Fanfic!

sideblog for reblogging any fanfiction I am obsessed with.

[written-smitten]

Reader finds Hopper’s handcuffs in his car and she’s curious to know what it’s like to get fucked while she’s handcuffed❤️‍🔥

Oh bestie, have you read this one? Anon wanted Hopper cuffing reader & banging her against the car. So that’s what I wrote:

Enjoying the Show

NSFW Content • MDNI

There’s also cuffed-sex in this one, but it’s not the focus of the story:

Vice Grip

NSFW Content • MDNI

[hotchnersgirll]

let me love you — a. hotchner

summary: it takes you almost kissing someone else for him to realise just how much he cares

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader

warnings: angst, tension, angry kisses, jealous!hotch, he's so hot, did i mention tension? bcs there's so much tension tension tension, a few swears, her bag sort of disappears.. oops

word count: 5.2k (oops x2)

Aaron doesn’t even look at you anymore.

Okay, that’s not true — he does. When he has to. When there’s a case file in his hands and you’re just another member of the team he needs to brief — another agent he’s in charge of. When there’s a question about geographical profiling or victimology and you’re the one who can answer it. When he’s assigning roles and has to say your name.

But everything outside of that? Nothing. Cold silence. Controlled distance.

And it killed you.

You wouldn’t even know you kissed him. More than once. Wouldn’t know how his hands felt in your hair, or how he’d said your name like it physically hurt him. Wouldn’t know that there was a moment — no, a string of moments — where he looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him to earth.

Because now? Now he’s pretending none of it ever happened.

And the worst part?

You know he still wants you.

Not in the arrogant way. Not in the I’m-so-irresistible kind of way. No — you know it because you see it. In the way his eyes flicker to you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. In the way his jaw ticks when Morgan jokes too casually with you. In the way he goes quiet when your laugh cuts across the room — his lips pressing into a thin line while his body tenses, almost like he’s trying to stop himself from laughing along.

He wants you. And he’s made that clear before.

But he’s also your boss. Older. Emotionally constipated. A man who shuts people out just before they get too close.

So of course, he made the decision for both of you. Of course, he pulled away, said it wasn’t appropriate, said you needed to keep it professional. Of course, he slammed that wall up between you and iced you out like he didn’t miss you the moment he left.

And now? Now you’re in Florida. The local PD is stretched thin, there’s a suspected spree killer hitting tourist-heavy areas along the I-4 corridor, and you’re operating out of some small, humid precinct where the AC rattles and no one knows how to use a case board.

Hotch pairs you with Officer Pretty Smile — an actual cop, around your age, golden tan, charming, full of casual grins and easy compliments. You don’t even hear most of what Hotch says when he assigns you; you’re too busy fuming at the fact that he’s done it again.

Just like the last two cases, he pairs you with some random officer, keeps you away from the scene, away from the precinct, away from anywhere he might be — in a way, he’s not letting you do your job.

Distanced from the rest of the team, you’re not much help.

How is that professional?

You know the game he’s playing. Avoidance. Distance. Control.

You’re sick of it.

But Officer Pretty Smile — his name’s Ryan — doesn’t seem to mind the stormcloud hanging over your head. He makes it easy to forget, just a little. He’s perceptive, actually listens when you talk, knows when to make you laugh and when to stay quiet. It’s a relief.

He flirts — lightly, respectfully — and you flirt back. Why shouldn’t you?

Aaron’s the one who put this wall up. He’s the one not speaking to you.

You don’t owe him your loyalty if he won’t even look at you outside of a damn case briefing.

The case wraps up after a few days of gruelling profiling, false leads and one late-night stakeout that finally caught your UnSub at a rest stop. You’re debriefing the locals, coordinating transport and starting to pack things up when Ryan walks you out to the parking lot.

He offers you his number, and you take it, pocketing it with a smile that widens when he leans in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. It’s innocent, really. Careful and sweet, but when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His face stays close, breath brushing against your skin as his eyes lock onto yours.

Then his gaze drops — not just to your lips, but the space between you — like he’s weighing the distance and what to do about it. It takes a breath or two before he meets your eyes again.

He leans in, slower this time, and his lips just barely graze yours. A featherlight touch that barely classifies as a kiss. It’s more of a hesitation. A silent question — do you want this too?

Yes, you do.

You answer by lifting a hand and placing it gently on his jaw, your touch light but certain.

He exhales softly, and his hands move to your waist, holding you like he’s been wanting to all day.

Your lips are so close, a breath away, and just as you’re about to close the gap—

“Agent!”

Aaron’s voice cuts through the humid Florida air like a gunshot, sharp enough to turn heads. It’s not just a call — it’s a warning. A demand. His tone carries weight, and everyone nearby instinctively pauses, glancing over to where he stands near the SUV, his jaw tight, posture coiled like he’s seconds away from snapping.

You freeze.

Where the fuck did he spawn from?

Ryan pulls back, but not completely. His hands stay on your waist, holding you close, as his eyes look over your shoulder.

You, however, don’t turn around — stubbornly refusing to give Hotch the satisfaction of ruining this moment.

He can wait.

He can watch.

You keep your gaze locked on Ryan. On his lips that are a bit further away than before, parted in confusion as he stares at your boss.

Your fingers shift slightly against his jaw — a gentle nudge meant to draw his attention back to you. And it works. His eyes flicker away from whatever intensity Hotch is radiating behind you and settle back on yours.

You lean in, slow and deliberate, and the moment you do, he seems to forget everything else as he leans in too.

And, just like before, just as your lips graze—

“Agent!”

Somehow, his voice is harsher than before — each syllable laced with barely contained fury.

Your hands fall from Ryan’s face and drop to your sides as you sigh, letting your head dip forward slightly.

“What’s his problem?” Ryan murmurs, his frustration mirroring yours as he shoots Aaron a brief, irritated glance before turning his attention back to you.

You lift your head, just enough to meet his eyes again, and mutter, “I don’t know. He’s just—” You wave a hand vaguely behind you. “A hardass.” You pause. “Or an ass. A normal ass. Whichever floats your boat.”

Ryan snorts, nodding as he looks back at Aaron. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You smile, wide and genuine. “Well then,” you say, looking up at him, “duty calls.”

He nods, looking a bit reluctant as he returns your smile and asks, “Will I see you again before you go?”

You hesitate, just for a second, before finally glancing over your shoulder.

Hotch stands by the entrance of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office — arms crossed, back stiff, jaw tight. His eyes are locked on you like he’s trying to dissect every inch of the moment he just interrupted. He looks furious. Controlled, as always, but furious nonetheless.

You look back at Ryan. “Probably not.”

There’s a brief pause — just a breath of silence — before he nods. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for anything more. Instead, he steps in and kisses your cheek again, soft and quick, like a quiet goodbye. When he pulls back, he lets his hand brush down your arm before stepping away.

You turn without another word, lowering your head as you approach Aaron. With each step, the feeling of his stare on you burns hotter, sharper.

You stop in front of him, standing there for a moment before you glance up.

His blazer is off, his blue button-up clinging slightly to his skin. His sunglasses perched on his nose and his jaw is tight.

You hate yourself for thinking that he looks hot.

You cross your arms, exhaling sharply before saying, “You called?”

He doesn’t waste a second. “Get the scene logs from the officers inside. I want them scanned and uploaded before we leave for the jet.”

His tone is dry, detached. The words hang in the air like a weight that doesn’t match the way he’s looking at you. His expression is stone-cold, all business, and it only fuels the frustration coursing through you.

You blink, your chest tightening. That’s it? That’s the urgent reason he called you out of a kiss like the sky was falling?

It’s a bullshit task. You both know it.

But he’s your Unit Chief. And right now, he’s pulling rank — not for the case. The case is over. Solved.

He’s doing it for himself, and it makes you want to scream.

You bite back the thousand things you want to say, give a tight nod, and walk past him without a glance.

—

On the jet, the tension is unbearable.

Aaron is sitting near the front, a stack of case files spread in front of him that he hasn’t touched since takeoff. He just stares at them, unmoving, like he’s willing them to make him forget.

You’re in the back, headphones on, glaring out the window as your forehead rests against the glass of it.

The others feel it — the tightrope tension stretching across the cabin. No one says a word.

After a while, you can’t help but glance his way, your eyes rolling when you see how he’s glaring at the files in front of him.

He’s clearly seething. The image of you, about to kiss someone else, seemed to be carved into his memory.

If he’d been closer, he might’ve punched the guy. Hell, if he wasn’t so goddamn professional, he might’ve dragged you away himself.

But he didn’t. He waited. He watched.

He hates that he waited.

And now he’s stewing in it.

When the jet lands, everyone moves quickly — eager to escape the static pressure in the air. You stand, grabbing your go-bag before heading for the stairs.

And then — low, sharp, right in front of you:

“Stay.”

He’s still seated, leaning forward slightly, elbow propped on the table. His hand is pressed to his face, fingers buried in his hair while his palm digs into his temple like he’s desperately trying to hold his thoughts together.

His eyes are closed — not from sleep, but something heavier — and despite the jet landing, his papers are still out, strewn in front of him. Clearly, he’d given up trying to read them — or pretending to read them.

His face is taut, shadowed — caught in a quiet storm of exhaustion or thought. Maybe both.

He looks really hot.

Swallowing, you will that thought away.

‘Stay.’ He had said, in a tone that made you freeze — one that left no room for argument.

You hesitate, your grip on your bag tightening a bit as you stare before deciding.

No.

With your lips set in a frown, you start walking again.

Just as you’re about to move past him, though, his hand reaches out to wrap around your wrist.

You tense, his touch making you feel warm and a bit breathless despite your anger.

“I said stay.” His voice cuts through the quiet — steady with an edge that sends a jolt through you.

Shit.

You look down at him, jaw set. “Let go.”

He doesn’t move at first — just lifts his eyes to meet yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. Then he exhales before rising to his feet in a fluid motion. His grip on your wrist doesn’t loosen as he stands over you, shoulders squared.

You falter, thrown by the sudden nearness. “Hotch—”

“Aaron.” He interrupts you, his eyes narrowing as he stares down at you. His tone is sharp, stern like hearing his last name offended him.

“Hotch.” You repeat it, just to piss him off.

If distance is what he wants, distance is what he’ll get.

He stares at you for a second before exhaling, a tired look in his eyes as he says, “We need to talk.”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” Your voice rises a bit and you barely manage to hold back a laugh. “You ignore me for weeks, send me off like I’m a problem you can delegate, and now — suddenly — you want to talk?”

His jaw clenches. “You don’t understand—”

“No. You don’t get to—“

Before you can finish what you’re saying, he uses his grip on your wrist to pull you into him. Fuelled by everything he hasn’t said, it’s not a gentle gesture.

You gasp as you stumble forward, crashing into his chest. Your cheek brushes the soft fabric of his shirt and your hand splayed instinctively against him for balance. When your eyes finally meet his, he’s already looking down at you — jaw tense, eyes dark, your faces now inches apart.

“You were going to kiss him.” His voice is quiet, but the words hit harder than if he’d shouted them.

His grip on your wrist tightens slightly, and for a moment, he closes his eyes. The sight of you both leaning in replays in his mind — the tension in his jaw is visible as his lips press into a line. His expression looks as if the image physically hurt him.

When he opens them again, his eyes lock onto yours, searching, checking to see if you understand the severity of it.

Your lips are parted as you stare at him.

You’re not surprised that he brought it up. You knew it was coming, but the way he says it — the weight in his voice — wasn’t something you were expecting.

His words carried an undertone of pain that make you falter. It’s not just about the kiss, you realise. It’s about everything he’s been holding in.

“You were about to kiss him.” He repeats, slower than before, his eyes still boring into yours.

Hearing the word ‘kiss’ a second time, along with the sudden proximity, had your gaze falling to his lips.

You couldn’t help it.

You looked back up quickly to find his eyes still on you.

