At some point, sitting upright stopped being doable. Your backs protested, your vision began to blur at the edges, and now the two of you were lying on top of the covers, side by side, legs still hanging off the edge of the bed.
“Are you still beating yourself up about earlier?” he asks, voice softer than it was before the cheap alcohol.
“A little,” you admit with a sigh. “I wanted to do one last thing before leaving. Not hand it back to you unfinished.”
“You softened him up. Made him think he was in control. It might not seem like much, but it helped.”
You huff and push yourself up onto your elbow, turning to face him. His eyes are a little glassy, and for once he looks relaxed. “Bet you’re going to miss using me as bait.”
He shifts his head to glance at you. “You’re only moving two floors down.”
“And what if my new boss doesn’t like to share?”
“You were always mine first,” he says it so casually, you’re not entirely sure he’s processed his own wording.
“Yours?” you let out a laugh, eyebrows lifting.
“Ours,” he corrects, a vague flick of his hand. “The BAUs”
You’re fairly certain you like the sound of mine more. You look at him again, the alcohol throwing all discreetness out your system. He smiles back up at you in a way you don’t see often. His hair is all mussed, a thin layer of sweat making his skin glow.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, pushing up onto his elbow to mirror you.
You grin at him and he immediately regrets asking because he knows that look. He sighs and drops back onto the bed. “Never mind.”
“I think you need a shower.” You spare him your real thoughts.
“Thanks,” he mutters. “I don’t think I could even get my tie off right now.”
“Do you need a hand?”
He laughs quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I might.”
Sitting up takes more effort than it should. The room tilts a little when you move, but you manage to get onto your knees, wobbling and swaying, before Hotch reaches out and catches your wrist, stopping you from diving face first into his chest.
“What’re you doing?” he asks, just as you swing a knee over his hips and ungracefully settle in his lap.
“Helping you get your tie off because you need to shower.”
He goes rigid beneath you, hands hovering near your waist like he’s unsure if he has permission to rest them on you. “You’re on top of me.”
“We can do this standing if you prefer?”
His eyes close for half a second, like he’s silently begging for patience. “No. Just—”
You catch the speed of that no and can’t help but smile, settling yourself against him. “Okay,” you breathe, leaning in. “Hold still.”
You’ve never actually taken a tie off someone before. Definitely not while tipsy. Which is probably why it’s going so badly. You yank at the knot once… twice… and somehow make it worse. “Why is this thing so tight? Are you into autoerotic asphyxiation or something?”
His hands finally come to rest on your waist. “Please don’t ever say that sentence again.”
“Have we just unlocked a secret turn-on category? It’s fine, I’m very accepting.”
He lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It’s called a Windsor knot.”
“Well no wonder you’re so grumpy all the time—this Windsor knot is cutting off circulation to your brain.”
“You’re making it tighter,” he points out, voice sounding strained. He shifts, probably a poor attempt at comfort because all his movement does is press you directly against his groin.
Your fingers fumble with the fabric, because you’re too busy fighting the urge to move. To roll your hips. To test just how good the friction would feel. “Because you’re moving.”
“You’re on top of me.”
You tug at the fabric again. “I gave you the option to do this standing, didn’t I?”
His eyes shift to your lips, then slowly, he removes one hand from your waist. “Slide the narrow end through the loop,” he says, showing you.
Fuck. He’s talking you through it. And you’re pretty sure you could get off on his voice alone, but you will yourself to focus.
“No—other side.”
You follow his direction, fingers brushing his throat.
“Now loosen it,” he murmurs. His thumb presses lightly at the knot, guiding your hand. “Pull there.”
You do as you’re told, giving a gentle tug and the knot slides loosely apart. “Would you look at that! You’re tie-free.”
You give it another tug, slipping it from his collar so you can inspect it. What you thought was just a diamond print now, up close, looks suspiciously like two Gs. You gasp. “Oh my god. You really spent two hundred dollars on a Gucci tie just to choke yourself?”
His hands are back on your waist again. “It was on sale.”
“You could’ve asked me,” you say, looping it clumsily around your neck. “I would’ve done it for free.”
“You’re wearing it backwards.”
“Well,” you breathe, setting your hands on his chest, the warmth of him not doing you any favours, “you’re the expert in expensive silk strangulation. Fix it for me.”
He looks at you intently. His pupils are blown wide, dark as ink, and you can feel exactly how hard he is beneath you. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are. Probably not—not through those overpriced, perfectly tailored slacks clearly designed to prevent situations like this from becoming obvious.
He reaches for the tie, fingers brushing your ribs as he takes each end. The back of his knuckles grazes the thin fabric of your blouse as he lifts the silk to straighten it.
“You want it to lie like this,” he says softly. “Otherwise it twists.”
You don’t breathe. “Mhm.”
“Now it goes over and under…” His hands do exactly that, looping the fabric while all you can feel is the insistent throb between your thighs. The silk slides against you, his hands settling the knot at the top of your sternum, right between your breasts.
“You can pull the longer end through here,” he murmurs and takes a hold of your hands, guiding them with his. His thumb presses to the knot to adjust it, dragging it higher. “See? Not that hard.”
You tilt your hips forward. “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” you whisper, fingers moving to the top button of his shirt, undoing it. You watch his Adam's apple bob around a swallow. “Do you want to know what I was really thinking about earlier?” you ask, working the second button loose, his white undershirt peeking through.
You glance up at him, and his eyes are fixed on the point where you’re straddling the hard line of his cock. “You’re going to tell me either way, aren’t you?”
“Mm,” you hum, dragging your thumb down the column of his throat, just to feel the way he swallows again. “I don’t have to.”
“But you want to.” His hands are back on your hips, fingertips pressing into your skin through your blouse.
You shrug, wetting your bottom lip. “I was thinking…whether you’ve ever actually thought about sleeping with me.”
He stills briefly, like he remembers all the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing any of this, but also realises the two of you crossed that line half a bottle of wine ago. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
“Tonight doesn’t count. I mean before this. Have you thought about it?” There’s no shame in your voice, just curiosity.
His thumb slips beneath your blouse, making you roll your hips into him again. “Yes,” he grunts out.
“That’s it?”
“You asked a yes or no question.”
Your hand drifts lower, undoing another button on his shirt. “You could elaborate.”
“You really want me to do that right now?”
“Absolutely.” Your fingers pause, leaving his shirt half-open, and slide to the buttons of your own shirt. You toy with one absentmindedly. “Would it help if I took this off?”
His jaw flexes. He looks at your blouse. Then your mouth. Then your blouse again. “That’s not—” He cuts himself off, exhaling through his nose.
“How about this,” you offer with a smile, “every time you tell me when you’ve thought about it, I take off a piece of clothing. Seems fair, don’t you think?”
“And if I don’t want to partake in this game?”
“Then I get off your lap, put on my most conservative pyjamas, go to sleep, you shower, and we never speak of this again.” You really, really hope that’s not the option he picks. “The choice is yours. You tell me what you want to do.”
He goes quiet, thinking—though with how hard his cock is pressing against you, practically straining in those slacks, you’re not convinced he’s capable of coherent thought. You’re hardly better. You’re fucking soaked, and technically the two of you haven’t even done anything remotely obscene. But apparently sitting on your boss’s lap counts as the world’s most effective form of foreplay.
“Rossi’s birthday last year,” he reveals.
“I remember,” you nod and begin working your buttons down. “We stayed behind to help him clean up.”
“And you insisted on putting away the wine glasses—” He stops when your bra comes into view and swallows thickly before dragging his eyes to your face. “You climbed up onto the counter, almost fell and nearly shattered every glass in your hands.”
You laugh, shrugging your blouse off and tossing it on the floor so it can make friends with the popcorn crumbs. “I recall you having a pretty good view of my ass in the process.”
His eyes drop to the breasts spilling out your bra. “Not as good as the view I have now.”
“That’s one.” You toy with the strap of your bra. “Next.”
“The jet.”
You light up instantly. “This’ll be good.”
“We were coming back from Georgia and shared the sofa. You were lying on one end, I was sitting on the other.”
“Do continue.”
“You move a lot in your sleep,” he goes on, eyes fixed on your face, though you can feel the tension in his hands at your hips. “Kept shifting… sighing… dragging the blanket up and then kicking it off again. And with every move, your skirt rode a little higher. I stopped looking when I realised I wasn’t just making sure you were covered. I was… staring.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” you coo sweetly, before attempting to climb off his lap without falling off the bed. His brows pull together as he watches you stand at the edge of the mattress, propped up on his elbows.
There’s a dark patch on his groin, and you don’t know if it’s from you, or him, or both, but it makes your stomach twist, makes you want to end this game so you could finally feel him inside you.
But apparently you enjoy suffering—or making him suffer—especially when he’s looking up at you with his legs completely spread, those wide, helpless eyes and a face tinged pink. So you only smile, fingers sliding to the zipper of your trousers as you prompt innocently, “Did you like the tights I wore?”
“With the seam at the back,” he confirms just as you push the slacks down your thighs.
You hadn’t planned on playing strip—or confessional—poker with your Unit Chief, which is exactly why your underwear is nothing special. Plain grey cotton and embarrassingly damp. You freeze for only a second, then lift your chin like you meant for it to be this way.
“I don’t think I can keep going,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“You can’t last two more rounds?” you tease, kicking out of the fabric pooling at your ankles. “I won’t count the tie as clothing.”
His eyes drag over you like he’s in pain. “I mean if you keep this up for any longer, I’m going to finish in my pants like a teenager.”
You try very hard not to preen. “I’ll do you a deal,” you say, taking a slow step forward until you’re standing between his legs. “Make this one really good…” You lean in slightly, just enough for the tips of your fingers to brush his knee. “…and I’ll take everything off.”
He swallows.
“The last Christmas party.” His words come easily, like this specific memory had been on the edge of his mind for a while.
You nod. “You were my ride.”
“You had on that black dress with the slit up your thigh. You went upstairs to fix your lipstick and asked me to show you the bathroom.” He sits up, his hands coming to rest on the backs of your thighs. “And then your zipper conveniently decided to undo itself halfway down your spine.”
“That zip was very flimsy.”
“I put my hand on your back and you arched into it. Maybe you didn’t even realise you did it. But I did.” His thumb strokes idly against your skin, eyes half-lidded. “All I could think about was how easy it would’ve been to push that dress the rest of the way down… bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror.”
Heat pools low in your stomach. “And you didn’t.”
“You were tipsy and said you’d had too much champagne. So I zipped it back up and walked you downstairs.”
“Such a gentleman.” Your hands are already moving. You reach behind you, fingers brushing the clasp of your bra. “Well…a deal's a deal.” You take your time—partly on purpose, partly because your fingers are shaking the tiniest bit. The clasp gives, and you roll the straps lazily off your shoulders before letting fabric fall.
Hotch has gone completely still, the hands on your thighs frozen like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. The only thing moving are his eyes, dragging over your body so slowly it makes your skin burn. “You okay?”
His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip before he answers. “You know I’m not.”
“Will it make you feel better to do the honours?” Your hands cover his, guiding them up from your thighs to the waistband of your panties.
He looks up at you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this. Wrecked and glassy-eyed. He looks like someone who’d do anything you told him to. If they handed out awards for driving tightly wound, hyper-controlled men right to the edge of composure, you’re certain you’d win.
“Go on,” you whisper softly. “You’ve earned it.”
His fingers slip beneath the waistband and his touch is gentle as he starts easing the fabric down your hips. You glance down as he drags them lower, the inside of your underwear looking far worse than the outside. When you look back up, Hotch is already watching you, mouth curved into a crooked, boyish grin, validated that he’s not the only one soaking his undergarments.
You step out of them the moment they hit the floor.
Hotch’s hands are on you right away, sliding up the backs of your thighs until they settle at the curve of your ass, pulling you closer. He presses a wet kiss followed by a bite to your hip, your hands finding his shoulders to steady yourself.
“I want you on my tongue.”
“Yeah?”
He nods, laying back down and the room is tilting again. Whether from the cheap wine or the intoxication of him, you’re not sure. All you can do is follow, crawling up his body until your knees bracket his head. You don’t lower yourself down just yet.
He doesn’t touch you right away. Just…looks.
“You need instructions?” you tease, threading your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face.
The bastard only laughs, the warm puff of air against your inner thigh making your breath catch. Then he’s lifting his head, and all you can do is watch—lips parted, hand still tangled in his hair—as his tongue finally makes contact with your pussy, dragging a slow stripe up your centre that makes your hips twitch.
He pulls back with obscene patience, and you know exactly why, because a thin, pearly string of your wetness stretches from his mouth to you, and he has the audacity to look proud of it.
He watches the strand break and you barely have time to process what’s happening before he’s hauling you down until you’re sitting on his face. His mouth opens wider to taste more of you, his tongue flattening and dragging through you, like he’s been dying for this. He absolutely has.
“Fuck!” you choke out, yanking at his hair, only for him to groan in response. Your hips stumble forward and for a second, you fear for the man’s airway with the way you’re practically smothering him between your thighs, but you realise he’s the one that’s pulling you down against him.
“So sweet for me,” he thrums, voice buried. You feel more than hear it, a vibration of sound right where you’re most sensitive. Your thighs tremble around his ears as he licks a messy path up you, then dips lower, tongue slipping inside, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly.
A whimper spills out before you can bite it back. You rock into him without meaning to, pulse skittering like it’s trying to outrun your body, that familiar feeling already building too fast.
And that’s when he slows. Doesn’t completely stop, just changes the pace in a way that has you letting out a strangled noise.
“Really?” you pant, trying to catch your breath. “Is this your first time?” You lift yourself enough to look down at him.
“Ask me nicely.”
“What?”
His chin glistens and he looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. “You’re used to demanding things.” His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs. “I think it’s time you learnt to be polite.”
Asshole.
You let out a sharp breath, giving his hair a tug. “Please,” you bite out.
He smiles smugly, and then he’s lifting his head to suck your clit into his mouth. A whole parade of curses spill out of you—creative ones too, the kind you don’t even usually say out loud—tripping over each other so fast you barely recognise your own voice.
And then he pulls back. Again.
“Please what?”
Correction: he’s a vindictive asshole.
You see exactly what he’s doing. You recognise his pettiness exactly for what it is. You tormented him first, made him spell it out for you, and now he’s returning the favour. He’s a desperate, competitive perfectionist who insists on winning everything, even the art of sexual torture.
“Sadist,” you hiss.
“Mm.” He turns his head and sinks his teeth gently into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Now be specific.”
You give him a dry humourless smile. “Please make me come. First with your mouth and then with your cock.” You drag a thumb along his jaw tauntingly. “Is that specific enough for you?”
His mouth is back on you again in seconds. No easing in this time.
“Jesus—” you gasp, hands bracing on the mattress above his head for balance. The sheets bunch beneath your fingers, the material scratching against your palms.
You feel his tongue circle and suck, like he’s trying to gauge every possible sound out of you, catalogue every single nerve you possess. Your thighs tighten around his temples, the drag of his stubble scraping lightly against your skin.
He pulls you even lower, thumbs digging into your hips, like he wants to disappear into you entirely. The movement forces you down onto his tongue, and the wet, needy sounds he’s making against your cunt are so lewd, you swear you feel them echo behind your ribs.
“Hotch—fuck!”
He hums at the sound, and then his hands shift, big palms sliding up your back, adjusting your angle to give him better access.
“Okay—okay—slow down—” you whimper, even though your hips are doing the exact opposite.
“You asked nicely,” he mumbles into you.
Your laugh comes out breathless and shaky, your whole body tensing under the intensity of his tongue. “I didn’t think—ah—nicely would get me this.”
He answers without words, drawing a slow circle around your clit, and another moan tumbles out of you. You’re close. You can feel it in every part of you, in your thighs trembling around his ears, in the tight pull at the base of your spine.
You gasp, head tipping back. “I—I’m—”
“You can come,” he says headily, tugging you closer. “Go on.”
You tense and wither against him. “Say it,” you pant. “Say you want me to.”
“I want you to.”
Your body caves forward, thighs clamping his head as your orgasm pulls you under so fast you forget to breathe, forget to think, forget everything except the feeling of coming apart on his mouth, wishing you could bottle it forever.
It takes you a few minutes to come back to Earth. Earth being a cheap hotel room in the middle of nowhere.
The first thing you register is the way Hotch’s thumb strokes your hip, then the press of his mouth to the inside of your thigh, another kiss, then another. You manage to lift yourself, and he immediately helps you, guiding your waist tenderly, letting you settle over him in your dazed state.
“Hi,” you croak.
He raises a brow, amused. “Hi.”
“Your face is shiny.”
A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “That would be your fault.”
“I can help with that,” you murmur, leaning down and running your tongue along the line of his jaw, tasting yourself on his skin. Your mouth then grazes the corner of his lips, and that’s when you realise—this man has had his tongue inside you, yet…you don’t know what he tastes like. The two of you haven't actually kissed.
He must sense something is wrong, because his brows lift slightly, like he’s puzzled by the sudden stillness in your body. “What is it?”
You huff a tiny laugh, breath ghosting his cheek. “We haven’t even kissed.” You pull back, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping across his chin to clean the shine you left there.
“You want to?” he asks like it’s a reasonable question, like he didn’t just have his mouth on the most intimate part of your body minutes ago.
“Aaron, you just had me sitting on your face. What do you think?”
“Aaron,” he repeats.
“That’s your name isn’t it?”
“Mm.” His hands tighten at your waist. “Say it again.”
“Are you going to kiss me, Aaron?”
For a second, he just stares up at you, like you’ve asked him something sacrilegious, something he's wanted for so long he’s almost afraid it's not real. His hands slide up your bare waist, settling at your ribs, giving them a gentle squeeze.
“Come here.”
You meet him halfway.
His lips brush yours delicately, soft enough to make your stomach lurch in anticipation.
You pull back a fraction, just to see his face, and then you’re kissing him again, deeper, tasting something you’ve both been orbiting for years. His tongue slides against yours, the kiss swallowing the moan that slips out of you.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you breathe against his mouth, the words almost a whine.
“Which ones are bothering you?”
“All of them,” you answer, fingers blindly racing to undo the rest of his shirt. “Sit up.”
He obeys with little afterthought, pushing up on his elbows so you can shove the fabric off his shoulders. You don’t bother folding it neatly, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and you catch the tiny wince he tries (and fails) to hide.
“Arms up.” You grab the hem of his undershirt, tugging, and he sits up properly this time—bringing your bare, aching centre directly against the hard line of his cock.
The sound he lets out is a half-breath, half-groan at the contact. You don’t get the chance to tease him for it. You’re too busy hauling the undershirt over his head, and he has no choice but to help you strip it off. When it joins the rest of the discarded clothes, you press your hands to his shoulders, giving him a gentle push. He falls back without resistance, molten under your touch.
You lean down, placing a kiss under his jaw, then another just below it, relishing in the way his breath stutters each time your mouth lands on new skin. His chest is warm under your lips, rising and falling in a rhythm that’s embarrassingly close to a pant.
“Christ,” he mutters, and you grin against him, continuing to kiss your way down.
You press another kiss just above the waistband of his trousers, moving down to nudge the bulge beneath the fabric with the bridge of your nose. His reaction is instant. His hips twitch, hands shooting to your hair.
“Want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, glancing up at him through your lashes.
He shakes his head far too quickly. “Keep going.”
So you do. You kiss along the outline of him through the slacks, the damp patch dragging faintly across your lips with each pass. His thighs flex beneath your hands, his breathing falling out in tight, rigid bursts, the fabric getting warmer and wetter under your mouth. You drag your lips along the length of him once more, slow enough to be cruel, and his whole body jolts.
That’s when you take pity.
Your fingers finally move to his zipper, and you feel Hotch’s eyes on you as you ease it down. He lifts his hips immediately, allowing you to roll the slacks off him. The second they hit the floor, you’re already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips again—quicker and needier—as you drag the last piece of clothing down his thighs.
And then he’s bare beneath you.
You sit back for a second, just to drink him in, mouth salivating at the flushed skin of his stomach, the tense lines of his abdomen, the way his cock rests hard and heavy on his stomach, precum sliding down the curve of him. You reach out without thinking, placing both hands on his thighs for balance as you crawl back up his body. Hovering over him, you lower your hips, feeling the head of his length nudge your inner thigh.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like the words slip from him before he can decide whether he’s allowed to say them. His hands trace up your sides, thumbs brushing under your breasts.
That sentence almost makes you coy. Almost. But your body apparently didn’t get the memo, because your hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and Hotch hisses through his teeth. He’s painfully hard in your palm, every throb pulsing against your grip.
You press him back against his stomach and grind down on him.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice shaking when the slick tip knocks directly against your clit. His hands grab your hips, fingers digging in. “I’m close, and I want to feel you. All of you. I don’t think I’ll be able to last if you keep doing that.”
You roll your hips again, a trembling little slide that makes your breath catch. “You will,” you whimper, leaning forward until your lips brush his. “For me.”
His jaw goes disastrously tight, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before they find yours again, throat constricting around a swallow—and you can’t help the grin that curls up in response. You almost regret leaving the unit, because Monday’s briefing would’ve been something, watching him give orders with a straight face while knowing he couldn’t even wait until he was inside you to come.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he rasps. His hand leaves your hip, slides up your spine, and gathers a fistful of your hair. He tugs it, just enough to pull a gasp from your mouth, and then lifts his head to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against your jaw.
You laugh, his exhale scorching against your skin. Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping around his length again, and you pull away from his mouth as you shift upright. You rise onto your knees, finally guiding his head of his cock to your entrance, his precum coating your pussy, your thighs, his own stomach.
“I think you’re enjoying this far more than I am,” you murmur—right before you sink down on him, only a fraction, enough to make you both tense at the contact.
“Slow—” he manages, voice breaking around it. “Go slow.”
You pause there, barely taking the head of him, but it's enough for heat and pressure to spark low in your belly. “Slow?” you echo, tilting your head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know… you weren’t exactly slow with me.”
His hands clamp down on your hips. “That was different.”
You give a faint roll of your hips, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are, how easy it would be to slide all the way down. His breath stumbles out of him, all of his authority stripped.