A flicker of guilt creeps into your chest — something small, unwanted. Maybe it’s the way his voice quietened when he said it. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, like he wasn’t prepared for how much it hurt him — you almost kissing someone else.

For a split second, you start to feel bad.

But it doesn’t last.

Not when you remember the last few weeks — how he’s iced you out, kept his distance like you didn’t matter, like the moments you shared never happened.

Your jaw tightens and your brows furrow in the way they always do when you’re annoyed.

“Stop.” You say, the word sharper than you intended. Shaking your head, your voice comes out quieter the second time. “Just… stop.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you — eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to read you.

Like he’s trying to profile you.

What happened to never profiling each other? Probably the same thing that happened to being ‘professional’.

“You’re being unfair, Aaron.”

You avert your gaze, unable to hold his anymore. It drops to his chest — the fabric of his shirt stretched a bit beneath your hands that are still resting there. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, slightly faster than it should be.

He has no right to be upset, you think, and it takes everything in you not to say it out loud first. But when you look back up at him, your anger catches fire again, sharp and unforgiving.

“You’re the one who pushed me away.” You bite out, voice low. “You iced me out. For weeks, Aaron.”

Your words land heavy in the space between you, but you don’t stop.

“You told me we couldn’t—” You falter slightly, pain catching in your throat, “—that we had to keep things professional. And then you avoided me. You acted like I didn’t matter.”

His jaw flexes again, but he says nothing.

“And now what?” you continue. “Now you’re upset because I almost kissed someone else? You don’t get to pull me in two different directions like this. You can’t tell me to stay away, and then look at me like that when someone else gets close.”

His hand is still on your waist, his grip on your wrist still firm. He hasn’t let go, hasn’t backed off, and that makes it worse — the contradiction of it. The ache of being wanted but not claimed.

“It’s confusing. You’re confusing.” My voice goes back to being quiet as I lower my gaze again, missing the way his expression softens a bit.

It softens because he knows you’re right.

He can’t argue with you, not really. Not when you’re looking at him like that. Or rather, not looking at him at all. Your eyes are fixed on his chest now, lips pressed together in that tight little frown that always means you’re trying not to show how hurt you are.

He can’t argue with you because you’re right.

He’s being unfair, and the guilt of that realization hits him instantly, swallowing him whole. The weight of his own selfishness also sinks in, making him feel stupid for not realizing how much he’s hurt you.

When the silence stretches for too long, you look up, and your frown deepens when you see how he’s watching you.

“Stop profiling me.” Your voice shakes a bit as you try to yank yourself free of his grip. But Aaron doesn’t let go. His hands stay firm on your waist, like letting go would mean losing something he’s not ready to give up.

It only makes you angrier.

You shove at his chest, hard, but he barely budges. “Let go.” you snap, glaring up at him, but his expression doesn’t shift. He just watches you, jaw tight, eyes unreadable behind the shield of his silence.

That silence cuts deeper than anything.

“You ignored me for weeks!” you shout, your voice rising, cracking with something raw. “You didn’t even look at me. You shut me out like I meant nothing!”

You try again to pull away, like his touch burns. Like the heat of his hands is searing through your skin, cracking you open.

And it hurts him — more than he thought it would. Watching you try to escape him like he’s done something unforgivable — which he has — makes something twist in his chest. He wants to fix it, but he doesn’t know how. Every word you throw at him lands like a blow, and still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go.

He just hurts.

“Let go!” you yell, louder now, fists balled as you push at him again. “I said fuck off, Aaron!”

You look up at him then — eyes blazing, cheeks flushed with anger, your frown etched deep into your face. The fury in your expression is undeniable, and it hits him like a punch.

And before he even realizes what he’s doing — he kisses you.

It comes out of nowhere. Like something snaps inside him, like instinct. It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s angry and desperate and messy—like he’s trying to shut you up and apologize all at once. Like everything he’s been holding back has just erupted, too big to contain.

You freeze at first, tensing against it, breath caught in your throat.

But then you break.

Your hands fist in the lapels of his blazer, gripping hard like you need something to hold you upright. Your lips move against his with the same kind of fury you’d just thrown at him — like this is a fight, too. But somewhere in that chaos, your shoulders slump, and so do his.

Like you’re both exhaling for the first time in weeks.

Like this is the first breath either of you has taken since everything fell apart.

His hands move — one, then both — rising to cradle your face, fingers splayed across your cheeks like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You pull back first, breaking the kiss with a gasp, your breath catching somewhere between his mouth and your own. His grip loosens, and for a second, something like a whine escapes him — soft and involuntary — like he can’t believe you’re already pulling away.

You’re breathless. Lips swollen. Heart racing.

“You’re such an asshole.” you hiss, voice low, hoarse, but still furious.

His eyes darken. “You were gonna kiss him.”

“Stop repeating that!” you snap, but there’s no bite behind it now — just exhaustion and heat and emotion so tangled you can’t separate any of it.

You don’t even think about it — you just lean in again, drawn like a magnet. And this time, he meets you halfway. Your lips part just before they touch, and when they do, it feels like the ground shifts beneath you. Like the jet could be spinning or crashing and you wouldn’t even notice.

It’s slower, deeper — but just as intense. His hands are still on your face, and yours are clinging to him like you don’t trust gravity anymore.

But then he pulls away.

His forehead drops to yours — close, so close — and for a moment you almost let him stay there. But something in you twists, and you turn your head just slightly, breaking the contact. You keep your eyes shut, breathing shallow, your face turned toward the wall of the jet like if you don’t look at him, you can hold onto the last piece of your anger.

His heart sinks.

“I’m sorry.” he says, his voice quieter now. Cracked open. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

You don’t move. Don’t look.

“I— I thought it was the right thing.” he says, and now it’s all unraveling, everything he’s shoved down clawing its way out. “I didn’t know how to handle what I felt for you. I didn’t know if I should. So I convinced myself the best thing — the most responsible thing — was to shut it down. To shut you out.”

He lets out a breath, sharp and rough. “I told myself you’d be better off. That you didn’t need someone like me — someone older, someone who barely knows how to process his own shit, let alone drag you into it. My hours are a nightmare, I’m exhausted all the time, and I have nothing to give you except… this mess.”

His voice softens but doesn’t steady. “And if Strauss found out, she wouldn’t hesitate to pull you off the team. To punish you for something that was always my fault.”

You still don’t speak. Your eyes remain closed.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says again, quieter now, like it physically hurts to say. “But it felt like cutting off my own oxygen. Seeing you every day, hearing your voice, pretending you were just another agent — it fucking destroyed me. Every moment I stayed away, I felt like I was unraveling. But I thought… if I could just hold the line a little longer, maybe I could let you go.”

His voice cracks then, barely above a whisper. “But I couldn’t. I can’t.”

You don’t say anything, and the silence eats at him. He shifts slightly, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to read anything — any flicker of emotion, of softness, of something.

“Please say something.” he murmurs.

There’s no anger in him anymore. Just regret. Just longing.

“I haven’t slept,” he says, after a second. “Not really. Not since I let you go. You’ve been in my head every day. Every night. You walk into the room and I can’t think straight. I hear your voice down the hall and I forget what I’m doing. It’s pathetic.”

Then gently — cautiously — he reaches out, fingers brushing against your chin. He turns your face to him, coaxing your eyes to his.

And when you look at him, he looks wrecked.

There’s exhaustion in his features, shadows beneath his eyes, but it’s the look in them that breaks you: raw, sincere, desperate. Like you’re the only thing anchoring him to earth right now.

“I’m sorry.” he says again, like it’s the only thing he has left to give. Like he means it with everything he’s got.

And he does.

It’s silent for a second.

His eyes search yours, unsure and a little frantic, like he’s trying to profile you again — trying to get an understanding of whatever’s going on in your mind.

He gives up quickly, wanting to find out whatever it is your thinking from you yourself. But just as he’s about to ask, you kiss him.

When you pull back, your hands stay on him, sliding down to his chest where you can feel the rapid, uneven rhythm of his heart.

“I don’t expect you to be perfect, Aaron.” you murmur, voice soft but steady. “I’m not. I barely have my own shit together half the time. And I’m not looking for some ideal version of you — just you. The version that cares too much and thinks too hard and carries everything on his back like it’s his job to keep the world spinning.”

You pause, your eyes searching his, and he doesn’t look away.

“I don’t want anyone else.” you say, more firmly now. “I can’t want anyone else. My heart’s already decided. It’s you. It’s always been you. These past few weeks without you—feeling you pull away, watching you pretend like nothing mattered—that was hell. And if you think I just brushed it off and moved on, you really don’t know me at all.”

You don’t stop there, because you can see it — how he’s still doubting, still not sure what you see in him. So you tell him.

“You don’t even realize how much I see you.” you whisper. “How good you are. You’re strong, yeah, but you’re also… unbelievably kind. You’re the one who makes me feel stable when everything else is a mess. You make me feel safe without trying to control me. You make me feel… things I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling.”

His brow creases like he doesn’t know what to do with that, like it’s too much, too pure.

“And I don’t give a damn about your age. If anything, it makes you hotter.” you add with a breath of a laugh. “It means you’ve lived, you’ve learned, and you listen. You make me feel taken care of in a way no one ever has.”

He’s blinking at you like his brain short-circuited somewhere along the way.

“As for Strauss…” You shrug a little. “She’s not a profiler. We barely even see her. If we keep things professional at work, we’ll be fine. We’re good at this — at keeping calm under pressure. This isn’t gonna change that.”

Then you take one of his hands and hold it tightly, pressing your fingers to his palm.

“All I want,” you say, voice low, “is for you to let me love you.”

Something in him breaks. Or maybe it mends. You can’t quite tell.

His eyes widen just a little, and for a second he just stares at you — like his brain is still catching up. Like the word punched the breath right out of him.

“What?” he asks, the word so soft it’s barely audible.

“I just want to love you, Aaron.” you repeat, quieter this time, like it’s a promise.

His breath shudders out of him, and he leans forward again — not kissing you yet, just resting his forehead against yours, like he needs the grounding.

“I love you.” he says, the words raw and unfiltered. “And I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you next time — really talk. I won’t shut you out again. I won’t let myself forget what this feels like.”

“You better not.” you murmur.

And then he kisses you again.

It’s steadier now. Certain. Like he’s finally, finally giving in to the truth he’s been denying. Like he knows what he wants — and it’s you.

As your lips move together, the world outside the jet fades into the background. His hand moves slowly, purposefully, down your side, and then it shifts, lowering until he reaches into your pocket.

You pull away a little, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Before you can fully process it, he pulls out the small piece of paper — the one with Ryan’s number scrawled on it.

Your heart skips a beat. He saw that?

The thought stings for a second — had he seen everything? You’d assumed he’d stepped outside for some reason and had just happened to catch a glimpse of you two — coincidentally, when you were about to kiss.

But Aaron’s mind works in a different way. He had seen you leave with Ryan, noticed the way you two were talking, the smiles on your faces. And something in him tensed. He didn’t like it. The way you were walking so close, how easy it seemed between you. So he followed, curiosity gnawing at him. He hadn’t meant to — but it felt like he had to know.

You break the silence with a quiet question, still trying to make sense of it all. “You saw that?”

Aaron’s jaw tightens, his face flickering with a flash of frustration, then quickly hardening as he remembers it.

“I saw all of it.” he says, his voice colder than you expected. A wince pulls at his expression as he scrunches the paper up in his hand, turning to toss it in the small bin beside the exit of the jet, the movement sharp and final.

You can’t help but let out a small, amused laugh despite the tension. His reaction, his possessiveness — it’s almost too much to ignore. But then, before he can get too far in his thoughts, you soften and murmur an apology. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

He cuts you off with a question of his own, his gaze still intense as he watches you, his tone now a little guarded. “Were you actually going to kiss him?”

You blink, surprised by the bluntness, but you can’t help the smirk that slips onto your face. “Hey, you’re the one who paired me with him.”

Aaron rolls his eyes, the hint of frustration fading a little, but you can still see the sharp edge to his expression. “From now on, you’re with me for every case.”