“Different how?” you tease, tracing a finger down his chest, stopping right where his stomach flexes under your touch.
His eyes flutter shut and when they open again, his pupils are blown, jaw clenching like he’s fighting the urge to thrust into you. “Different,” he repeats, “because I’ve been wanting this a long time.”
“How long?” you probe, sinking down onto him further, the stretch of him intoxicating. His head thunks back against the mattress, a groan lurching out of him.
“Two—years,” he gets out, voice splintering as you take more of him.
You still for a second. “Two years?”
“You’re surprised?”
“I mean… yeah? You don’t exactly flirt. You scowl. And file paperwork. And tell me I have a foul mouth.” You lower yourself another inch, slow enough to make him choke on a sound he’d absolutely murder himself for making in any other circumstance. You feel the stretch deep in your belly.
“Aaron,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Look at me.”
He does instantly.
“You’ve been wanting this for two years?”
He nods, and you sink down onto him, all the way, until the dark curls at the base of him brush your clit. He’s deep—too deep—in a way you’ve never felt before, his cock throbbing inside you as you bite down on a moan.
“Don’t move yet. Just…give me a second,” he whispers, hands kneading the flesh of your ass.
Your fingers splay across his torso as you adjust to him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or do anything about it?”
“Because I was your superior. Still am. For another thirty-six hours.”
“You’re telling me you waited two years because of HR?”
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
You shake your head, lift your hips, and take him again. He fills you up completely, the tip nudging deep enough to pull a choked sound from your throat. You’d imagined him like this—God, probably longer than two years—but it still doesn’t compare.
“You feel so fucking perfect,” he pants, his right hand guiding your roll against him. “So, so perfect,” he mutters, voice fraying as you rise off him and then sink back down.
His spare hand comes up to palm your breast, this thumb brushing the underside before his fingers catch your nipple and pinch. Your head tips back immediately, a moan spilling from you as the pleasure arcs up your spine.
“That’s it,” he grits. “Just like that.”
Every time you sink back down, he stretches you just a little more, hits that spot just a little harder. Your thighs start to tremble with the effort. His right hand only tightens at your hip, guiding your pace, manipulating your angle because of course he knows what feels better. But it’s his other hand, the one that’s still on your chest, that begins to slide lower, drifting over your ribs, over your stomach, the curve of your pelvis.
You don’t even realise what he’s reaching for until his thumb finds your clit.
A helpless cry breaks out of you.
“There she is…” he coaxes, thumb moving in a circle motion. “So pretty and vocal for me.”
You pick up the pace at the praise naturally. His breath falters, hips stuttering every time you grind down and meet his thumb at the same time.
“Aaron—”
His head tips back, a vein standing out at his neck, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps beneath his skin. His thumb slips against your clit with every shake of his body, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses harder, circles tighter, chasing you towards the edge even as he’s sliding towards his own.
“Sweetheart, slow—slow down—”
You don’t. You do the opposite, rocking into him, burying him inside of you. You feel yourself clench around him.
“Fuck!” he groans, your name following. His hands fly back to your hips, trying to hold you still, but your body squeezes around him and his own hips jerk helplessly. The sound he makes next is loud enough you’re almost certain the entire floor hears it. Every muscle in his stomach goes taut as he throbs inside you, warmth spilling in hot waves as he comes harder than you’ve ever heard him breathe.
One of his hands drags back down to your clit, despite the fact that his whole body seems to shake and twitch. He tries to keep his eyes open—tries to keep watching you on top of him—but his lashes flutter shut as you ride out the aftershocks pulsing through him.
You feel the warmth of his release seep out of you, ropes catching your inner thigh, clinging around the base of his still-sensitive cock. He finally forces his eyes open, his thumb still on your clit.
“Are you close?” he rasps.
You nod, legs shaking around him, barely able to hold yourself upright.
“Okay, baby… okay.” His breath stumbles, his whole body jolting each time you move, but his thumb keeps working you.
“Aaron—” Your voice cracks, head falling forward as a wave of heat curls deep in your stomach.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Come on.”
You grind down again, chasing the high, and he groans at the contact, but pulls you flush against his hips so you can keep moving. Your hands slide across his chest, clutching his shoulders, needing something to hold as the pressure tightens like a fist around your spine.
Your thighs clamp around his hips, your body clenching so fiercely around him that his head falls back with a quiet whimper. He tries to thrust instinctively, but he’s too sensitive. He trembles through the shock of it anyway, jaw flexing, teeth gritted as he tries to stay still for you.
“Sweetheart—” he gasps, “I need—you have to—please—”
And that does it. The please. Hearing him say it.
Your release slams into you like a freight train.
Your whole body seizes around him, your nails dragging down his chest as your vision whites out, a sharp sob catching in your throat. The orgasm tears through you in violent waves, blinding and completely overwhelming.
Your body finally goes limp, folding over him, your hands bracing on either side of his head as you lean forward. A thin string of drool slips past your lips as you gasp for air, your pussy still pulsing around his cock in tight, involuntary aftershocks.
Hotch’s arms come up your back immediately, palms splayed, rubbing slow strokes along your spine.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “Easy…I’ve got you. Just breathe.”
You manage a shuddering inhale against his throat, your forehead pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder. You can hear and feel his heartbeat beneath you, syncing with your own like your bodies haven’t quite figured out how to separate yet.
His hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “There you go,” he whispers. “That’s it.”
Your lips brush the base of his throat when you exhale. “Don’t pull out just yet,” you mumble against him, wanting to keep him inside as long as you possibly can, unsure when—if—you’ll ever get this close to him again.
“I’m not going anywhere. You can have as long as you want.”
You both go quiet for a moment, appreciating the soft ache of being filled and held at the same time. His chest rises beneath you with each slow breath, your body melting deeper into the lines of his.
You lift your head up after a while, meeting his eyes. “Two years, huh?”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Two years.”
“What’s the right thing to do now?” you ask, brushing the back of your knuckles along his jaw.
“You need to go pee so I can get you cleaned up.”
You groan into his neck. “Gee, way to ruin a moment.”
“And then,” he adds, kissing your temple, “when your transfer is official… I can take you out to dinner…If you’d like that?”
“A date?” you ask quietly.
“If you want it to be.”
You pull back to look at him properly. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” he says with a smile, voice warm. “That’s what I was hoping.”
No lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponent al, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, having the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick thribbing, first clenching, ear rining, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling. teeth jittering, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile orgasm
⟡ summary: Sevika is the CEO, and her newly out, inexperienced assistant is about to learn some lessons that aren’t in the employee handbook
⟡ wc: ~ 7.9k
⟡ warnings: sfw · angst-heavy · alcohol consumption· quick confrontation · stress· emotional tension · workplace dynamics · strong language ·suggestive ending · brief non explicit physical intimacy · mention of a toxic past relationship· emotional distress· panic/anxiety like symptoms· crying ·emotional vulnerability ~ no smut this chapter ~
.ᐟ.ᐟ Please check the warnings and read responsibly!
✎ᝰ.
The next evening drifts in slow and quiet, settling over the apartment in soft, dusky layers.
You’d been anchored to the couch for hours, a half-empty bowl of popcorn resting on your stomach, a few stray kernels clinging to your worn sweats.
The TV hummed a low, hypnotic lullaby, its shifting glow painting the walls in transient washes of blue and gold, reflecting nothing in particular from the muted rom-com.
The memory of Sevika last night—the closeness, the way her tongue had felt remains stubbornly at the edges of your mind, occasionally causing an ache to form low in your belly.
You shift, pulling the knitted blanket tighter around your shoulders.
The popcorn edges are chewy, a faint buttery film clinging to your fingers. Still, you keep eating, mind drifting back to her. A soft groan, thick with longing and exasperation at your own inability to let go, rumbles in your throat.
Then your phone buzzes.
Amanda: Drinks tonight, please please please.
You blink at the screen, popcorn paused mid-air. You know her patterns by now: relentless, gleefully persistent, determined to drag you out of your cozy cocoon.
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.
You: We have work tomorrow morning Mandy
You groan as you hit send.
Almost immediately:
Amanda: See you at 9.
You stare at the words, eyebrows raised, lips twitching in disbelief. On a Sunday night? Your brain protests loudly, citing exhaustion, early alarms.
But a slow, reluctant grin creeps across your face, tinged with a spark of anticipation you hadn’t realized you were craving.
You huff, scoffing at your own willingness. Fine. Whatever. She’s relentless; maybe it’s better to give in.
Rising from the couch, you stretch, brushing popcorn crumbs off your sweats before shuffling toward your bedroom.
You flick on the light and head straight for the closet, digging through the mess—pushing hangers aside, shuffling through clothes—until a short dress catches your eye: simple, sleek, black, a little daring.
Lounge clothes hit the floor in a soft heap, and the dress slips over your skin with a cool, decisive weight.
You pause to take a long look in the mirror, and smooth the fabric of the dress over your hips, trace the lines with your fingers, and inhale sharply, bracing for the night ahead.
Sliding your phone into your bag, you step out into the evening, heels clicking against the pavement. The city is alive, lights sparkling like tiny promises.
By the time you reach the bar, it’s buzzing with low conversations and clinking glasses, warm light spilling over polished wood.
Amanda’s already there, perched on a stool, waving enthusiastically as you approach. Her smile is infectious, the kind that makes you relax almost immediately.
“Finally!” she exclaims, grabbing your wrist and pulling you in for a quick hug. “I thought you’d bail on me.”
“I was definitely going to,” you admit, smirking as you settle onto the stool next to her. “Work tomorrow morning, remember?”
Amanda waves a hand dismissively. “Details, details. Who cares?”
The bartender approaches, tattoos and tired eyes, and you order something mild—something you won’t regret in the morning, something that looks adult but tastes harmless. A small mercy for the version of you that has to wake up early.
As he walks away, Amanda immediately leans her head onto your shoulder with a dramatic groan.
“I needed this,” she sighs. “You have no idea how boring my week was.”
You scoff, nudging her off. “Says the woman who texted me an actual PowerPoint about her damn manicure last week.”
“I stand by that presentation,” she says, lifting her chin proudly. “It was educational. Informative. Inspirational.”
“And unhinged.”
“Correct.” She pokes your arm. “But you were off playing corporate spy or whatever in Kareshi, so you missed the whole saga.”
You raise a brow. “Saga?”
She launches into it instantly, eyes brightening. “Okay, so—I went in for a simple manicure. Simple. I wanted ballet pink. Soft. Gentle. Professional. Do you know what I got instead?”
You hide a smile behind your glass. “Considering it’s you? No.”
“A glitter bomb. A glitter apocalypse.” Amanda shudders theatrically. “The nail tech’s lamp broke mid-cure, and the replacement one had…issues. Like…hotspot issues. My middle finger literally smoked.”
You choke back laughter. “Smoked?”
“SMOKED. And then—because that wasn’t traumatizing enough—she got double-booked, and some woman with a chihuahua in a Gucci sweater started screaming about wait times. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there with one hand finished, one hand raw, wondering if I’ll ever regain use of my fingertips.”
You laugh, the sound melts into the low hum of conversation and the soft push of music vibrating through the bar.
Your shoulders drop. Your spine unwinds.