You laugh at the thought, shaking your head, but the joke settles in as you reply, “I don’t think that’d help with keeping Strauss off our trail.”

Aaron chuckles, his eyes softening just a fraction, but he doesn’t back down. “I’ll risk it. It’s fine.”

Your laughter fills the space between you, and it warms Aaron’s heart more than he’d care to admit. He’s missed hearing it, hearing you so carefree, even when things feel a little chaotic.

He pulls you a little closer then, wrapping an arm around your waist as if he can’t let you go now that he’s got you. He starts guiding you off the jet with that same quiet confidence he always carries, but there’s something different now — a sense of peace between you both, even if the world outside still feels a little unsettled.

“You’re coming to my place.” he says, his voice low and steady. “I’m making you dinner.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

[mariasont]

father figure

4 times hotch acts like a father figure and the 1 time he most definitely does not.

bet u wanna meet the reader! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

pairing: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader

warnings: fem!reader, slow burn, age gap (reader is 20s, hotch is late 40s, iktr), dbf!hotch, power imbalance, boss/subordinate dynamic, mutual pining, daddy issues (reader... prob also hotch), fluff, hurt/comfort, touch starved reader, garcia sending dirty texts!!, reader having dirty thoughts!!, reader sending hotch a suggestive pic by accident whoops!!, they are sooooo down bad for each other

wc: 6.8k (shewww stfu already gurl)

1 THE NUCLEAR OPTION

Aaron Hotchner looks very, very out of place standing in your bedroom.

Not inappropriate. You want to be very clear about that. You are two fully grown adults with fully operational frontal lobes and a respectable understand of professional decorum.

There is nothing scandalous happening here beyond your own imagination, briefly supplying an image of him against your headboard before you swatted it away like a cat attempting to push a glass from a countertop.

It’s just… visually disorienting. 

He’s all severity and slate-gray composure now in a room rendered in blush and cream and the kind of girlish optimism that suggests you refuse to let your job bleach the color out of you.

He doesn’t fit, to put it plainly. Not physically (the man has shoulders like a structural beam) and definitely not symbolically. 

Despite this, he takes his time as he scans the space with a clinical neutrality that feels less like judgment per se and more like being positioned beneath an unforgiving forensic lamp, dusted for prints you didn’t realize you’d left behind.

Is he analyzing this? Is he building a psychological profile right now based on the chipped mug of pens beside your bed and the stuffed bear you can’t seem to get rid of? The half-burnt vanilla candle on your nightstand that, yes, you absolutely lit knowing he was coming — all of it suddenly looks childish. 

Embarrassing. Juvenile. 

This is how people die.

Not from shame, exactly, though that’s certainly trying its best, but from being comprehensively, devastatingly perceived by a man whose entire job is to see through facades.

He offered to wait by the door. Kindly. Considerably. With that quiet, unfussy courtesy that makes you sure, in the fullest sense of the word, he holds elevators open and always returns his shopping cart with solemn civic pride.

You should’ve let him. Really.

But no, instead of choosing the sensible option like someone who understands the boundaries of time, space, and self-preservation, you made a mistake. A fatal, irredeemable mistake.

You waved him in. 

And now, instead of standing respectfully beside your umbrella stand and politely pretending that driving you to the airport isn’t already a favor beyond what his job requires, Aaron Hotchner is in your bedroom.

What did you offer in exchange for this selfless act of transportation? Not coffee or gas money. Oh, just full unfiltered access to the inner circle of your private life.

You shove another sweater into your suitcase. 

“I promise I usually plan better than this,” you say, “but I got caught on a call with my landlord trying to determine whether my oven is gas or electric, which I apparently never clarified in three years of tenancy.” 

You hesitate, already regretting the admission, because he is a man who knows the make and model of every government-issued vehicle he’s ever driven. 

“In my defense,” you tack on quickly, “it functions. I press a button, it produces heat. We’ve maintained a very mutual, low-communication relationship.”

One of his eyebrow lifts, just enough to suggest that he has several thoughts and is choosing the kindest one.

“That’s the sort of thing you really should know,” he says, and there’s the faintest hint of dry humor threaded through the words, as if he’s allowing himself a single inch of amusement. “I can take a look when we get back.”

You let out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like nervous air leaking from a balloon you’ve been gripping too tightly.

“That’s — you don’t have to — you really don’t have to do that,” you rush out, tripping over your own politeness. “You are not responsible for my… appliance literacy. Or the alarming gaps within it.” You gesture helplessly at the room, at the half-packed suitcase. “You’re already doing so much. If I start assigning you household infrastructure, I’m pretty sure that qualifies as abuse of power.” You pause. “Not that I have any. Power, I mean. Very famously not in possession of that.”

He doesn’t bother disguising that same for of amusement this time that touches now his mouth.

“I’ve done worse favors.”

You squint at him.

“I feel like that says more about your life than it does about me.” You study him for a moment, then let your shoulders ease despite your best efforts. “Still. Thank you. I really do appreciate it.”

The words come out sincere, and for half a second the eye contact holds in a way that feels less professional and more… something else.

Which is your cue to flee into safer territory.

“Anyway, I am really excited about this conference. The keynote speaker is incredible. I’ve read three of her papers, and the case studies she’s presenting are the kind of things I used to read in grad school like they were campfire ghost stories.” You pause, reconsider. “More academic ghost stories. Less paranormal. Still pretty grim, though. Just… fascinating grim.”

He lets your excitement taper off unanswered, glancing down into your suitcase before lifting his eyes back to you.

“It’s going to be cold.”

You frown at derailment of the conversation. “...Yes?”

“You need a coat.”

“I have a coat,” you reply, pointing to the quilted white thing draped over your desk chair.

It has gold buttons. It is elegant. It is, admittedly, constructed with more outer-appearance than insulation.

“A real coat.”

“It is real,” you insist, because it exists, and you have worn it outside, and therefore it satisfies the basic criteria of outerwear under the laws of physics.

“You’ll freeze.”

You want to keep arguing. 

You want to explain that the coat you chose is mostly warm, that it performs adequately under reasonable atmospheric conditions, that packing the bulky, government-issued tundra shield he likely considers appropriate would have required sacrificing something essential. 

Like your backup flats, the only pair that doesn’t turn conference halls into endurance trials, or your travel straightener, which is less about aesthetics and more about appearing competent in harsh lighting.

But the look he gives you — so mild on the surface, so pointed beneath — drains the rebellion right out of your lungs.

Suddenly, it’s not about fashion or function. It’s about the existential need to not disappoint him. 

You cannot afford to lose even a sliver of the regard he has chosen to extend to you.

You hoard his approval the way a crow gathers bright scraps of tin and glass, tucking them into the hollow spaces inside you, convinced that if you collect enough of it, it might one day harden into something sturdy enough to stand on.

So you sigh, equal parts petulance and submission, and turn back toward the closet in search of something thicker.

You sift through your wardrobe and grab a soft navy peacoat. You smooth your palm over the fabric as if presentation alone might improve its chances, then hold it up with the careful hesitation of someone submitting evidence to the court. 

You don’t speak, but your eyes ask the question plainly: Is this acceptable? Does this restore confidence? Does this prove I can anticipate basic survival? 

He studies it for no more than a second before the verdict arrives in the form of a single shake of his head.

You exhale slowly, already holding a small, private funeral for your pride, and reach into the back of the closet for the final option.

The nuclear choice.

The coat you swore would remain undisturbed unless meteorologists began using phrases like “artic blast” or “polar vortex.”

It’s fleece-lined. Excessively practical. It is also deeply, almost maliciously unattractive.

It swallows you whole, reduces your silhouette to an amorphous mass, and renders you less woman-on-business-trip and more sentient sleeping bag with ambition.

He nods, once. “Atta girl.”

You hate how effortlessly those two words melt down the structural integrity of your independence liquefying into dopamine-slush.

He’s an asshole, you decide.

Because you are entirely certain he knows what it does to you, how his approval lands like a controlled substance you never consented to trying, let alone craving.

Sometimes you suspect he enjoys it, just a little, watching you attempt to maintain dignity while your internal self is spinning barefoot through a field of daisies, drunk on validation.

You duck your head quickly, hiding the smile that threatens to surface, and shove the coat into your suitcase as if you can compress the feeling along with it.

“You always this stubborn?”

You wrinkle your nose.

“I prefer the word… determined,” you say, keeping your tone light, flippant even. Then you exhale. “But yes. Probably.”

“I don’t want you getting sick.”

You freeze for a second before looking at him. He’s already watching you with that stupidly hot expression that means something, but never tells you what. 

Your throat tightens around something inconvenient. “Okay.”

He nods once, satisfied, like the matter has been properly resolved.

Then, almost as an afterthought, “Wear it on the plane.”

You huff a small breath through your nose.

“You’re surprisingly bossy for someone who isn’t technically supervising me right now.”

“Think of it as preventative strategy.”

You shake your head, but the smallest smile slips through despite yourself as you reach for the coat anyway. Because if his concern is the motive, then anything else suddenly feels… unnecessary.

And maybe a little unkind.

2 FORTY-TWO AND FORTY-THREE

The hotel is… not what you prepared for. You’d braced yourself for something sensible. Industrial carpet in a shade of brown that exists solely to forgive stains. The smell of disinfectant doing its honest, blue-collar best to mask a thousand anonymous overnights. Clean sheets, sure. Functional plumbing, ideally.

Maybe a little plant in the lobby that some waters too enthusiastically out of obligation rather than love.

Instead, there’s marble everywhere. Gold accents. Furniture that looks as though someone fluffs it between guests on a strict hourly rotation. 

It’s almost funny, the budgetary whiplash between “active serial killer in rural nowhere” and “please observe our institutional excellence.”

Apparently, when the FBI wants to project competence, it does so in chandeliers and imported stone.

“Did you manage to sleep on the flight?” you ask, hoping it sounds completely normal coming from your overextended mouth.

Which you are, to set the record straight. Normal. Very normal. A model of composure. The very portrait of workplace appropriateness.

Not, for example, someone who, five minutes ago at the front desk, briefly entertained the likelihood of an overbooking error and the subsequent moral dilemma of one room, one bed, and a shared look of well, this is unfortunate.

You did not, under any circumstances, imagine saying something graceful like, “Oh, I don’t mind the couch,” while secretly hoping there wasn’t one.

You are a rational human being, after all.

If your thoughts briefly detoured into logistical fantasy, that is simply narrative conditioning from too many romance novels dog-earred on your nightstand teaching you that proximity plus tension equals destiny. 

It is not a reflection of your character.

Probably.

Although the fact that your first instinct in a crisis is self-sacrifice for the sake of optics is… interesting. Something to unpack later. Preferably never.

“Enough,” he answers. “I wanted to make sure you did.”

Your pulse somersaults. You can’t figure out why.

“Oh. I did,” you assure him. 

“Good.” He inclines his head slightly. “Long day tomorrow.”

“Right,” you nod. “Can’t have me falling asleep mid-panel and drooling on a nationally recognized criminologist. That would be deeply damaging to the Bureau’s image.”

You tuck your hands into your coat pockets, hiding the nervous flex of your fingers, and lengthen your stride to keep pace with him.

He manages to walk with such an unrushed confidence that somehow never looks like an effort, and you fall into step beside him like you’ve been trained to it.

The hallway stretches ahead in muted tones and hotel anonymity, the carpet thick enough to swallow the sharp click of your heels as though it understands the value of discretion.

“I’ve reviewed your grad work,” he says calmly. “You’re more likely to correct the panel than fall asleep during it.”

You freeze.

“You have?”

It comes out before you can moderate the enthusiasm. 

Of course he has, you remind yourself quickly. He does not tolerate blind spots. You are an allocation of federal resources, and he is meticulous about ensuring his investments are strategically sound.

Still, the idea of him reading your thesis — your painstakingly footnoted, cross-referenced, over-edited labor of love — feels intimate in a way you hadn’t anticipated. 

You remember the nights you folded yourself around your laptop, hair twisted up, rereading paragraphs until the words blurred, muttering about theoretical frameworks and definitional clarity like they were moral obligations. 

You rewrote the introduction twelve times because it didn’t sound authoritative enough. You panicked over whether your sources were recent enough. Influential enough. Impressive enough.

Did he think it was disciplined? Did he see how hard you worked to make it unimpeachable? Did he notice where you rushed the methodology section because the deadline was breathing down your neck? Did he recognize the case study you were secretly proud of, the one you worried might read as ambition masquerading as competence?

“Yes.”

He looks at you, and for one breathless, precarious second you’re convinced he’s going to add something more. A descriptor. An evaluation. Something you could cradle later in private.

A word like “impressive,” perhaps. Or even “solid.”

You’d take solid. Solid is dependable. Solid can be examined from every angle at midnight while you’re brushing your teeth, replayed and replayed until it wears smooth. 

But he offers nothing else. He simply holds your gaze, and the silence lengthens until it becomes reflective, until you can see yourself inside it.

The flicker of expectation you tried to mute, the hopeful tilt of your expression, the subtle widening that betrays how badly you wanted confirmation.

You’re suddenly hyperaware of how readable you must be, how clearly you hunger for the thing he chose not to give.

He looks away first and keeps walking, and you’re left wondering whether the silence is mercy, sparing you from overinvestment, or leverage, something he’ll deploy when it serves him best.

You quicken your pace regardless, because composure feels optional and you are, inconveniently, invested in every unsaid thing.

You close the gap between you more quickly than necessary, nearly brushing his shoulder when he stops in front of two identical doors. 

Forty-two and forty-three.

Twin thresholds to separate, responsibly partitioned realities, as if a number on a plaque is enough to define distance.

“Any preferences?” you ask, gesturing between the rooms.

As if you aren’t very intune with the fact that whichever number you take situates him precisely one wall away, separated by drywall, wiring, and the thinnest possible illusion of propriety.

“Take this one,” he says, already extending the keycard. Forty-three.

“Okay,” you say instantly, because apparently your default setting when he gives you direction is cheerful compliance.

Pavlov would have had a field day.

You glance toward his door, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Should I be concerned you’re assigning yourself the superior territory? Is it the presidential suite? Hidden minibar advantage?”

He nearly smiles, but it never quite materializes.

“Yours faces the main corridor and the elevators. Mine faces the exterior exit.” 

You blink at him, confused by the specificity.

“If something happens,” he continues, “I want you between both access points. That gives me visibility from either direction.”

“You’re planning for something?”

“I always plan for something.”

“I suppose that shouldn’t shock me.”

And it doesn’t, not really, because this is a man who could probably draft a contingency plan for a power outage in a room full of generators, who once paused outside a crime scene long enough to reroute you around a thin patch of ice you hadn’t seen, hand hovering near your elbow, just in case gravity decided to make an example of you.

Planning is his default state, his resting pulse, his love language if he had one he’d admit to.

But you’ve started noticing, and you wish you hadn’t, how the calculations seem to grow sharper when you’re involved, how his posture adjusts if you’re nearest to a door, how he subtly corrals space so you’re buffered from whatever could go wrong.

It’s probably subconscious. It has to be subconscious. You are not the axis around which his vigilance rotates. You are a member of the team. A junior one at that. This is leadership, not preference. Protocol, not protectiveness.

“No,” he agrees calmly. “It shouldn’t.”

You lift the keycard toward the reader, already angling yourself toward the door, but he moves a half-step ahead of you.  His hand closes around the handle before yours can, body stepping between you.

You look up at him. “What are you doing?”

“Checking.”

He says it like the answer should have been self-evident, like you’re the one lagging behind for needing clarification, and then he’s stepping into your room before you are.

You watch as he moves through the space.

The deadbolt is tested. The chain latch examined. He leans in to inspect the peephole alignment, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes the doorframe, and you have the deeply inconvenient thought that this is what intimacy apparently looks like in your life — a man assessing sightlines and entry points.

His gaze tracks the ceiling corners next, scanning for blind spots. The bathroom door opens, lights flick on, the shower curtain is drawn back in one motion. Closet doors slide open and closed.

You hover near the entrance with your arms folded loosely, doing your absolute best impression of a person who is not secretly going, wow, okay, so this is what it looks like when a man is competent and terrifying and also, unfortunately, really, really attractive while doing the least romantic task imaginable.

You need to get a grip.

“It’s not exactly a cartel safehouse,” you offer.

“No,” he agrees evenly, checking the window latch. “But it’s still a point of vulnerability.”

He presses the window once more.

Satisfied with the resistance, he steps aside only then, as if you’ve been waiting for clearance.

“You can go in.”

You tilt your head. “Permission granted?”

“Recommendation,” he corrects.

“Right.”

He turns toward the hallway.

“Call me if you need me.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? You could call him for a hundred legitimate reasons. You could call him because the lock jams. Because the heater rattles. Because the hallway feels too quiet. 

You could call him for none at all, just to hear his voice confirm that the wall between you is only drywall and not distance.

3 EFFICIENT ENERGY ALLOCATION

You know something is wrong the second you open your hotel door. Or, fine, not something. Someone. More specifically, him. Hotch.

There are two small lines gathering between his eyebrows, deepening incrementally the longer he looks at you, like he’s sketching blueprints for a cathedral of disapproval. 

You know that look. You’ve built a secret mental archive of his face, categorized and cross-referenced with devotion, the way other people collect vintage wine or heirloom china.

This particular arrangement means he’s thinking too hard. Which is either excellent or catastrophic, and with him, the margin between those two things is gossamer-thin.

It’s a tell, though he would sooner walk into oncoming traffic than admit he has any.

And you would never correct him on it. You are not nearly foolish enough to forfeit your single, fragile advantage in this — whatever this is. 

Because in the market of Hotch, he is always running four moves ahead on a chessboard you're still trying to locate. 

And the longer he stares, the more your confidence begins to dissolve like sugar melting into coffee until you can’t even remember it once existed in defined, crystalline pieces. 

Your body, traitor that it is, moves to compensate: spine straightening without permission, vertebrae aligning themselves one by one, chin tipping upward a fraction as though the geometry of good posture might function as armor.

Your hand finds your hair. Smooths it back over your shoulder. Corrects, with careful fingers, a flaw that was not there a moment ago. That would not exist at all, actually, if his eyes hadn’t passed over you and invented it.

“Is there a reason you’re looking at me like that,” you ask, attempting breezy and landing somewhere closer to ambitious intern pleading her case before a tribunal,  “should I be concerned?” 

He doesn’t answer right away and the silence manages to gather density. It pools in the corridor between you, thickening by the second, and you hold out for what feels like a respectable amount of time before your mouth makes a unilateral decision.

“Did something smudge? I knew I blinked weird during mascara and I made a judgment call that it was probably fine and I think we're both seeing how that turned out. This is what I get for rushing.”

For a second, something almost like disbelief crosses his features, there and gone, a brief constitutional crisis behind his eyes, as though he’s carefully sorting through his available responses and selecting the least inflammatory one.

“Your mascara is fine,” he says finally, and the economy of it, the complete lack of reassurance beyond the bare clinical fact, is so extraordinarily him that you almost want to write it down.

His eyes move downward again before finding yours again, the crease between his brows intact and now, you think, accompanied by a friend.

“I’m trying to determine,” he continues, “whether you were aware of the temperature outside when you selected that outfit.” He looks toward the end of the hallway.  “It’s fourteen degrees.”

You frown and glance down at yourself, suddenly hyperaware of every seam and hem. Pencil skirt. Tailored, modest, entirely appropriate. Blouse tucked in neatly, sleeves buttoned to the wrist.

Tights, which are admittedly optimized somewhat more for aesthetic cohesion than for any serious confrontation with polar endurance, but which are nonetheless indisputably, demonstrably present.

And the jacket he chose. You draw it closed around yourself now, pulling the lapels together with both hands, turning just slightly toward him. Here. Look. Proof. You followed the parameters. You incorporated the feedback. You are, in this moment, the living embodiment of a person who listens and learns and shows up correctly dressed, and you would like that acknowledged, please.

“I was aware.” 

“Then I’m concerned about your definition of the word.”

“I’m wearing layers.”

His brown eyes drop once again. Slow with the unhurried certainty of a man who has never once been rushed by another person’s discomfort, and comes to rest at the hem of your skirt, right where it grazes your thighs, and simply remains. 

Every hair on your body stands at full attention, a physiological standing ovation for the specific quality of being looked at by him.  Your hands want to move — to the hem, to the lapels, to anything that might constitute a defensive action — and you refuse them, one by one, with great effort and limited success.

No. Absolutely not. You will not flinch. You will not fidget. You will not give him the satisfaction of watching you fold, because the moment you reach for that hem is the moment you've lost, and you are already losing enough in this conversation.

He exhales slowly, the kind of exhale that has a whole paragraph in it, before he speaks. “The skirt is short.”

“It’s not —” you begin, warmth rushing up your neck before you can determine whether it’s indignation or something more humiliatingly self-conscious steering the ship.

“It’s appropriate,” he says, and his voice has shifted, gone quieter, the hard edge filed down like he's recognized he's overshot and is now carefully correcting course. “I’m not criticizing it. That’s not —” He stops. Starts over. “You look exactly as you should.” He presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose. Closes his eyes for just a moment. “I’d just prefer you not be miserable on the walk over.”

You stare at him, running a rapid internal audit of your available emotional responses and finding the inventory deeply unhelpful. Mortification is one option. Gratitude is another. They are not, as far as you can tell, mutually exclusive, which is its own problem entirely. 

You shouldn’t have to feel both things simultaneously before eight in the morning, that seems like a violation of something, some basic covenant between a person and their day.

You are going to need significantly more caffeine before you can be expected to feel things correctly.

“I am aware of how temperature works,” you reply, gently defensive but not sharp, “and I do, in fact, possess the ability to identify discomfort before it becomes life-threatening.”

“I don’t doubt your ability to recognize discomfort,” he says. “I doubt your inclination to admit it when you’re experiencing it.” The brow tightens, just slightly, just enough. “You have a habit of tolerating more than you need to.”

There's nothing wrong with what he said.

That's the problem with what he said. You recognize yourself in it with the specific, sinking clarity of someone who has just been handed a mirror they weren't expecting. 

You reach for your smile. The reliable one, the soft, deflecting smile you've been deploying since approximately the third grade, and let it do what it's always done. Cover the crack. Keep the walls presentable. Move things along before anyone gets a good look at the load-bearing ones.

“I wouldn’t call it a habit,” you reply carefully. “More like… efficient energy allocation.”

“Is that what we’re calling it.” It isn’t a question. A hint of dry amusement surfaces in his expression, not a smile exactly, just the suggestion of one, the ghost of one haunting the corner of his mouth, as he relents. “All right.” His tone softens. “I’ll defer to your… methodology.”

You beam at him with a brightness that is frankly disproportionate to the exchange. Wildly, embarrassingly disproportionate. You don't care even a little.

“Great. Perfect. Wonderful.”

He is, unfortunately, completely correct.

Fifteen minutes later, the wind finds you like it has a personal grievance, carving straight through your layered confidence, making a thorough and public mockery of your efficient energy allocation. 

You keep your chin up and your expression neutral because you would genuinely rather fossilize in place than give him the satisfaction.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t point, doesn’t raise an eyebrow, doesn’t deploy a single syllable of the told-you-so he has absolutely, irrefutably earned.

He simply pauses mid-stride, unwinds the scarf from his own neck and wraps it around you with both hands.

You try not to kiss him.

4 HIS FLOOR OR YOURS

The conference has been going on for three hours and forty minutes, which feels less like a span of time and more like a psychological experiment designed to test how long a human being can remain upright while their soul quietly slips through their ears. Two hours and forty minutes beyond what your attention span contractually agreed to when you walked in with your notebook. 