And then a voice cuts through the din of the bar.
“Hey.”
You flinch slightly, your head whipping around, and there she is. Zara.
Your hand hovers over your glass for a beat longer than necessary. Even though you’ve done nothing wrong, you feel caught—as if the sudden stillness of the world just pressed down on you.
Zara crosses her arms, eyes flicking over Amanda before landing back on you.
“This is…” you start, your voice faltering. “Amanda’s my friend.”
Amanda’s grin is playful, maybe a little guilty, and you feel a twitch in your jaw at the obviousness of her amusement.
Zara’s gaze sharpens. “I didn’t know you were back from your work trip.”
You glance down at your drink. “I… got back last night.” you mumble, the words feeling thin and inadequate.
Her eyes drift lower, tracing the line of your collar bone, then land abruptly on your neck. You freeze.
Fading hickeys, evidence you hadn’t bothered to cover up.
Zara lets out a low, derisive laugh. “Hm. Work trips usually don’t come with… those.”
Amanda glances at you, a familiar, mischievous smirk beginning to curl at the corners of her lips.
Your fingers jump to your neck almost on instinct, rubbing at the skin with a sudden, desperate urge to erase them, praying your flush isn't as obvious as it felt.
“So… who did that?” Zara asks quietly.
Your stomach twists into a tight, uncomfortable knot.
None of your business, you snap inwardly. You’re not with her; you don’t owe her a single explanation.
Yet the defiant retorts forming in your mind catch, snag, choke in your throat before you can articulate them.
“It… it doesn’t matter,” you manage instead, the words coming out sharper, more defensive than you intend, betraying the turmoil inside.
Zara doesn’t miss a beat.
She moves slowly, positioning herself directly in front of both you and Amanda, claiming the space, asserting her stance. Her arms still crossed, a formidable barrier, eyes sharp and assessing as they bore into yours.
“Are you… with someone?” she asks, a calculated strike, her gaze piercing through any remaining pretense of casualness.
Your mouth opens, then closes, gasping like a fish, and you stammer: “N-no.”
She scoffs, low and unimpressed, tilting her head in a knowing, almost pitying gesture.
“How about that woman you were at the lounge with the night we met? The one you… sucked face with after making out with me?”
The words hang heavy in the air. Amanda’s eyes, already wide with a mix of shock and pure entertainment, practically bulge, a full-blown smirk curling irrevocably at the corners of her lips.
Heat crawls up your neck, and your hand rises instinctively to brush across your jaw, embarrassment tightening low in your gut, leaving your chest hollow yet flaring, desperate to hide the evidence of your alleged indiscretion.
Your mind stutters. She saw that? You hadn’t even realized Zara had noticed, let alone witnessed your kiss with Sevika.
Amanda, fully entertained, leans forward slightly, as if savoring every excruciating second, her eyes sparkling with unholy glee.
An explanation tries to claw its way out of you, but when your mouth finally parts, all that emerges is a mangled, bewildered sound.
“Wait—what?”
Your voice, a ragged whisper, stumbles out, attempting to defend yourself, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re defending against.
The full implication of Zara’s disappointment, sharp and personal, washes over you. This isn’t casual jealousy or a wounded ego; it’s something far deeper, far more significant than you’ve allowed yourself to consider.
A flash of memory hits: that first hour you met her—her confident advances, the bold touch, the way she tried to take things further, every move screaming “hook-up.”
You hadn’t even considered that she might want more.
Your chest tightens, a cloying, awkward weight settling there, as the uncomfortable truth clicks into place: she didn’t just want a casual encounter that night. She wanted you.
Zara lets out one last, dismissive snort, a sound laced with a finality that allows no pushback, no reconciliation. Then, she spins sharply on her heel, her movements abrupt and decisive.
“Whatever,” she mutters, the word a cutting snub, already walking away, disappearing into the pulsating crowd without a backward glance.
The space she leaves behind feels oddly empty, strangely hollow, yet still thick with tension.
Amanda turns toward you fully now, expression a perfect mix of curiosity, mischief, and sheer amusement. You roll your eyes at her, knowing exactly what she’s thinking.
But you’ve told her, firmly, to stop asking about Sevika, and for once, she respects the boundary, letting the heavy, pregnant silence hang between you, her sheer presence a question in itself.
You exhale slowly, a long, drawn-out sigh, running a hand over your face, feeling the warmth of your cheeks.
“Yes,” you admit, your voice low but firm, the words a surrender, a confession, and a liberation all at once. “I’m sleeping with Ms. Sevika. Yes, I took your damn advice. Yes, you are annoyingly, infuriatingly right. Now, please, for the love of everything, fuck off.”
Amanda squeals, cackling, throwing her head back in pure delight.
You can’t help it—you smile despite yourself, warm and relieved, letting her energy sweep through you as you take a slow sip of your drink.
Time, after that, becomes a liquid blur.
One drink folds into another, conversations tumble from animated debates into chaotic, joyful nonsense. The bar lights, once distinct, soften and blur around the edges of your vision, forming halos of honeyed color.
You lean back, comfortably tipsy, letting the warmth of the alcohol mingle with the residual glow of the evening and Amanda’s boundless, unwavering excitement.
At some point, inevitably, the night winds down—far too quickly, as always. You stumble out into the cooler, quieter street, your heels clicking a surprisingly steady rhythm against the pavement.
You make your way home with a lazy grin plastered across your face.
✎ᝰ.
Monday arrives, unforgiving in its timing, landing heavy across your shoulders the instant your alarm drags you awake. You groan, twisting under the sheets for one last, useless moment of warmth before surrendering to the day.
By the time the sun begins to rise, you’re already moving, pulled into the rhythm of the hours despite yourself. Your footsteps echo softly in the apartment, the familiar routine of coffee, keys, and bag offering a hollow comfort.
The office is dim when you step inside, the sky outside still that pale, uncertain blue that belongs only to early morning — a color that makes everything feel suspended, halfway formed.
You like coming in early sometimes; the quiet helps you settle. But today, the quiet feels wrong.
You aren’t even late — you’re early.
But Sevika is earlier still.
Her office lights burn behind the glass, sharp and purposeful, and her silhouette is a rigid cut-out against it: tall, unmoving, one hand braced flat on the desk, the other gripping her phone, knuckles standing stark against her skin—a silent tension you can feel through the glass.
You stop mid-step without meaning to.
This isn’t her usual morning focus. This is pressure. Tight. Heavy. The kind that doesn’t sit in her shoulders but in the walls around her — the kind that makes your own pulse pick up even though she hasn’t said a word to you yet.
And then something small, but sharp, catches your attention: she glances up from the spreadsheet for half a second, catches your movement in the corner of her eye, and immediately looks back down.
No acknowledgment. No nod. Nothing. You flush slightly, even though you know better — she’s always been private, composed. But that split-second dismissal stings more than it should.
You force your feet to move again, quiet on the polished floor, slipping into your office as if stepping too loudly might set something off.
You power on your computer, pretending you don’t hear her voice seeping faintly through the glass.
“—no, I said everything. I want the full forensic breakdown, not the preliminary summary.”
Her tone isn’t angry. It’s sharpened. Honed like a blade pressed too long and too hard against stone.
Your stomach pulls tight.
Kira.
It’s been weeks since the investigation started — weeks of rumors, meetings, sterile updates that reveal nothing and imply everything — but these cases take months. And yet the edge in Sevika’s voice… it’s different today. It’s not just professional tension.
A flicker of worry crawls up your spine — not just about the audit, but about the way she looks alone in that room. The way your chest tightens at the idea of her being that stressed and unreachable. An irrational part of you whispers, Is she shutting everyone out? Is she shutting me out?
You try to smother that thought before it fully forms.
Amanda slips in about forty minutes later, coffee in hand, eyebrows rising the moment she catches the sharp edge in Sevika’s voice.
“Oh boy,” she murmurs under her breath. “Tom said Ms. Sevika’s been here since six.”
You blink. “…Why?”
Amanda steps closer, dropping her voice even lower.
“Legal found more discrepancies. It’s not just the eight hundred grand anymore. Kira may have been diverting funds for longer.”
Your stomach sinks. “How much longer?”
Amanda shakes her head, eyes tight. “No one knows yet. They’re still digging. And… the board may have to get involved if this keeps widening.”
The words hit like a fist to the gut.
The board. That’s not just bad news. That’s everything breaking. You feel your chest tighten, a sudden metallic taste in your mouth. The office seems to shrink around you, the quiet clicking of keyboards suddenly deafening.
Oh fuck.
You force yourself to swallow, rubbing your palms up and down your thighs to steady the trembling of your fingers. Your eyes flick toward Sevika’s office. The rigid silhouette hasn’t moved. She hasn’t stepped out. The blinds of her composure are fully drawn.
Which somehow feels worse than anger. Worse than raised voices or slammed doors. Silence from Sevika is a different kind of storm — the kind that builds inward instead of out.
It makes something uneasy flicker in your heart: a small, stupid sting at being completely shut out of whatever’s happening behind that door.
You reach into your bag for your notebook, but your fingers brush a small wrapped box.
Right — Amanda’s gift. Something you’d picked out at the stand in Kareshi. You almost forgot it existed.
“Mandy,” you murmur, pulling it out. “Got you something.”
Her eyes widen. “For me?”
“For keeping me sane. And because you asked.”
And because offering warmth feels like the only thing you can control in a morning like this.
She opens it, the lacquered koi hairpin catching the overhead lights — and her whole face brightens.
“Oh my God— it’s gorgeous.”
“It’s supposed to bring luck,” you say, smiling faintly.
“Fuck, we need that today.”
You exhale a soft laugh you didn’t expect to find in your lungs.
And for a moment — just one fragile, welcome moment — relief threads between the two of you, cutting cleanly through the tension like a sudden breeze through a stuffy room.
✎ᝰ.
Emails stack. The entire office feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to break — and you can’t tell if that something is the investigation or Sevika herself.
Your inbox dings. The alert is small, almost innocuous, but it makes your stomach hitch. One new message:
From Sevika.
Bring me the updated reports. 11:30. —Sevika
Your throat tightens, dry and scratchy.
By 11:30, the silence has etched itself into your bones. You gather the updated reports she requested, smoothing the pages once, twice, like neatness can shield you from the inscrutable air in her office.
You knock gently.
“Come in.”
Her voice is clipped, low — the kind that vibrates with barely contained tension.
You step inside.
She doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even glance. Her eyes stay glued to the screen, one hand extended toward you in a silent command.
You move closer, trying to keep your own breathing steady.
“These are the updated—”
"I know what it is," she snaps, the words sharp, slicing through the air with a precision that steals your breath. "I'm the one who fucking requested it."
The unexpected ferocity of her retort hits you like a jolt. A wave of heat washes over your face, followed by stunned disbelief.
Anger, hot and bitter, blooms instantly in your chest—a visceral, immediate reaction to the sheer disrespect.
Her head snaps up at the sudden, harsh bark of her own voice, as if the echo in the room finally pricks her awareness.
For a fleeting moment, her eyes, when they meet yours, hold a flicker of something like alarm—a dawning realization of her own outburst.
You glare, furious, the sting of being treated like this surging up through every nerve ending.