During the break, Hotch had taken one look at you, at the restless rotation of plastic between your hands, at the brittle way you were holding yourself together, and said, in the tone of a man who had already made the decision and was merely informing you of it rather than requesting your input, come on.

So now you’re walking to get lunch, which would have been entirely pleasant, almost restorative, even, sunlight, fresh air, the gentle reward of carbohydrates after too much bureaucratic endurance, if Garcia hadn’t chosen this exact moment to text you something that demands both your full visual attention and the majority of your remaining cognitive function.

The text reads, in its entirety: 

how’s the conference bestie!!!!! followed immediately, without waiting by: and before you say “informative” or productive” or any other word that means you’re reflecting… i want to know about the OTHER curriculum. the one where it’s just you and hotch and a hotel and no rossi chaperoning. 

Your face heats to 380 degrees, a temperature at which most metals would begin to warp. You type with your thumb as you walk, squinting against the glare on your screen.

garcia. 

A breath. 

GARCIA. 

You delete that. Too much. 

the conference is going fine, there is no other curriculum, we are colleagues attending a professional development event and i would like you to reflect on what you've said. 

You pause. Add: 

also rossi wasn't chaperoning he was just. present. there's a difference. 

You read it back. Delete it because now you sound like someone with something to prove. Add it back because you do, in fact, have something to prove. Mainly your innocence. Allegedly.

Hotch shifts slightly closer to navigate a narrow patch of sidewalk and you physically rotate your entire torso away from him like a sunflower turning from the light, except the opposite of that, and hit send.

The response comes through in the time it takes you to exhale.

there's a difference !!! yeah the difference is whether or not you end up on his floor or your floor tonight babe

You read it twice. You read it twice because the first time your brain just skips, like a record catching on something, and the second time it processes it fully and that is infinitely worse.

Because now you’re thinking about it. Now the thought has a foothold and it is making itself at home, spreading out, getting comfortable, putting its feet up, and your imagination, which we’ve already covered is your most disloyal organ, starts filling in details you did not ask for.

Carpet burn. His chest pressed flat against your back, his rough breath against your ear, telling you what to do, how to do it, what to feel. 

You guillotine the thought before it can finish forming. You do. You absolutely do. You are doing it right now.

You type back one handed, the response dissolving and reforming as your fingers fumble, something about how Garcia is clinically unwell and should be investigated by her own team, your attention fractured by the screen and the pavement you assume will continue existing beneath your feet.

You don’t see the curb.

You don’t see the car.

You don’t see anything at all until Hotch’s hand finds your arm and the world snaps back into focus all at once, as the vehicle tears through the space you’d been about to occupy.

The wind of it grazes your knees.

You look up at him because you don't know what else to do and immediately wish you'd looked literally anywhere else.

His eyes darken and move over your face with the rapid, assessing quality of someone running a systems check.

Pupils. Color. Responsiveness.

And when he’s satisfied that you are intact and present and not currently dying, something shifts.

Hotch doesn’t soften exactly, that’s not the right word for it, more like reconfiguration. A rearrangement of something that had gone momentarily, dangerously loose. The aftermath of relief rather than relief itself. 

His thumb moves once against your arm. Small. Probably involuntary.

“Are you all right.” Once again not quite a question. The tone of a man who needs confirmation of a thing he's already determined to be true.

“Yes,” you say, which comes out smaller than you intended.

His hand finally releases your arm.

“Put your phone away.”

You do as you're told. Immediately, without deliberation, without the small internal debate you’d normally stage on principle.

It disappears into your pocket with the speed of someone who has just been reminded that the universe has consequences. 

Garcia can wait. Garcia, in fact, has forfeited her right to immediacy, because Garcia and her terrible timing almost got you killed, and she is going to receive a text later when you are safe and stationary and no longer shaking slightly in a way you hope isn’t visible.

“You sound like my fa —” you start, because apparently you are constitutionally incapable of letting a silence exist peacefully, and then your brain catches up to your mouth approximately three words too late and the sentence just stops. 

You don't finish it. You can't finish it, actually, because finishing it would require you to say out loud the thing you were about to say out loud, which was to compare hotch to your father, which you were apparently fully prepared to do two seconds ago and are now prepared to die before doing. 

You swallow the rest of it. Redirect your gaze to the middle distance, to some fixed and blameless point that isn't his face, and devote every remaining resource you have to convincing your expression to do literally anything other than what it's currently doing, which is, you are fairly certain, everything.

You feel him look at you. There’s a particular quality of his attention when he’s already understood something and is giving you the grace of not saying it out loud. 

He knows. He absolutely knows.

Neither of you says anything. You keep walking.

+1 FOR SCIENCE

The scolding had gone well, you think. You’d communicated the full extent of your feelings about Garcia’s role in the near-death-by-crosswalk incident with clarity, and she had said okay you’re right i’m sorry in the sincere tone she reserves for when she actually means it, and that should have been the end of it. 

That was the natural ending. But then, approximately four seconds later, as if the apology had simply been a brief administrative detour:

but do you even own any lingerie just in case… this is a completely unrelated question, purely for science. 

And somehow, through a conversational sequence that had felt, step by step, almost reasonable, that is how you have arrived at this. 

Hotel bed. Nearly eleven. Cross-legged in your white lace pajames with your hair loose and your phone held aloft at an angle you’ve adjusted three times now, trying to produce a photograph that communicates see, I have perfectly good taste, this is both comfortable AND attractive for the benefit of a woman who treats every piece of information she receives as a potential future weapon. 

Garcia had said prove it with the energy of someone issuing a formal declaration of war and you had, apparently, accepted the terms without reading them. 

The fourth attempt is the one.

You know it immediately. The angle is right, the light is doing exactly what you wanted it to do, the lace sits exactly as it should and you look, if you’re being objective about it, genuinely pretty.

Soft and warm and settled in yourself in a way that doesn't always come naturally, in a way you don't always feel entitled to, and something about the photograph catches it, holds it still, makes it documentable. 

You open the conversation. Tap the photo. Hit send. Set the phone face down on the duvet with the kind of pleased energy of someone closing a chapter, pouring yourself a glass of water from the sink, taking a sip, allowing yourself eight whole seconds of serenity. 

Then you pick the phone back up because Garcia hasn't responded and this is wrong, this is factually incorrect behavior for Garcia, who has never in the entire history of your friendship allowed more than thirty seconds to pass without a reply, whose response time is frankly less a reflection of effort than of some innate physiological gift, and you look at the screen and —

The background of the conversation is wrong. 

The contact picture is wrong. 

Something is wrong with the name at the top of the conversation in a way that your brain, in an act of profound self-protection, declines to process for three full seconds.

Sits there cycling through increasingly implausible alternatives, searching for any exit ramp from the conclusion that is, despite everything, the only one available.

And then it arrives. All at once, the way bad things do, complete and total and horribly clear.

Hotch.

Garcia.

Recent conversations, right next to each other, because they would be, because why wouldn't they be, because the universe has a personal investment in your suffering and an excellent sense of comedic structure.

The photo is delivered.

For science sits beneath it.

And you sent it to your boss.

You make a sound that has no letter equivalent, something that exists purely in the register of visceral horror, and you are off the bed before the sound has finished leaving you.

Think, you need to think. 

Option one: he's asleep. It's late. Hotch is a disciplined, regimented person who almost certainly has a consistent sleep schedule because of course he does, because he is Hotch, and maybe, maybe, he'd put his phone on silent and gone to bed and hasn't seen it and won't see it until morning at which point you will have already faked your own death and started a new life somewhere without extradition.

Option two: his phone. You could get to his phone. His room is right beside yours. You could be there in twenty-two seconds, and hotel door locks are — okay you don't actually know how to pick a hotel door lock but you could figure it out, probably, under sufficient duress, and this qualifies as sufficient duress —

A knock sounds at your door.

You stand in the center of the hotel room and you do not move, do not breathe, do not produce any sound or evidence of biological function whatsoever, because if you are very still and very quiet then perhaps the universe will lose interest and move on to someone else.

Maybe it's not him. Maybe it's housekeeping, at eleven at night, which, yes, is not when housekeeping comes, but hotels are unpredictable, stranger things have happened, you are not ruling anything out.

Maybe it's the person in the next room who miscounted doors, maybe it's someone who has the wrong floor entirely, maybe it's — your phone screen lights up.

Open the door.

You stare at it. It stares back.

You open the door and immediately wish with every fiber of your being that you hadn’t.

Not because of the expression on his face, though that’s — that’s a lot, that’s an entire situation, his jaw tight and his eyes doing something you’ve never seen them do before, moving over you in a way that starts at your face and doesn’t stay there and snaps back up with the control of a man making a conscious decision. 

Not even because of the grey t-shirt. The sweatpants. The fact that Hotch, your Unit Chief, apparently exists in soft cotton after hours like a normal person, which is information you are placing in a box, sealing the box, and sliding the box to the very back of a shelf you will not be visiting tonight.

No. It’s the silence that does it.

He just looks at you. Says absolutely nothing, makes no move to explain himself or fill the space or give you anything to work with. It presses on you with considerable force.

“It was an accident.” The words come out before you've decided to produce them, falling over each other with the graceless urgency of someone trying to outrun a consequence. “I love this job. I'm good at it, I mean, I think I'm good at it, I hope you think I’m good at it, and I know this looks insane, it is insane, but please — please don't make this into something that ends my career, I was just trying to win an argument with Garcia about whether I owned ling — Uh, nice pajamas and —”

“Garcia,” he interrupts.

You blink. “What?”

“The argument.” His words are careful. Doing a great deal of structural work beneath the surface. “It was with Garcia.”

“Yes,” you say. “About whether I — yes.”

“About the pajamas.”

“About whether I owned any.” You are aware you’re not improving the situation. “Nice ones. She implied I didn’t and I — it was a matter of principle.”

He looks at you for long enough that you become acutely, specifically, inventory-level aware of every square inch of white lace currently within his line of sight. 

And the awareness moves over you in real time, square inch by square inch, because he is. He is doing exactly that. Looking at the neckline and the hem and everything the light is enthusiastically illuminating and then looking at more of it, and you stand very still in the doorway of your hotel room and breathe very carefully and wait for him to say something, and he doesn't, and the looking continues, and it has a temperature.

“You’re not losing your job,” he says. His voice has done something you can't quite name. The professional remove still present but thinner somehow, like fabric that's been washed too many times. “That was never —” He stops. Edits. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

“I really am sorry,” you say, which is true, which is entirely true, which is also complicated by the fact that he’s standing in your doorway and you have now run out of layers to hide behind, literally and figuratively.

“I know.” He says. “I came because I wanted to make sure you were —” a pause, brief and loaded, “ — all right.”

“I’m glad you did,” you say, which comes out quieter and more honest than you intended, stripped of the deflection you’d normally wrap around something like that. “Come, I mean. I’m glad you came.”

You become very interested in a point just past his shoulder and then make yourself look back.

“For the record,” he says, “you won the argument.”

“Hotch —” His name comes out barely a whisper.

“You did.”

“That’s not —” you start, “I don’t need you to —”

“I know you don’t need me to,” he says. “That’s not why I said it.”

“Why did you say it?”

He moves first.

Or maybe you do. 

Or the wanting does, finally, after months of being firmly managed.

Later you might look for the beginning and find only that the distance was there and then wasn’t. His hand comes up to your face with that steadiness, that particular Hotch steadiness that you have been watching without permission since the day you met him, the kind that says I have considered this and I am not afraid of it, tilting your chin up. 

And then his mouth is on yours.

And here is what you were not prepared for: that it would feel like being returned to you. Not given, returned.

Like something you’d been missing your whole life without knowing what it was called, without having a word for the specific absence of it.

Your father’s approval delivered at arm’s length, your college boyfriend who never quite saw you, every authority figure you’ve ever rearranged yourself for in hopes that this time, this time, it would be enough.

And Hotch, who has been watching you with those eyes for months, who has noticed the necklace-tugging and the over-apologizing and the way you look at him when you think no one’s looking, who has known, who has known —

It is nothing like what your imagination built. Your imagination was not working with sufficient information. 

It is exactly like the thing you've been most terrified of wanting, because wanting things this much has historically been the setup for not getting them, and you are so tired of not getting them, and for a moment, for this moment, there is only his mouth and yours and the feeling moving through you in waves you can’t name and don’t need to.

Finally. 

You lean into it with everything you have. Every feeling you've filed under inadvisable. Every careful professional distance you've maintained. Every time you looked away first. You stop looking away. You give him all of it, and he makes a sound low in his throat, vibrating through you.

Then he stops.

Goes still first, and then pulls back by degrees. Slow, almost reluctant, like something being peeled away rather than removed.

His forehead drops to yours just for a moment, his eyes closed and his breath uneven and his hand still at your jaw.

You don't move. You barely breathe. You are terrified of breaking it and equally terrified of what exists on the other side of it, and so you stay very still in the small sacred space of his forehead against yours and try not to want more than you're being given.

What comes next is his eyes opening. Finding yours. And in them, underneath the want that he’s no longer quite managing to conceal, something older settling back into place like sediment after a disturbance. 

You can see it. 

Something that was always going to come back. Responsibility settling through him like silt after a tremor, like a tide reasserting itself, the accumulated weight of everything he is and everything he thinks you deserve and every reason he has been filing this under don't from the very beginning.

You can see exactly where it lives. In the careful way his jaw sets. In the incremental straightening of his posture, degree by degree, a man rebuilding his architecture in real time, becoming your Unit Chief again by visible effort.

His hand leaves your face last.

“I’m sorry.” His voice has gone hard again, a professional distance reassembling itself word by word. “That wasn’t —” a pause in which several things clearly occur to him and are discarded — “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It's okay,” you say, which is both completely true and completely insufficient. “I'm — please don't apologize, I —” you hear yourself, recalibrate, attempt something in the vicinity of normal. "I'm sorry too. For the photo. For all of —” another vague gesture, this one encompassing roughly the last hour of your life — “this.”

“This isn’t your fault.”

“Okay,” you say, because what else is there.

You both stand in it for a moment that lasts too long.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says finally.

“Yeah.” Your voice is remarkably steady. You’re proud of it. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

You stand in the doorway until the corridor is empty and then you close the door and press your back against it and stare at the ceiling of a hotel room that feels entirely different than it did an hour ago.

You don’t sleep.

you can find my aaron hotchner masterlist here!

[heavenlybodies333]

Fixation -A.H

Aaron Hotchner x coworker!reader

The unsub sat shackled at the table, hunched but humming—this low, breathy sound that made your skin crawl as soon as the heavy door shut behind you. You moved just slightly behind Hotch, and his presence blocked the man’s view of you for a moment.

But the second you stepped to Hotch’s right and sat down, the unsub locked in. Like he’d been waiting for you. Your breath hitched—barely—but it was enough. He noticed.

“Agent,” he greeted, smiling at you, not Hotch. “You’re prettier in person.” Hotch’s eyes cut to you immediately, picking up on the freeze in your posture. He turned back to the man, jaw flexing. “You already know that comment’s not going to help you.”

The unsub didn’t blink. Just stared at you. Your badge. Your neckline. Your hands. “Do you wear that lipstick for the job, or for me?” he asked, smile widening.

Hotch didn’t wait—his fingers snapped toward the one-way mirror. “Tighten the restraints. Now.”

Two guards came in instantly. One placed a firm hand on the unsub’s shoulder, forcing him down as the other jerked the cuffs tighter around his wrists, metal biting into skin. He flinched but didn’t yell. Didn’t even wince. His eyes were still on you, hungry, assessing.

You inhaled, then exhaled carefully. He wanted a reaction. You didn’t give him one. Until you had to lean forward and push the file across the table.

That’s when he moved. Just a shift. Just a lean. But it was deliberate—his face closer to yours than you liked, enough that your own twisted in disgust before you could stop it.

“Stop,” Hotch said, his voice dark, deadly. His tone was enough to freeze the unsub in place. Still, the bastard smiled. “You’re not gonna let her talk for herself, Agent Hotchner?”

Hotch reached forward and took the file you’d opened, flipping it toward the unsub himself. His broad shoulders shifted, moving slightly in front of you again.

“She doesn’t need to,” Hotch said. “I already know what you are.”

“She’s better than the others,” he purrs. “You see it too. That’s why you walked in front of her. Like a shield. That’s sweet, Agent Hotchner. She deserves someone strong.”

You barely resist the urge to snap back. But Hotch’s hand reaches out—under the table—and briefly brushes your knee. A silent signal: Don’t react. Let me handle it.

“Why would I look at those,” he rasped, his voice low and oily, “when I’ve got her to look at instead?”

You froze. Hotch’s fingers twitched near his pen. His tone stayed flat. “That’s not how this works.”

“I already know all about her,” the unsub continued, still smiling. “She runs at five-thirty in the morning. Orders that lavender tea at the café across from the field office. Drives a black bmw. License plate ends in... seven-two-nine. Right?”

Your blood ran cold. You didn’t answer. You didn’t move.

Hotch stood abruptly. “You’re done.”

“No,” the unsub said, eyes still locked on you, smile growing. “I’m just getting started.”

Hotch was already at the door, signaling for the guard again. You stood slower, trying not to let the nausea show.

“You’ll speak to me,” Hotch said, voice a dark, contained growl. “Not her.”

“She’s the one I’ve been thinking about.”

“She’s not the one you're confessing to.”

“She’s the reason I started.” The unsub grinned, wild and victorious. “And she’ll be the reason I finish.”

You stood so fast your chair scraped backward, screeching against the floor.

Hotch turned to you instantly. “Agent,” he said quietly—his voice gentle now, only for you. “Step out.”

“I’m fine,” you said too quickly, jaw clenched.

His eyes searched yours for a beat longer than necessary, then nodded once.

The unsub chuckled. “Cute. Like a guard dog. I bet you like it when he barks for you.”

Hotch moved before you could blink. He was on the table, both hands planted, leaning in so close his voice was practically in the unsub’s ear.

“Say one more word about her,” Hotch growled, “and I will make sure your sentence includes solitary until you rot.”

Hotch’s hands were still flat on the table, his broad shoulders locked in tension. He didn’t move until he was sure the man’s mouth would stay shut.

“Guard. Get him out,” Hotch snapped, low and lethal.

The unsub laughed as the door slammed open behind you again. “You’ll think about me, sweetheart,” he called as they dragged him backward, wrists still bleeding from the restraints. “When you’re alone. When he’s not around to protect you.”

“Let’s go,” Hotch muttered under his breath to you, not even glancing back at the unsub again. His hand grazed your lower back as you turned—protective, firm, grounding.

You walked out together in silence, the door slamming shut behind you, drowning out the last of the unsub’s twisted chuckles.

“Hey,” he said gently, his voice lower now, quiet. “You okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah. Just... hate how he looked at me. Like he knew me.”

Hotch nodded slowly. “He’s been watching. We found photos in his storage unit. Some were taken last week.”

Your stomach dropped. “Of me?”

Hotch hesitated. “Of your apartment. Your car. A few of you in your running gear.”

You swallowed hard.“I had no idea—”

“That’s not your fault,” Hotch said firmly. “He’s good at hiding. That ends now. I should’ve gone in alone.”

You turned toward him, surprised. “Why?”

His jaw tightened again. That same damn muscle. “Because I saw the look in his eyes when you walked in,” he said, stepping closer, voice low. “And I knew exactly what he was thinking.”

Your heartbeat stuttered. He paused, then stepped just a little closer.

“You shouldn’t go home alone tonight.”

That surprised you. “I wasn’t planning to.”

His brows lifted just a fraction. “Good. Because I wasn’t going to let you.” That made your heart skip. Not because of what he said—but how he said it.

“I’ll stay at a hotel,” you murmured.

He paused, then offered, “You could stay at mine.”

You looked up. His expression didn’t change. He wasn’t playing. Wasn’t flirting. It wasn’t about that. It was about keeping you safe.

“…Okay,” you whispered. “Yeah. That’s probably best.”

His shoulders eased slightly.

And it wasn’t long before you found yourself standing in the hallway just outside his bedroom door, suddenly uncertain.

Hotch stepped behind you again. Close. Just like in the interrogation room.

“I’ll take the couch,” he said, already reading your hesitation.

“No,” you said quickly. “You don’t have to.”

He paused. “I want you to feel safe.”

“I do,” you whispered, looking back at him. “With you.”

“I’ll get you a shirt,” he murmured.

A moment later he returned and handed you a long, soft cotton t-shirt—gray, plain, worn thin at the collar.

You took it with a grateful smile and went into the bathroom.

When you came out, you were swimming in the shirt. It hit halfway down your thighs. Your legs were bare. You had never felt so exposed in something so modest.

Hotch was already lying down, propped on one elbow, the comforter pulled up around his waist. He wore a black t-shirt and soft plaid pajama pants. You had never, in your life, seen him so…human.

You climbed in slowly, tentatively. His side of the bed was warm. Yours felt cold.

It was awkward. Weirdly awkward.

And that’s when it hit you. A sudden, absurd giggle bubbled up in your throat.

Hotch turned toward you, brow furrowed. “What?”

You bit your lip, grinning. “Nothing. It’s just—” You gestured vaguely at him. “Seeing you like this—in actual pajamas—? It’s adorable. I’m sorry, I can’t unsee it.”

He stared for a beat, expression unreadable. You swallowed hard, worried you might’ve crossed a line.

But then—then—he smiled. That small, rare curve of his lips that made you feel like the only person in the world.

“Oh?” he murmured, turning fully toward you. “You think I’m cute?”

“Don’t twist my words,” you warned, still smiling. “You’re intimidating as hell at work.”

“But not now?”

You looked at him—really looked—and swallowed hard. “No. Now you’re…”

Your voice faltered.

Hotch’s hand lifted slowly, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.

“Safe,” you whispered. “You feel safe.”

His fingers didn’t move from your face. “I want you to feel safe,” he said softly. “Always.”

You exhaled shakily. “Even now?”

“Especially now.”

He curled it around your waist and slowly, slowly pulled you into him.

His body was so warm—heat radiating off him like a furnace—and you exhaled the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. His chest was solid, his hold careful. Too careful. Like he didn’t trust himself.

You nestled into him, your nose at his shoulder, cheek resting against the soft cotton of his t-shirt. You smiled against him.

“You’re tense,” you whispered.

“I’m not,” he said immediately.

“You are, Hotch,” you laughed. “Your arm feels like it’s trying to protect the nuclear codes.”

His chest rumbled faintly in amusement. “I’m trying to be respectful.”

You smiled wider. “You’re letting me cuddle you. That’s pretty respectful.”

He didn’t argue that.

You tilted your head up slightly, looking toward the sharp line of his jaw in the dark.

“I’m not gonna combust if you relax.”

He didn’t say anything, but the arm around your waist loosened just a little. He exhaled—and the tension in his chest eased. Just enough to make you feel it. You took your chance.

You reached up slowly and ran your fingers through his hair.

At first, he flinched—just a twitch, barely noticeable. But then he stilled, letting you continue.

Your hand moved lower, smoothing down over his chest, then his shoulder, until it found one of his hands resting on his stomach.

His huge hand.

You picked it up gently, letting his fingers relax in your grip.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low.

You cradled his palm and gently cracked one of his knuckles.

He winced. “That hurts.”

You looked up, mock-pouting. “You’re supposed to say thank you.”

He chuckled. “For joint pain?”

“For your nerves. You’re all… balled up like a stress knot.” You moved to his other hand, gently stretching each finger. “And this one? This one’s the button-pushing hand. I bet it’s tired from dealing with assholes all day.”

He huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

You tilted your head and reached up to brush your fingers through his hair—soft, thicker than it looked at work, with the faintest wave. He looked down at you, stilling completely under your touch.