Without a second thought, without a word, you thrust the reports onto her desk, the papers scattering slightly, a visual manifestation of your own disarray.
“Wait—” she starts.
But you don’t stay to hear it. You pivot, shoulders rigid, jaw tight, and walk out of the office, every step fueled by the heat of your indignation.
She’s under immense pressure, yes; standing at the bottom of a pile of corporate chaos with nothing but her bare hands is a lot. But that? That was fucking unnecessary.
You slam the door softly behind you, letting yourself fume for a second before walking across to your own office.
You drop into your chair, trying to anchor yourself in other tasks, to shove the sting of her words into the corner of your mind.
Your fingers tap against the keyboard, your jaw still clenched, chest tight, as your mind replays her words over and over.
Half an hour later, anger still simmers beneath the surface, hot and burning, but now it’s mixed with something else—a hollow ache behind your ribs that wasn’t there a moment ago.
It’s not just what she said. It’s the way her head jerked up afterward, the fraction of a second where you glimpsed the fracture in her control. The exhaustion etched into her face, the raw, fleeting vulnerability that followed.
Your anger begins to lose its edge, replaced by a sinking, unsettled worry. Your chest tightens further at the thought, a mixture of fear and helplessness you don’t know what to do with.
You force yourself back into your work, though the motions feel distant, mechanical, your mind already drifting elsewhere.
Every muted click of the mouse, every low hum of the office seems amplified, almost waiting for the other shoe to drop.
And then, out of the corner of your eye, you glimpse movement through the glass.
Sevika rubs her temple — not the usual tired gesture, but deeper, almost desperate, like she’s trying to push the pain back into her skull by force.
For a heartbeat, her hand trembles. A tiny shake. Barely there. But unmistakable.
You stop breathing.
She never does that.
Not after fourteen-hour days. Not after board meetings that would make other seasoned executives cry. Not even when she’s furious.
She is control incarnate—the kind of person who bends the chaos of the world to her will with quiet precision. And yet now… now this slight quiver betrays her.
Your stomach twists, a sick, knotting mix of fear and awe. Seeing her, normally so composed and immovable, show even a flicker of vulnerability feels like watching a skyscraper tremble at its foundation.
Something is wrong. And she’s carrying it alone.
The thought presses against your gut, heavy and urgent, even as your rational mind whispers to step back, respect her space. But your heart refuses. The urge to reach across that distance, to do something, anything, wells up in a tide that doesn’t listen to logic.
By lunchtime, you’re torn in two directions: knock on her door and risk adding to the weight already dragging her under, or leave her alone and pretend the low, uneasy squeeze beneath your sternum doesn’t spark every time you glance at her through the glass panels.
You hover in your chair, cursor blinking on your screen like it’s mocking you. Lunch might help her. Something warm. Something grounding. Something that’s not another spreadsheet or legal update or crisis wrapped in a manila folder.
Your fingers itch to move toward her office, but your mind drifts back to the sharpness of her words earlier, the sting of anger that hadn’t belonged to you but had cut through anyway.
The echo of her clipped “I know” still lingers in your mind, a reminder that even the strongest people can wound unintentionally. Should you even be attempting this now?
You exhale slowly, feeling the knot in your stomach pull tight before easing as the decision solidifies within you.
Giving her space right now is probably the safest choice—for her, for you. For no other reason than the memory of her tone alone, you can’t bring yourself to add another layer to the morning’s tension.
So you settle on a compromise: wait for her to reach out. Let her set the pace. If nothing else, it protects the small thread of calm you’ve managed to gather in the past few hours.
You rise from your chair, smoothing your shirt, fingers tracing the fabric almost obsessively to keep your hands busy. Your nerves buzz under your skin—too awake, too aware of every heartbeat.
You walk out of your office and head down to lunch alone.
✎ᝰ.
The cafe buzzes with warmth and noise, a sharp contrast to the suffocating silence upstairs. Steam clouds the air, plates clatter, someone laughs too loudly near the espresso machine—everything here feels alive in a way your floor absolutely does not.
You stand with your tray, waiting for your salad. You’re so deep in your thoughts you don’t hear Amanda approach until her voice hits your ear.
“Hey—how’s it going?” she asks, tilting her head as she slides her tray next to yours.
You startle slightly. “Oh, I’m fine,” you murmur, not entirely convincing yourself.
She quirks an eyebrow, a small, understanding smile crossing her face. “Sure you are.”
You both collect your food, and then slide into the corner table together, the soft lighting doing nothing to hide the way your shoulders sag.
Amanda settles, then props her chin on her hand, studying you for a moment. “What’s wrong?”
You hesitate, fork brushing absently over your salad. “… Ms. Sevika hasn’t said much to me today. And when we did talk… it wasn’t pleasant. At all.” The memory of Sevika’s dismissive tone still pricks at you.
She frowns slightly, considering. “Wait—aren’t you two just… sleeping together? What’s the big deal?”
You pause mid-bite.
A wave of heat washes over you, and your gaze snaps up to meet hers, a sharp, wounded glare cutting across the table.
The words, though perhaps not intended cruelly, strike with an unexpected force—blunt in a way that hurts.
Amanda notices, her expression thinning at the lips, realization dawning. “Ah—sorry. That came out wrong.”
You swallow, the lump in your throat making it difficult. The sting of her words, however unintentional, remains.
You offer a small, dismissive shrug, your gaze dropping back to your salad. You poke at a stray piece of lettuce, the urge to dissect the situation, to explain the unspoken complexities of your relationship with Sevika, suddenly vanishing. “Just… let’s change the subject.”
Amanda exhales, nodding, then unloads everything immediately: gossip, confessions, weekend drama, exaggerated rants about people you barely interact with. Chaos, but the harmless kind. The kind that doesn’t collapse anyone’s career or involve legal teams or frozen bank accounts.
It’s a relief. A lifeline.
You laugh at her dramatic reenactments, tease her for her choices, toss a crouton at her when she gets too smug. And somewhere in all of it, your body remembers what it feels like to breathe without a weight on your sternum.
For a little while, you almost forget the heavy glass wall upstairs, the dimmed privacy setting, the silhouette that wouldn’t look at you long enough to speak.
Almost.
Because even while Amanda talks, even while you smile, a part of your mind keeps drifting back toward the executive floor—toward the way Sevika’s shoulders looked when she rubbed her temple, toward the tiny tremor in her hand, toward the way she spoke to you.
It sits in your ribs, quiet but insistent. A little ache you can’t exhale out.
The cafe’s warmth sticks to your skin as you step into the elevator. You press the button for the upper floors, and the doors slide shut with a soft whoosh.
The confined space tilts slightly, the mirrored walls reflecting your own tension back at you. Each floor that ticks by is a slow, measured climb, a countdown to the quiet intensity that’s waiting.
When you return to your office, Sevika’s office is dimmed to privacy mode — full frost, the glass gone opaque white, erasing even the faintest outline of her.
No silhouette. No movement. A full shut-out.
It’s ridiculous, you tell yourself. You’re her assistant… and someone she’s fucking… but you’re not not her confidant, not her anchor, not someone entitled to her private storms. Your job is logistics, schedules, crisis-routing.
A flicker of motion draws your eye: Tom, badge in hand, slipping into her office. Her door closes behind him, smooth and silent.
Something pins you with a hollow ache, that prickling twinge of exclusion, the same ache you’d felt earlier in the morning.
You tell yourself it’s rational: she’s running a meeting, probably briefing him on the Kira situation. It’s work.
Still. Watching the door close, knowing she’s letting someone else in while you hover on the outside—it scratches at the raw edge in your chest.
A quiet, poisonous thought slips in: Maybe she doesn’t need you right now.
But why does it bother you this much?
You shake your head a little too hard, trying to dislodge it. Focus on your inbox, on the unread emails, the overdue vendor signatures, the three meeting requests waiting for her approval. But the tasks blur together, your cursor blinking accusingly at you.
Time drags. Five minutes. Ten. An hour. Her door never opens. Her light never flickers. Privacy mode never lifts.
By six, your eyes ache and your brain feels wrung out. The office is nearly empty, the overhead lights glowing softly as you gather your bag.
You glance at her office one last time. Still sealed. Still silent.
You leave the building with a heaviness that clings to your shoulders all the way home.
✎ᝰ.
Your apartment doesn't just feel quiet tonight; it's a vacuum, sucking the energy out of the air. It’s a profound, aching stillness, not the peaceful kind that invites relaxation, but the kind that acts as an echo chamber for the maelstrom within your own mind.
Every thought, every unresolved worry, every unaddressed task from the day seems to amplify in this oppressive silence, creating a pressure that presses in from all sides.
You move through the motions automatically — dropping your bag, kicking off your shoes, stepping into the shower. The spray hits your skin, a welcome assault of heat, steam clouding the small enclosure.
For a fleeting moment, there’s a sense of reprieve, a gentle melting of the day's hard edges. The warmth permeates, promising comfort. But the water, no matter how scalding or soothing, can't scrub away the tenacious grip in your skull.
A steel band seems to tighten around your temples, a constant, low thrum beneath the surface of the warmth, refusing to loosen its hold. Not really.
Afterward, eating feels like another task you’re not sure you have the energy for. You grab something simple from the fridge, anything that doesn’t require thought, and pop it into the microwave without really paying attention.
You take a bite. The texture registers, the warmth too, but the taste just… doesn’t. Everything is muted under the metallic edge of your own anxiety.
Your tongue feels numb, your body moving on autopilot. Each mouthful sinks heavy, and your stomach tightens around it, knotted and uneasy, protesting every swallow like it wants nothing to do with the food you’re trying to get down.
By the time you curl up on the couch with a blanket, the apartment feels like a space you’re only half inhabiting. You stare at the TV menu, thumb hovering over the remote, but nothing holds your focus.
Your phone sits beside you on the cushion.
You aren’t checking it. Except that you are. Every few minutes, your eyes flick toward the screen. Waiting for… something.
A message. A ping. A missed call. Some sign that today’s distance wasn’t personal. Wasn’t about you.
But the nausea curls up anyway, tight and persistent.
A lump starts to form in your throat, unexpected and embarrassing, and you swallow it down hard. It’s a reminder that even when you try to analyze and compartmentalize your feelings, your body can still betray you.
You know it’s not about you—she’s stressed, the Kira situation, the board—but knowing doesn’t stop the hollow ache, the lump rising in your throat yet again.
And worse, you feel selfish for feeling this way. For letting one day of distance, one single day, derail your calm, make you overthink every glance, every word. You hate it. Hate that your mind latches onto the absence like a claw, hating yourself for caring this much when you know rationally you shouldn’t. You swallow hard, wishing both the nausea and the guilt would just vanish.
You drag in a slow breath. And then you feel it—hot, unwelcome pricks at the corners of your eyes. You blink, forcefully, trying to hold back the tears that aren’t supposed to be here.
In a moment of desperation, you reach for your phone, thumb hesitating over the contact for your mom.
Maybe she can offer some words of wisdom, some grounding perspective to remind you that the world isn't always this heavy and overwhelming.
Your thumb hovers over the call button, trembling slightly, when—sharp, precise—there’s a knock at your door.
Your heart stutters so hard it feels like it misses a beat.
You stand too fast, blanket falling to the floor, and cross the living room with your pulse in your throat. You hesitate for a moment, before opening the door.
Sevika waits there.
You freeze for a fraction of a second.
What do you even say? Ask if she’s okay? Ask why she was distant today? Ask why she spoke to you like that? None of it feels safe—or even appropriate. So you say nothing. You just look at her.
Then you release your hold on the door and step back, a small, hesitant shift that’s enough to tell her she can come in. Your arms fold across your chest as you move out of the way.
Sevika steps inside, slowly, and closes the door behind her.
Her gaze meets yours, and for a moment, she mirrors your own uncertainty. A flicker of something guarded crosses her face, as if she, too, is searching for the right words. Then, the tension in her shoulders seems to ease, replaced by a quiet resolve.
“I was an asshole today.”
Yes, she was. And it stung. You’ve been swallowing that all day.
But the moment you see the strain in her expression, the words you should say slip right out of reach.
What comes out instead is softer, instinctive—
“Sevika—it’s fi—”
“No,” she cuts in, low but firm. “It’s not. I snapped at you. I shut you out. I hurt your feelings.”
The words hit you like a physical touch. You weren’t prepared for that kind of honesty.
You feel tears sting the back of your eyes so fast you have to look away, jaw tightening as you try to tamp down the sudden swell of feeling rising in your throat.
Embarrassment, relief, ache — all tangled and suffocating.
When you finally look back up, Sevika is moving toward you.
“Please, don’t do that,” she says, voice barely above a breath.
Her thumb brushes under your cheek. You didn’t even realize a tear had escaped.
Her touch is gentle. Careful. More intimate than anything you shared in the office, in the suite, on the boat, or in her bed.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, thumb sweeping once more, slower this time. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”
Your vision blurs, a quiet, helpless inundation. Before you can even attempt to rein it in, driven by an instinct that bypasses thought, you lean forward and wrap your arms around her.
She stiffens. Just for a second.
Then she exhales and her arms fold around you, pulling you in with a quiet urgency that steals the air from your lungs. Her chest rises and falls against cheek, tension bleeding out of her in slow, reluctant waves.
Relief hits you so hard it nearly knocks you off your feet.
She tilts her head slightly, just enough to see your face. Then she leans in and presses a soft, quick kiss to your lips.
Not hungry. Just… reassurance. A promise she doesn’t have the words for.
Sevika turns away before you can read too much in her expression, runs a hand over her face, and moves toward the couch.
She sinks into it heavily.
You hesitate for a moment, taking in the slump of her shoulders, the way her head tilts slightly forward as if the weight of the world is pressing down. You just want to reach out, offer some quiet comfort in the middle of everything she’s carrying.
Slowly, you move over and settle beside her on the couch, careful not to crowd, just close enough that your presence is tangible.
The fabric of the cushions sighs under your weight, and the faint scent of her — sharp, woody — drifts into your senses. Your hand hovers for a heartbeat, then brushes against hers, letting it rest there lightly.
“Do you… want to talk about it?” you ask softly, voice tentative.
Her jaw tightens immediately, before she releases a shallow exhale.
“The shit with Kira… it’s not just about the money,” she admits, voice raw around the edges. “It’s reminding me of something I don’t… want to revisit.”
A pause.
She exhales, long and slow, her gaze fixed on a spot on the floor rather than on you.
“Selene,” she murmurs. The name lands heavy, like it’s still bruised somewhere inside her.
You wait, unsure whether to speak. She doesn’t look at you.
“She took from me.” A pause. “Personally. And from the company.”
Your breath catches, just slightly. “You mean… money?”
A humorless laugh slips out of her—quick, bitter. “Yeah. Money. And other things I shouldn’t have let her anywhere near.”
She doesn’t specify what. She doesn’t have to. There’s something in the way her shoulders tense, something in the way her voice thins around the edges, that tells you the truth: Selene mattered. Selene got close.
Carefully, you ask, “Were you… involved?”
Sevika doesn’t answer. Not directly. But the quiet between you stretches long and charged, and she doesn’t deny it. She just exhales, like the memory itself is a knot she can’t untie.
“I covered it up,” she says instead. “Protected her. And she walked away without looking back.” The words scrape out of her like they still hurt.
You sit with it, letting the pieces fit themselves together. “And Kira…” you start.
“That girl meant nothing to me,” Sevika snaps—not cruel, just sharp, defensive, like the thought itself irritates her. She drags a hand over her jaw, staring past you. “She’s just an employee. But her bullshit—it hits the same damn nerve.”
You understand now. Kira wasn’t close. Not like Selene. But her actions still dug into the one place Sevika had walled off, the place nobody has touched since. Because she doesn’t let people get close.
“She just—” Sevika sighs, defeated in a way you’ve never seen on her. “She took advantage of the fact that I trusted her to do her job. And it reminded me why I stopped trusting anyone in the first place with anything.”
Silence folds over the room.
“That’s all,” she finishes quietly, shutting down the conversation. “I’m done talking about it tonight.”
You nod, understanding.
The old wound. The one she buried under steel and silence. The one that left her feeling foolish, exposed, ashamed. The one where she trusted someone — cared for them — and they used that trust to gut her.
And now Kira’s mess is dragging those memories to the surface. The theft, the breach of trust, the board breathing down her neck — it all echoes the same betrayal.
This isn’t about spreadsheets or audits. This is her heart remembering what it felt like to be cracked open and left to bleed.
She is fighting a ghost, and the threat of Kira is merely the shape that trauma has chosen to wear tonight.
The realization settles between you like a dim lantern glow, unsteady but honest, guiding your next small move rather than pushing you to fill the silence.
You shift closer slightly, letting your shoulder just brush hers. The tension in her body is still present, but the lines in her posture soften fractionally.
Your hand drifts up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear before settling lightly on her thigh. You don’t even know why you do it—your body moves before your thoughts catch up.
Maybe it’s the lingering echo of relief from her apology, the way her thumb traced under your cheek, the way her quiet “please don’t do that” felt like it mattered in a way you didn’t expect. Maybe it’s the small, magnetic pull of her vulnerability, rare and fleeting, and now entirely present.
Her breath stutters at the contact. Not dramatically, not a gasp that would betray her composure to anyone else—but a tiny hitch, barely noticeable unless you’re watching for it. And you are.
Every microsecond of her reaction is magnified, reverberating through you.
She looks, her eyes are darker, softened at the edges, and there’s a flicker of something fragile behind them, like a candle trembling in a draft. Vulnerable. The kind of moment you know will be gone if you blink.
You exhale, barely audible, and whisper, “Relax.” Your voice is more than a suggestion—it’s a plea, even to yourself, to slow down, to let this small bubble of safety exist.
You let your hand slip away from her thigh before either of you can think too hard about it. The moment holds, suspended, warm and delicate… and then you shift, sliding off the couch.
Sevika’s brow furrows. “What are you—”
You’re already lowering yourself to your knees in front of her.
Her voice cuts off instantly. Not sharp. Not warning. Just still—like you’ve triggered a switch she doesn’t know she has. Her gaze follows you down, curious in spite of herself.
Slowly, you reach for her shoes.
She doesn’t move, but her posture tells the truth: her shoulders ease back, her breath levels out, the smallest shift of someone acknowledging the change without fighting it. She isn’t commanding you. She is letting you. Letting herself.
Your fingers work carefully at the heel of the first shoe, slipping it off with steady motions. You place it aside with a soft thud. Then the other. Her socked feet settle against the carpet, and she exhales through her nose, something between relief and disbelief.
You glance up at her. “There.”
Her gaze is heavy on you—not expectant. Just… watching. The kind of look that says she’s trying to understand why you’d do something so gentle for her.
You push yourself back to your feet. “Are you hungry?”
Her tiny shrug isn’t indifference—it’s exhaustion wearing a thin disguise.
You smile, small but certain. “I’m taking that as a yes.”
Before she can argue, you head into the kitchen.
The fridge light spills out onto your hands as you grab what you need—something simple, warm, comforting. The quiet of the apartment fills in around you.
Behind you, she doesn’t move; you can feel her presence fixed on the doorway, listening to the small sounds of you taking care of her. Soft clinks, quiet motion, domestic warmth she never lets herself expect.
When you return with the plate, Sevika has sunk deeper into the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, her posture loose and unwound. You offer her the food.
She takes it without speaking, fingers brushing yours—brief, warm, involuntary.
You sit beside her—not pressed close, but near enough that your shoulder is within reach if she wanted it, far enough that she has space to breathe.
She gives you a sideways look, something weary-soft, something grateful she won’t say out loud.
You grab the remote and turn on the TV. “Anything particular?”
Another shrug, though this one is slower, lazier—almost content.
You pick a show. Something easy. Background noise more than anything.
Sevika eats quietly, the faint clink of the fork the only sound between you until the TV hums to life. Her knee shifts slightly, brushing yours—not a mistake, not an invitation, just… presence.
Sevika finishes the last bite, setting her fork down with a soft clink against the ceramic. She starts to rise, stretching lightly, but you reach out before she can move.
“I got it,” you say, gently.
She hesitates for a fraction of a second, then allows it, leaning back slightly as you lift the plate from her hands.
The slight warmth of the dish still rests in your palms as you carry it to the kitchen. The tiles are cool under your bare feet as you set the plate in the sink.
A small clatter echoes, fading quickly into the quiet thrum of the apartment. You run a hand along the edge of the counter, fiddling with a stray utensil, twisting it absently between your fingers for a moment.
You glance back toward the couch. Sevika’s posture is relaxed now, her arm still draped over the backrest, but the subtle tension in her shoulders is back, the kind of tension you know won’t fully vanish easily.
You finish rinsing the plate and set it aside, then make your way back into the living room, approaching her slowly.
“Do you… want to shower?”
She tilts her head slightly, a small nod, and a quiet, clipped, but sincere. “Thanks.”
You gesture toward the bathroom. “Come on.”
She moves smoothly, almost mechanically, but you notice the slight hesitation in her step, a shadow of vulnerability that makes your throat catch.
You pause at the doorway, noticing the way she tugs absently at the sleeve of her shirt before moving toward the shower.
“Wait,” you say softly, and she glances back at you.
You slip into your bedroom, quickly rifling through your drawers until you find what you’re looking for. An oversized t-shirt, soft, neutral, something that you hope will hang comfortably on her frame. You hold it out to her.
Sevika takes it, a small smile flickers across her face.
“Oh—towels are in the cabinet under the sink,” you add quietly.
“Thanks,” she murmurs.
You give a quiet nod and retreat, leaving her to the bathroom.
You retreat to the living room, letting yourself fall into the couch. The TV flickers quietly, washing the space in dim blues and greens while you exhale and wait.
When she emerges, the t-shirt clings more than you expected, stretching over her shoulders, chest, and defined biceps. Her slacks are still on, unbuttoned, and the faint line of her happy trail catches your breath.
You look away quickly, heart thumping.
Sevika pauses, sensing it, and turns toward you, a quiet question in her eyes. Then she moves to the couch, sliding in beside you.
Her lips find yours. Gentle at first, testing, soft. And then hunger builds, a slow, deep pull that makes your heart thrum and your hands fumble to hold onto her.