“You’re really bad at relaxing,” you whispered.

“And you’re really good at tempting me,” he said softly.

You leaned in again, closer this time, your legs brushing. His arm came around you slowly, tentatively, drawing you toward his chest until your head rested just below his collarbone.

You exhaled shakily. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and quiet. “Just… not used to this.”

You tilted your head to look at him. His expression was unreadable in the low light, but his jaw was tight.

“Your hands,” you said quietly, lifting one of them between your palms. “They're so big.”

His brows lifted slightly. “That a problem?”

“No,” you said, voice dipping. “It’s hot.”

He huffed a soft laugh, but his thumb rubbed lightly across your side. You turned his palm over and started gently cracking his knuckles again. One by one. Each pop was soft, and you smiled as you moved to the next.

But when you got to his index finger and pressed just enough—

“Mm—hey,” he winced, pulling his hand back slightly. “That actually hurts.”

You blinked. “Seriously? You wrestle unsubs to the ground, but you can’t handle me cracking your knuckles?”

“I don’t wrestle people who sneak up and break my fingers.”

You laughed again, more relaxed now, and leaned in close enough that your nose brushed his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you said with a smirk. “You’re so delicate, Hotch.”

He turned to look at you, and this time, he was smiling. Really smiling. Barely-there dimple, soft eyes, warmth radiating from him.

“You think I’m delicate?”

“I think you’re secretly a marshmallow,” you whispered, inching even closer. “All this serious FBI Alpha Male stuff is just an act.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, gaze dark and quiet and far too intense for the softness of the moment.

You swallowed. Suddenly very aware of how close you were. Of his hand on your waist. Of the warmth between you. Of the ridiculous oversize shirt that was definitely not a barrier. Not now.

“Is that what you really think?” he asked, voice so low it made your skin prickle.

You tilted your chin up slightly, your lips dangerously close to the line of his jaw. “Maybe.” Your hands in his hair, soft and uncertain, pulling him in closer. Your lips brushed again, then again—until it turned into something real. Something deep and needy and so full of everything you hadn’t said.

Hotch shifted, rolling you gently onto your back, his body hovering over yours, held up on one arm.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured against your cheek.

“I’m nervous,” you admitted, voice cracking just slightly. He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, gaze dark and quiet and far too intense for the softness of the moment.

Your heart stuttered. Your legs shifted, thighs tightening as you accidentally ground your hips slightly against his under the covers.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, grip tightening.

You surged up into him, kissing him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he slid a thigh between yours. His weight was comforting, grounding—and yet, your whole body felt like it was floating.

He pulled back slightly, lips brushing yours. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I won’t,” you whispered. “Not with you.”

Hotch’s mouth found your neck—slow and reverent, dragging warmth down your throat as he settled between your legs. His hands roamed cautiously under the hem of your borrowed shirt, palms warm and rough on your bare skin.

You moaned softly as his thigh slid between yours, pressing.

“You have no idea what it did to me,” he whispered into your skin, “hearing him talk about you like that.”

“I hated it,” you breathed. “I wanted to claw his face off.”

Hotch laughed. “That’s my girl.”

The words hit you straight in the core—made you shiver.

His hands moved beneath the shirt he’d given you, sliding along your bare thighs, up to your hips. When he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath, his breath hitched.

“Jesus,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to look down at you. “You’re not wearing—?”

You flushed. “Didn’t feel like it.”

In one fluid motion, he sat up, his arms wrapping around you, mouth claiming yours again—hotter, hungrier now. You let him take the lead, let him slide your shirt up over your head and toss it somewhere off the bed. The way he looked at you then—like reverence, like worship—made heat pool between your legs.

“You’re beautiful,” he rasped, fingertips ghosting down your spine. “So fucking beautiful.”

You gasped when he leaned forward, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, tongue flicking over it before he sucked—slow, teasing, patient. One hand moved between your legs, fingers brushing you just enough to feel the slickness there.

He tugged his waistband down just enough to free himself, and you gasped at the sight of him—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.

You reached down and gripped him, guiding his head to your entrance. The first brush made both of you groan.

The second his tip slid through your slick. “Fuck, sweetheart—look at you.” Hands tightening around your hips.

You lowered yourself slowly, inch by inch, your thighs trembling at the stretch.

“That’s it,” Hotch growled. “Take your time. I’ve got you.”

Once he was fully inside, you sat still for a second, breathing shallowly.

He brushed your cheek again. “Look at me.”

You did—and that’s when it changed. Because there wasn’t just lust in his eyes. There was something far deeper. Something that told you this wasn’t just sex for him.

You whimpered and leaned forward, hands braced on his chest, and the shift in angle made stars flash behind your eyes. He pushed up into you now, shallow, controlled thrusts that made your clit drag just right with every motion.

Your thighs trembled as you moved, your breaths turning into gasps. He sat up slightly, arms wrapping around your back, and you clung to him as you moved together.

“I’ve never…” you breathed against his neck. “I’ve never felt like this with anyone.”

He stilled inside you, holding you tight. “That’s because they didn’t deserve you.”

You clutched at his shirt. “But you do?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze dark and reverent.

“I’m going to earn you,” he said. “Every day.”

Your heart cracked open. You kissed him with everything you had, hips rolling down onto him again, chasing that high, and he let you ride it out, guiding you with soft praise and firm hands and that warmth—God, that unshakable, grounding warmth.

And when you came, it was with his arms wrapped tight around you, his voice in your ear, whispering that you were safe.

That you were his.

a/n: raw.

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[hoe4hotchner]

Atta Boy, Hotch | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Brat!fem!Reader

WC: 4.3k 

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, smut, brat taming, rough sex, multiple orgasms (m), f orgasm, dom/sub dynamics (Dom!Hotch and Sub!Reader), deliberate disobedience, edging/orgasm denial, overstimulation, light bondage, reader being gagged, creampie, cum everywhere, possessive!Hotch, aftercare. L/N used twice.

Summary: You deliberately try to undermine and piss Hotch off in the field so he'll be rough with you behind closed doors.

A/N: If this stinks I'm sorry. I wanted to try and write a fic that wasn't completely in past tense to challenge myself.

But also…. OH MY GOD MY PANTIES ARE SO WET AFTER WRITING THIS 🤤🤭🥴

You’re pushing it today, and you fucking know it.

Every time Hotch opens his mouth to give an order, you directly disobey him, already moving in the opposite direction of what he wanted. Every time he says “hold position,” you take three deliberate steps forward. And every time he shoots you that warning look, the one you know all too well, the one that makes your knees weak and your mouth dry, you smile back like you’re daring him to do something about it right here, right now, in front of God himself and the entire Kansas field office.

He doesn’t. Not yet.

He just keeps that muscle ticking in his jaw that clicks every time he's trying to keep himself professional and his voice clipped, low, and lethal. He knows what you're doing and is mentally tallying every single disobedient act you decide to display for later score.

Morgan keeps glancing between the two of you like he’s waiting for the detonation. Prentiss pretends to be fascinated by the geographic profile. And Reid, poor oblivious Reid, has (actually) backed all the way up against a filing cabinet, as if distance might save him from whatever’s coming when Hotch finally blows.

Rossi, of course, is enjoying the show.

You’re leaning over the evidence table, deliberately bending farther than necessary to reach a photo, when Rossi sidles up beside you.

“You trying to get fired, kid?” he mutters under his breath. Already knowing exactly what you're playing at. Rossi knows Hotch too well, knows you too well. And has definitely figured out just what your relationship entails behind closed doors.

You don’t even look at him. “Just keeping him on his toes, David.”

He hums, unconvinced. “He’s gonna put you on your knees later, and not in the fun way.”

You grin, sharp and sweet, when in reality you should've been mortified at the words coming out of Rossi's mouth. “We’ll see.”

Hotch’s voice cuts across the bullpen. “L/N. My six. Now.”

You straighten slowly, brushing imaginary lint off your shirt. “Yes, sir.”

You saunter over, boots echoing, and stop just inside his personal space, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to glare at you.

The rest of the room pretends they’re suddenly very very busy. And definitely not listening to whatever is about to happen between the two of you.

“You’re off the raid,” he says, voice low enough that only you can hear the tremor of fury underneath. Meaning that you've just struck bingo, and Hotch is giving you exactly what you were playing for later.

You blink, all mock innocence, before you raise your brows at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re staying here with the locals.”

You laugh, actually laugh, straight in his face. “No, I’m not.”

“That wasn’t a request.” His eyes flash, his pupils dilating, darkening. You can tell that he is trying to claw his way out of Hotch, begging to be released upon you.

“And this isn’t a negotiation.” You step closer, dropping your voice to a purr. “You want me on a leash, Aaron, you’re gonna have to put it on me yourself. In front of everyone. Go ahead.” You cross your arms over your chest.

His nostrils flare. For one electric second, you think he might actually do it, might snap right here, take his belt off, and drag you out by the back of your neck like you both know you want him to.

Instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, trying to ground himself before he says something too unprofessional. When he finally speaks, he leans down to whisper in your ear through gritted teeth, “Fine! You’re with me. You leave my sight for less than .01 seconds, I'll cuff you to the SUV and leave you in the car overnight like some abandoned pet left on the side of the road. Try me.”

You lick your bottom lip. “Promise?”

He turns on his heel before he does something he can’t take back in front of twenty witnesses and the entirety of his team.

The raid is a clusterfuck waiting to happen, and you are the match.

Hotch wants to go in quietly through the back. You’re already halfway across the parking lot toward the front door before he grabs your vest and yanks you back.

“Jesus Christ, do you have a death wish today?” He says, leaving little to no discussion in his tone, you know that tone all too well, even strive to get it out of him on occasion... well, more times than not.

You spin, grinning up at him. “Only if you’re the one pulling the trigger.”

He looks like he’s two seconds from gagging you with his own tie and bending you over right here, right now.

Morgan’s voice crackles over comms. “Hotch, we’re set on the east side. You two coming or getting a room?”

You reach up and key your own comm without looking away from Hotch. “We’re coming, 'baby girl'. Unit Chief’s just having a little performance anxiety.” You can already imagine Morgan's confused look at the nickname.

Hotch rips the earpiece out of your ear and crushes it under his boot.

You whistle, low and a little playful. “That’s destruction of FBI property, sir. Very naughty.”

He grabs the front of your vest this time, hauling you in until you’re nose to nose. There he is. “You do not speak again until this unsub is in cuffs. Not one fucking word. Nod if you understand.”

You nod, solemn and mocking. Already planning to break that exact promise.

He releases you like you’re radioactive.

The warehouse is a maze of rusted machinery and broken skylights. Moonlight stripes the concrete floor. You move ahead of Hotch, deliberately, clearing corners before he can tell you to wait.

He hisses your name, barely audible.

You ignore him.

You hear the unsub before you see him: panicked breathing, the clatter of a dropped magazine. He’s reloading behind a stack of crates twenty feet ahead.

You raise your weapon before you step into the open.

Hotch swears viciously behind you and moves to cover, but you’re already talking.

“FBI! Drop it!”

The unsub spins, wild-eyed, gun up.

You don’t flinch.

Hotch is shouting your name now, furious and afraid all at the same time, but you keep your voice steady, taunting. “Come on, sweetheart. You wanted us to chase you. Here I am.”

The unsub’s finger tightens on the trigger.

Hotch’s arm hooks around your waist from behind, and he yanks you sideways, throwing you both sideways behind a forklift just as the shot rings out. Concrete explodes exactly where you were just standing.

You land half on top of him, ears ringing, heart slamming against your ribs.

He’s shaking with rage, hands gripping your vest so hard the straps bite.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls into your face.

You grin, breathless, high on adrenaline and the feel of him under you. “You’re welcome.”

Another shot pings off metal above your heads.

Hotch flips you onto your back, shielding you with his body, weapon already up. His voice in your ear is lethal. “Stay. Down.”

This time, you finally listen.