She tastes of warmth and quiet, the edges of her restraint fading as she leans into you, letting the moments you’ve shared—small acts, quiet gestures, soft presence—fold into this one.
Sevika pulls back slightly, just enough to break the contact, a small, grin tugging at her lips. She sinks against the couch again and lets out a low, ragged sigh—somewhere between amusement and exhausted relief.
Your gaze, unable to resist, drops instantly back to the focal point of your earlier distraction.
The t-shirt has ridden up slightly with the friction of the kiss, revealing the sharp, defined line of her V-cut abs, carved muscle contrasting with the soft, shadowed skin of her lower abdomen where that faint, tempting trace of her happy trail disappears beneath the unbuttoned slacks.
You swallow, and mutter under your breath, “I’m such a fucking Pervert.”
Sevika’s eyes follow the movement, a flicker of heat in their depths, as if silently daring you, almost coaxing. The corner of her mouth quirks slightly, a subtle, almost faint invitation that requires no words.
Then, without overthinking it, you slide off the couch and find yourself kneeling in front of her again.
Her hand comes down almost instantly, brushing along your jaw—rough, warm, hesitant. She doesn’t push you away, but she doesn’t pull you closer either. It’s not possessive; it’s protective, almost fearful, like holding onto you might anchor her somewhere she isn’t ready to fully be.
She keeps you in place with that gentle touch, as though lifting her hand even an inch would let you slip away, or worse, let the world back in.
Guilt glimmers in her eyes, and it catches something deep in your chest. You’re hit by the sudden, quiet weight of understanding: she’s never this exposed, never this untethered, not to anyone, and now you’re the one she allows it with, even in fragments.
“You don’t have to fix my day,” she murmurs, voice rough and ragged around the edges. “I shouldn’t even be here. Not when I’m like this.”
Your pulse quickens, and the urge to be closer, to make her forget everything for just a moment, threatens to overtake reason.
“I know,” you whisper, leaning into her touch, letting your forehead rest lightly near her fingers. “But you are.”
Her jaw tightens again, a subtle, almost undetectable flex, and then slowly, painstakingly, loosens. Iron tension melting into soft surrender.
Fifty minutes ago, she was a tempest—sharp, controlled, nearly impossible to reach. Now, she is the quiet aftermath: still heavy, still unmoored, but softened, just enough that your chest aches with the gravity of it.
And then she lets you stay. Lets her hand steady you. Lets herself need you, just a little.
You feel the heat of relief and the faint sting of confusion collide inside you, a jolt of emotions you’re only just starting to understand. The small, rare trust she’s offering—it’s intoxicating, frightening, and somehow heartbreaking all at once.
Summary: "The 'pet' dad told you definitely wasn't his." You work for a wildlife rescue center and end up bringing your work home with you much to Hotch's protests.
You hit send on the text before you'd even mulled the idea over twice.
You’d just come off the worst intake shift of the season, three opossums with mange, a red-tailed hawk with a broken wing, and now this: a four-week-old raccoon kit no bigger than a burrito, swaddled in someone’s ratty sweatshirt.
The finder had heard it screaming for its mother from inside their shed for two straight days; mom never showed. Eyes still sealed shut two days ago, now barely cracked open like little black buttons. Pink nose running, belly empty, hypothermia already creeping in.
He was so small that your entire hand swallowed him.
You dried the formula off your fingers, snapped the photo, his tiny masked face, fluffy little ears, delicate paws curled against your scrub top, and sent it to Hotch, who was away on a case, with zero preamble.
You: Orphan raccoon. Needs bottles every 3h or he won’t make it through the night. I’m bringing him home.
The three dots appeared almost instantly, his reply coming faster than you thought a federal agent in the middle of a case could type. You could practically hear the deep, exasperated inhale through the screen
Hotch: Absolutely not.
Hotch: Under no circumstances is that animal coming into the house.
Hotch: I’m serious. We are not doing this. That is a wild animal.
You grinned, already halfway to the car with the warmed carrier.
You: Already in the passenger seat. Seatbelt on. See you in a couple of days 💕
A solid minute of nothing passed while you were strapping yourself in and then making sure the tiny baby was okay. Then:
Hotch: We are discussing this when I get home.
Which, translated from Hotch-speak, meant: I know I already lost this war, and I hate that I know it and have no control over the situation whatsoever.
Two Days Later, the front door opened at 11:17 p.m. precisely; you’d recognize the quiet snick of his key anywhere, carefully letting himself into the house, trying his best not to make a sound.
Jack was asleep on the couch, head in your lap, one protective arm flung over the fleece-lined nest you’d built out of an old laundry basket. Inside, the raccoon, now dubbed “Bandit” because Jack had insisted that he needed a name and you had been too tired to fight it, despite trying to explain that naming him creates attachments, and that the little guy needed to be rehabilitated and go back into the wild, was in the middle of a milk coma, little pink tongue still half-out, paws twitching from whatever baby raccoons dream about.
Empty bottle number 3 of the evening lay discarded on the coffee table next to a pile of burp cloths that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday.
Hotch stopped dead in the doorway, briefcase still in hand.
He took in the scene like he was profiling a crime scene, which if you asked him, he definitely was: the dim lamp light, the scattered formula tins, Jack’s abandoned Xbox controller, your unbrushed hair, the fact you were wearing his stretched out and faded law school hoodie like a dress… and then, finally, the actual masked bandit snoozing happily on a heating pad.
He blinked once. Twice. A third time for good measure, because clearly he was imagining the scene he had been met with.
“No,” he said, voice low and dangerously calm, maybe a little too calm given the wild animal in his living room. “No. This is not happening.”
Jack stirred at the sound of his dad’s voice, sat upright, and beamed, still half asleep, like Christmas had come early. “Dad! Look! He likes belly rubs!”
Hotch's gaze flicked from his son’s pure joy to the raccoon to you, and you watched the internal battle play out in real time behind those dark eyes.
You offered the tiniest, most innocent smile you could muster. “He’s had three perfect feeds, two poops, and zero bites. We’re basically pros.”
“That,” Hotch said, pointing one accusatory finger, “is a North American rabies vector with opposable thumbs and his mother probably has a history of property damage.”
“He’s twelve ounces, Aaron. His crimes are limited to spilling formula on my bra and wetting his bed.”
Jack giggled at your comeback. Bandit, sensing new attention, gave a sleepy chirp and stretched, revealing the white milk mustache on his snout.
Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose so hard you worried for the cartilage. “Guest bathroom. Heating pad. Laundry basket with the mesh lid. And the moment he’s weaned, he’s going to the outdoor enclosure at the rescue. Are we clear?” He countered, trying his hardest to get the animal out of his house.
It wasn't that he was totally against you bringing clients home, but when you'd bought the house and discussed the possibilities, he'd meant a dog or a cat, even a parrot would've been better than this.
“Crystal,” you said sweetly.
He knew you were lying. You both knew.
Four Nights Later, you’d finally crashed hard around 3 a.m. after the midnight and 3 a.m. bottles, positive that the 6 a.m. feed was a problem for Future You. Except when you shuffled downstairs, bleary-eyed and already dreading the syringe of kitten milk replacer, you froze on the bottom step.
Hotch: Unit Chief, permanent frown on his face, the man who once stared down the barrel of a serial killer's gun without flinching, was perched at the kitchen table in the low light of the rising sun, still in his boxers and an old t-shirt.
Bandit was cradled in the crook of his left arm like he’d done this a thousand times, which he kind of had when Jack had been a baby.
A clean tea towel was draped over his shoulder. The bottle, warmed to exactly 100°F, because of course he’d checked, was angled perfectly, and he was swirling it gently between sips to keep air bubbles down, the way the rescue’s vet techs had taught you when you started working there. You'd come home excited that day, telling him every little detail from your first day.
His voice was barely audible as he spoke to the raccoon, that soft murmur he used when Jack had nightmares.
“Easy, little man. You’ll hiccup again… there you go. Good job.”
Bandit’s tiny black hands clutched Hotch's thumb. His little tail flicked happily as he gulped down the milk.
You must have made some sound, half laugh, half sob, because Hotch's head snapped up. For one glorious second, his face was completely open: soft, rumpled, and utterly besotted. Then horror crashed over it like a wave.
“This isn’t—” he started.
“Oh, it one thousand percent is,” you whispered, padding closer.
“He was crying,” he said defensively, shifting the kit higher against his chest. “Loud, repetitive distress vocalizations. I thought he might be cold. Or constipated. I don't know. I was… assessing.”
“Mm-hmm. Assessing with burping techniques and everything.”
The raccoon chose that moment to release an enormous milk-bubble burp directly into the tea towel. He, with the reflexes of a seasoned father, immediately shifted to pat his back in perfect circles.
You leaned over the back of his chair, resting your chin on his shoulder, close enough to smell formula and warm raccoon on Hotch's skin.
“You’re using the football hold. That’s advanced-level bottle feeding, Hotchner.”
“I read the rescue’s care sheet,” he muttered, cheeks actually pink, as if he were embarrassed to tell you. “Three times.” You just found it endearing that, despite his protests, he was still trying to support your work with these creatures.
Bandit squeaked, abandoned the bottle, and attempted to climb Hotch's chest like a fuzzy mountaineer. He instinctively cupped the kit’s butt to keep him from sliding and hurting himself.
“Admit it. You love him.” You bit your lip so hard it hurt.
“I do not—” Bandit shoved his whole face into Hotch's neck and started making tiny contented huffing noises. Hotch's traitorous hand came up to cradle the back of the raccoon’s head, thumb stroking the soft fur between his ears. “—He’s… adequate.”
“Adequate,” you repeated, grinning so wide your face ached.
He sighed, the sound of a man who had profiled serial killers and negotiated with terrorists but was finally, utterly defeated by twelve ounces of orphaned trash panda. “He grabs my finger when he’s sleepy,” he admitted in the smallest voice. “It’s… objectively cute.”
“You’re a raccoon dad now, honey.” You pressed a kiss to his temple.
He closed his eyes like he was praying for strength. “If Morgan or Rossi ever finds out—”
“He will never let you live it down. I’m fully prepared to blackmail you for extra foot rubs.”
Bandit yawned, revealing a tiny pink tongue and two minuscule front teeth, then promptly fell asleep wedged under Hotch's chin, paws tangled in the collar of his T-shirt.
Hotch looked down at the sleeping kit, something achingly tender crossing his face before he could school it back to neutrality.
“—He stays until he’s fully weaned and climbing like a maniac,” he said at last. “Then an enclosure in the backyard. Then soft release in spring.”
You rested your forehead between his shoulder blades, smiling so hard it hurt. “Of course.”
⟡ consistently wonders if you’re bored of her, despite all of your attention focusing on her at all times. she doesn’t ask for reassurance, but you give it anyway—smiling at her with those soft, pretty eyes of yours paired with a smile that could feed continents.
⟡ when your mood is slightly off, even if it’s just stress from work, her mind races with the wildest of things—and she tries really hard to fix it, poor angel. buys you extra snacks, makes sure your bath is extra bubbly, doubles down on your body massage, and manages to politely ask if your period had came.
⟡ stares at her body in the mirror more often than she’d like, her silver eyes tracing every curve and edge of her scars—the same ones you’d kissed the few times she’d allowed. she wondered how such a perfect, desired woman like you would end up with some grumpy bat like her. she’s rough where you are gentle, sarcastic where you are compassionate.
⟡ watches your interactions with other women closely, listens intently—eyes sharp and features guarded. like she’s expecting you to leave her like the rest at any given moment (you always end up introducing her to that person, calling her names like “my wife” or “my fiancée”), but her shoulders visibly relax when you return to her and lace your fingers with hers.
⟡ was scared to pop the question, but when she did, your reaction was everything you’d hoped for and more. it had cost a pretty penny, after all. at any given chance, you’d show off your ring with the widest of smiles and proudly joke: “now it’s official.”
𖹭 content ˎˊ˗ threesome , kissing , groping , drooling , everyone has pussies , smutty , belt leash , strap , nipple sucking , strap sucking , anal fingering , bartender!reader , use of petnames ( ‘princess’ , ‘sugar’ ) , slight overstimulation , competitive behaviour , spanking , choking , degradation , reader is freaky • 2.1k words
~ 15 under dni 𖦹
The bar was busier than usual.
That was kind of expected. You didn’t look up when Sevika entered the bar. Her tall presence never needed much announcing anyway. The light bounced off her perfectly highlighting her sharp features and her silver eyes.
She stopped right in front of the bar counter and waited for you to acknowledge her. Only you never did. She smirked— see, you were probably the only woman in Zaun who could give her an attitude and not get your teeth knocked right in.
You smiled finally— very forced, very tight and very exaggerated, “what can I get for you?”
“I’m not here to play games today, sweetheart,” she leaned against the counter, elbow on the top, “how ’bout you hop off the job for a bit, come into the back and we can play a little game…”
She let her words linger, the sensuality of it not exactly subtle. You rolled your eyes as you cleaned a glass, you set it down and filled it with whatever liquor one of the rowdier tables had ordered.
“You’d think after years of getting rejected to the face you’d grow a brain,” then with the survival instinct of a housecat, you flicked her forehead, “apparently not.”
Her hand snapped up, grabbing a hold of your wrist— not tight but firm. “Careful, doll,” she put your hand down slowly, “you play with fire you get burnt.”
“Well, I don’t know what you’re implying— shove this up your ass, be quiet, and stop asking me out,” you put a bottle of vodka on the counter top, giving her that no-nonsense stare, “I’m too busy this shift— I’ve got important people coming and—”
Just as you said that, Sheriff Grayson walked in the bar.
You sighed, “there we go, now come on, go go go!”
But much to your surprise, Grayson came and stood right there beside Sevika. Your eyebrows furrowed. Sevika smirked softly, tilting her head.
“You were saying?” Her fingers closed around the neck of the bottle regardless.
Your eyes travelled between them both, unsure. You blinked, “u-umm… I don’t really— I—”
That’s when the doors opened again, revealing the Noxian warrior— Ambessa Medarda herself standing right there. You could’ve fainted. You grabbed the counter, forcing yourself to focus. Suddenly, the bar had gotten very much quieter. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears.
“Sevika? What’s going on?” You managed to ask, but your voice shook and gave away just how astonished you were.
Sevika leaned closer, her mechanical arm holding the edge of the table and organic hand curled around the bottle. You could smell the smoke on her breath— usually whenever she tried to get close to you, you always denied proximity and pushed her away but today you remained still, frozen with shock. Ambessa and Grayson watched you with amused looks, you couldn’t tear your gaze away from either of them.
“Room with you, doll,” Sevika whispered, “I know you want it, quit playin’ hard to get, you ain’t that,” she licked her teeth, “come on, your—” she nodded to your friend standing behind you, wiping a glass— well, he was wiping a glass. Now, he was just as shocked at everyone else in the bar. “—buddy to take over.”
And with that, the trio left for the back. You stared after them for a bit before you shoved everything to his hands and followed after.
The room was dimly lit. Sevika and Grayson were on either side of the room, leaned against the wall as if they had all the time in the world. Ambessa remained at the centre, carefully tracing the glove line of her hand as her eyes shifted to hold gaze with yours.
“I presume none of the two of them have offered any context,” Ambessa said, eyes never leaving yours.
You swallowed thickly, and when you tried to speak your voice came out high-pitched, like a croak, or maybe a squeak. But it definitely wasn’t your voice. You cleared your throat, cheeks now red. You could feel Sevika’s stare on you— that stare that said “I’ve waited too long to see you all flustered like this.”
You didn’t put up a fight, instead, you tried to put on a brave front— “okay, let’s play a game,” you unbuttoned the first few buttons of your shirt, slowly advancing down. All their eyes followed your hands’ movements. “Every one of you get to fuck me— but the one who manages to make me feel the best wins.”
“Well, that’s quite the competition,” Ambessa purred, her big rough hand raising and resting on your waist as she watched you tug down your shirt, revealing your bra-clad tits.
“Only fair,” you gave her a brief smile, revealing more skin to the three women who looked like thirsty animals in heat, as if they’d pounce on you any second and rip away any clothing on you to shreds— only if they could.
Your bra and top dropped to the ground and you saw how Grayson’s lips parted. You bit your bottom lip— subtle but just the right bit of playfulness.
“Like what you see?” You ran a hand down your own waist, unbuckling your belt. It fell to the floor with a dull clinking sound from all the charms on it— your skirt and panties were quick to follow.
You were bare now.
And they were gawking at your naked body unashamedly.
You didn’t need to ask them to start. Before you could even collect yourself, Sevika stepped forward, boot heavy on the ground. Her hand reached your jaw, warmth against your skin as she tilted your head up murmuring a barely audible little “c’mere, beauty,” and she kissed you.
You let out a small squeak into the kiss, hands hovering awkwardly as if unsure if you were allowed to touch the mechanical parts of her body. One of Ambessa’s hands found one of yours, her other hand squeezing and kneading your ass cheeks as if she was testing the softness on each curve.
Grayson joined in— husky laugh leaving her as she came up from behind Sevika, her hands groping your tits. That’s when you realised it wasn’t even just you— it was between these three women as well. Grayson kissed Sevika’s jaw, Ambessa kissed yours. You tried to hump against Sevika’s thigh, and that made Ambessa press her pelvis against your ass— no, she didn’t have a dick, but the authority in every little action of hers was enough to make you feel absolutely helpless and vulnerable.
You were now on your hands and knees as Sevika’s hands smoothed out your ass as if she was soothing you for what was to come. Her strap was obscenely big and the bulbous head pressed against your soak entrance— a clear image of the big strap head trying to fit in your tight cunt.
You grunted as she slowly pushed herself inside. Grayson climbed under your body, her mouth finding your tits.
You gasped, “G-Gray!”
The name slipped out like second nature. She didn’t scold you. She focused on making you feel good, her warm tongue running over your hardened nipple as she twisted and tugged the other. It stung and felt too good, a little too much. Grayson’s attention to your tits never wavered, her mouth leaving hickeys and teeth nipping against the soft skin as if she was giving you something personal to remember her by.
You felt Sevika bottom out— a small hiss of pain left you. Sevika paused, “too much?”
You shook your head and pushed back against her strap, making a loud wet sound out. That made your cheeks redden but you didn’t stop, “keep fucking me,” you whispered.
Sevika squeezed your ass, “as you say, sugar,” she pulled back, the tip of the strap bumped against your clit and swiftly enough— she repositioned it to your slit and slammed herself entirely inside in one thrust.
It made you gasp, tears springing to your eyes.
Grayson chuckled, your tits bouncing on her face as her arms came around your torso slowly, “that’s it, princess, you take us so well…”
You could barely register what either of them said— that’s when you felt the bulbous silicone head of another strap poking your bottom lip.
You glanced up— Ambessa.
You swore you almost had a nosebleed right then and there from the sight of her body alone.
It was the epitome of perfectly sculpted muscle, you stared hard at her and when you realised you were gawking at her abs— you mentally slapped yourself and told yourself to look away but no matter how hard you tried, she looked too scrumptious to miss.
Ambessa, finding it amusing, held the shaft, “come on, little one, y’know what to do,” she probed your mouth again.
You looked up, eyes meeting hers. Sevika’s pace slowed as she watched the interaction as well— invested. You held the shaft with one hand, hand over Ambessa’s comically bigger one and licked the tip first while maintaining eye contact.
Ambessa’s breath hitched as she watched the way you slowly took the length in your mouth. You closed your eyes, passionately almost, your nose getting tickled slightly by Ambessa’s bush when you deep throated the entire toy. It made Sevika’s pace almost halt from surprise alone. The way you stare up at Ambessa was both stunning and filthy at the same time. The kind that stole the warrior’s breath away and made her feel the need to fuck your face dirty the same time.
You started pushing back as you continued sucking Ambessa’s strap— that seemed to knock the other two women to their senses and Sevika slammed herself in again. You moaned around the strap, vibrations travelled down the silicone, and the base ground against Ambessa’s swollen clit. Grayson bit the spot just above your collarbone making you choke on the length in your mouth but you didn’t let that stop you.
“She’s such a fucking catch,” Sevika muttered, slapping your ass and grabbing a handful of the flesh, squeezing.
Grayson nodded, “yeah, she is, she’s unique— different from every lady I’ve ever come across, I’d say,” perhaps she just meant to say ‘freaky’ but didn’t want to come off as offensive.
“She’s a little freak,” Sevika said, her words not devoid of affection when she reached down and pried the belt out of her fallen pants.
She looped the leather in a way it formed a loop and leash. She looped it around your neck and tugged to see if it was secure. It was— so she leaned down and whispered—
“If it becomes too much, you tap twice, mm’kay?”
You nodded, mouth full of Ambessa’s strap.
Sevika yanked the belt back. At first you gagged, but the tightness of your throat only made it harder to suck Ambessa’s strap but oh, you wanted to be a good slut for them. You wanted to be able to take them like the pro that you were. You weren’t about to tap out. Not yet. Not so soon. You pulled back a little, drool running down the corner of your mouth.
Grayson watched you, shocked for a bit, “oh, good Lord, she’s actually doing this…” she whispered as she watched the way you devoured Ambessa’s cock despite getting constantly choked by the strap.
“She’s clenching, too,” Sevika laughed softly.
Ambessa didn’t pass any comment but her hand remained in your hair, gently stroking back your sweaty strands. “That’s a good girl, would you look at that?” She whispered, her voice low and raspy. It made you want more friction to your stupidly wet cunt.
Sevika slapped your ass once again, sticking inside her thumb. “Oh, Janna— she’s got a lewd little hole back here too, just swallows my finger in,” Sevika thrusted her thumb slowly— letting it sink in just enough to give you that burning sting before Sevika pulled it back.
“W-wait, d-don’t just— oh, fuck,” you were beyond red in the face when you felt Sevika playing with both your holes.
Ambessa chuckled, “it’s alright, you can take it, can’t you, sweet one?”
You didn’t know what to answer with— ’yes’ sounded too slutty. ‘No’ sounded like you were quitting and you were not a quitter. Not when you got to sleep with three amazing women at once. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and you wouldn’t have traded that for nothing.
So, instead of verbally answering, you kissed her strap head and took her back in your mouth.
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