He rises in one fluid motion, one precise shot to his leg, and the unsub drops like a puppet that just had its strings cut.

Silence falls in the warehouse, broken only by distant shouting as the rest of the team floods in.

Hotch holsters his weapon, turns back to you, where you’re pushing to your feet.

You meet his eyes across the moonlit warehouse, chest heaving, blood thundering in your ears.

The unsub is down.

The cuffs are clicking.

And Aaron Hotchner looks like he’s deciding exactly how long it’s going to take to make you cry tonight.

The jet is grounded until at least morning due to a mechanical failure in the engine, so the team books into the hotel closest to the hangar and landing strip.

Everyone’s exhausted, adrenaline crashing hard, all a little annoyed from the lack of sleeping in their own beds tonight. But the air between you and Hotch is still a live current, ready to explode any second now.

You’re leaning against the check-in desk, tapping your badge against your palm, when Hotch steps up beside you and quietly tells the clerk, “Two singles.”

You don’t miss a beat. “Separate rooms,” you echo, loud enough for Hotch and the clerk to hear. You flash him a saccharine smile. “How very professional of us, Agent Hotchner. Gotta keep up appearances for the Bureau. Wouldn’t want anyone to know their precious unit chief has been balls-deep in his subordinate every night for the last eight months.”

The night clerk’s eyes go wide. Rossi, waiting for his key behind you, chokes on a laugh which he pretends is a cough.

Hotch doesn’t flinch. He just signs the receipt with a pen that might actually snap in his grip, then hands you a keycard.

“Room 312,” he says, voice flat. “I’ll be there in five minutes. You open that door for anyone else, you won’t sit for a month.”

He walks away before you can answer.

You take the stairs two at a time, pulse already racing.

The second the door clicks shut behind him, the mask is gone.

He shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it toward the chair in the corner of the room, and stalks toward you like a predator who’s finally off leash and pouncing straight toward its next meal.

“Strip!”

You arch a brow at him. “Please?”

He’s on you in two strides, hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back, hard.

“Don’t push me any further tonight,” he warns. “You’ve used up every last ounce of patience I have.”

“Good.” You smile slowly up at him.

He kisses you all teeth, no mercy, until you’re gasping against his mouth. Then he spins you, shoves you chest-first over the foot of the bed, yanks your jeans and panties down in one rough motion.

His palm slides between your shoulder blades, pinning you flat. You feel the heat of him behind you, the hard line of his cock pressing against your ass through his slacks.

“You’ve been begging for this all day,” he says, his voice low and more controlled than you had anticipated when you started pushing him this morning. It's the way he gets right before he completely unravels you. “Every smart-ass comment, every eye roll, every time you said my title like it’s a fucking joke. You want my attention? You have it.”

He drags your hips back until you’re bent perfectly for him, feet barely touching the carpet. The first thrust of his clothed hips against your bare skin is deliberate, grinding, a promise and a threat all at once.

You push back, greedy for him to enter you.

He stills you with one hand splayed over the base of your spine, the other winding your hair around his fist until your neck arches.

“Stay still,” he growls. “You move when I tell you to move.” He leans over you, mouth at your ear. “Color?”

“Green,” you breathe, already trembling. “So fucking green.”

He pulls back just enough to unbuckle his belt, the metallic clink loud in the almost silent room. You hear his zipper, feel the blunt, bare heat of him drag up the seam of your body.

He doesn’t enter you. Not yet.

Instead, he notches himself at your entrance and holds there, agonizingly still, while you try to rock back and take him, sheathe yourself on his cock. His grip on your hair tightens, holding you exactly where he wants you.

“Beg!”

“Please, Sir—”

“Louder.”

“Please fuck me, Sir, I need—”

He slams into you in one brutal stroke, no warning, filling you so suddenly your breath catches on a scream.

Your legs wrap around nothing, toes curling into the carpet, hips snapping hard enough to jolt the bedframe into the wall with every thrust.

He flips you onto your back without pulling out, hooking your knees over his elbows, and spreading you wide. The new angle drags a broken sound from your throat as his thrusts take him deeper and deeper.

“Look at you,” he growls against your collarbone as he shoves your shirt up and runs his mouth over your skin, teeth scraping against you. “Acting like a spoiled little brat in front of the entire team. You think they didn’t notice? You think I didn’t see the way Morgan smirked every time you opened that mouth?”

“Maybe I wanted them to know,” you taunt, breathless, reaching for him. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t belong to—”

He cuts you off by pulling out entirely and flipping you again, this time onto your knees, face and chest pressed against the mattress.

He thrusts back in so hard your hands scrabble for purchase on the sheets.

“Say it,” he snarls, one hand sliding up to collar your throat from behind, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave a bruise in the morning. “Finish that sentence.”

“I belong to you,” you sob, clenching around him. “Only you—fuck—Aaron—”

“That’s right.” He presses you deeper into the bed, hips relentless. “You’re mine. And tomorrow, when you can’t walk straight and my cum still dripping down your thighs during our briefing on the jet, you’ll remember exactly who you answer to.”

He reaches beneath you, finds your clit with better precision than a trained sharpshooter, no searching, no hesitation, just the rough pad of his finger settling right where you’re swollen and aching for him. He doesn’t move at first. Just presses, holds, lets you feel the weight of that single point of contact while his cock throbs inside you, stretching you open, owning every trembling inch.

You try to rock back, to chase more, but his grip turns iron.

“Stay,” he growls against the shell of your ear, breath hot, voice shredded. “You take what I give you.”

Then he starts to move, slow, cruel circles that drag over your clit with exactly enough pressure to make your thighs shake. Every stroke is perfectly timed with the roll of his hips, the thick drag of him pulling out until only the head remains before he slams back in, forcing the air from your lungs.

Your hands claw at the sheets. Your spine arches so hard it hurts. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter, vicious and unstoppable, until you’re sobbing his name into the pillow, broken and desperate little pleas of his name.

He speeds up, just barely, thumb flicking faster, hips snapping harder, the wet sound of him fucking you filling the room along with your wrecked moans.

“Cum,” he orders, voice cracking with restraint. “Cum on my cock right now. Show me who you belong to.”

The command rips through you.

You shatter, back bowing, toes curling, a raw scream tearing from your throat as your entire body locks down around him. Wave after wave crashes over you, so intense your vision whites out, every pulse of your orgasm dragging him deeper, milking him with greedy, rhythmic clenches.

He swears once and loses the last thread of control. His rhythm stutters, hips slamming forward one final time as he cums with a rough groan, spilling inside you.

You feel every throb, every pulse, the way he jerks and grinds through it, forehead pressed hard between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to fuse himself to your skin.

He stays there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving against your back, both of you trembling in the aftermath, slick with sweat and utterly spent. You can’t help it, your hips give a tiny, greedy roll, chasing the last sparks of pleasure, trying to keep him deep.

A soft, satisfied moan slips out of you.

Hotch’s chuckle rumbles against your spine. His arms tighten, pinning you flat to the mattress so you can’t move an inch further than you've already wiggled.

“You think we’re done?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. He nips the lobe hard enough to make you gasp. “Oh, sweetheart. You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my time to play.”

He pulls out slowly, letting you feel every inch drag against your oversensitive walls. You whine at the sudden emptiness, but before you can protest, he’s already moving, shirt buttons flying, slacks kicked the rest of the way off, socks gone.

In seconds, he’s gloriously bare, all hard lines, cock still half-hard and glistening with your cum.

He turns his attention to you next, signaling with his hand for you to flip over on your back. You do as ordered.

Your shirt is shoved up under your arms. He yanks it off, unhooks your bra, and tosses both across the room. Then he grabs his discarded tie and crawls over you.

“Hands up,” he orders.

You obey instantly, stretching your arms above your head. He loops the tie around your wrists, threads it through the headboard, and cinches it tight. Not painful, but absolutely inescapable from your end of the deal. You tug once; the silk holds firm.

A helpless little thrill shoots straight to your core.

He settles between your thighs again, slides back inside you with one smooth thrust that makes your back arch. You’re so wet, so swollen, the stretch burns in the best way, you're not sure you can take the sensation much longer before cumming again.

“Good girl,” he praises, voice rough. “Stay just like that.”

He starts slow. Long and deep strokes that hit every spot inside you. His mouth finds your neck, your breasts, sucking bruises into your skin while his hips roll in that maddening rhythm he knows drives you absolutely insane.

It doesn’t take long before you’re writhing, breath hitching, thighs trembling around his waist.

“Please! Sir, I’m close,” you whimper.

He pulls out completely.

You cry out, hips bucking at nothing. He watches you struggle against the tie, thighs squeezing together for friction that isn’t there.

“Shh.” He strokes your hip in a soothing yet cruel manner. “Calm down a little. We’re nowhere near done.”

He waits until your breathing evens, until the desperation fades, then slides back in and starts all over again.

He does it four times.

Four times, he builds you right to the brink, fingers on your clit, mouth on your nipples, cock dragging slow and steady against your walls, until you’re sobbing, begging, tears of frustration gathering at the corners of your eyes.

The fifth time you get loud, really loud, a broken, whining “Please, please, I can’t—” spilling out over and over.

Hotch clicks his tongue. “Too noisy, baby.” He reaches for your discarded panties and balls them up. “Open.”

You shake your head, playful defiance flaring even through the haze.

He arches a brow. “Open that pretty mouth, or I stop entirely and you get nothing.”

Your lips part instantly. He stuffs the panties in, the taste of yourself flooding your tongue, muffling every sound to desperate, garbled whimpers.

“There we go,” he croons, brushing the back of his hand over your cheek. “Much better.”

He fucks you like that for what feels like hours. He comes once deep inside you again, groaning your name against your throat. Pulls out, strokes himself, and paints thick stripes across your stomach and breasts.

Later, he pushes your knees to your chest, and spills across your face while you keen helplessly behind the gag.

Each time he finishes, he starts again, sliding through the mess he’s made across your frame, using it to make you slicker, filthier. You lose count of his orgasms. You’re a trembling, oversensitive wreck, and still he denies you that second release, pulling out the instant your walls start to flutter.

Finally, finally, he collapses over you, sweat-slick and breathless, cock spent and utterly dry. He reaches up and carefully unties your wrists, massaging the faint red marks with his thumbs. Then he gently pulls the soaked panties from your mouth. You work your jaw, swallowing hard, voice hoarse.

He kisses you softly. “Up,” he murmurs.

You’re boneless, but he helps you sit. He slides the same wet panties that he just pulled from your mouth back up your legs, tugging them into place with deliberate care. The fabric settles against your abused, swollen pussy, trapping every drop of his cum inside you. You whimper at the pressure.

He leaves for a second before coming back with a wet cloth in his hand.

When he settles back down beside you, he cups your chin, tilts your face to his, and with the warm cloth, he cleans your cheeks, your lips, your eyelashes with tender, reverent strokes that make you melt against his hand.

But when you reach for a tissue to wipe your chest and stomach, he catches your wrist.

“No.” His voice drops into that stern, deep tone that makes you freeze. “You don’t clean the rest off. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until we’re wheels-down at Quantico and you’re standing in my shower at home. You’re going to feel me on your skin every second on the jet, every time you shift in your chair. You’ll remember exactly who you bratted off to today, and exactly who owns every inch of this body. Understood?”

You nod, throat tight, arousal somehow flaring all over again despite everything.

“Yes, Sir.”

He smiles, a small, satisfied, and soft smile, before he pulls you into his chest. His hand spreads possessively over the sticky mess on your stomach, holding you close.

“Sleep, trouble,” he whispers into your hair. “You’re going to need it.

You’re already half-asleep when he speaks again, voice low in the dark.

“Next time you pull a stunt like that in the field, I won’t wait until we’re in a hotel room.”

You smile against his skin, sore and sated and utterly ruined.

“Next time,” you mumble, “I’ll be worse.”

He bites your shoulder in warning.

You wake up to the alarm on Hotch’s watch at 5:47 a.m. He’s already sitting on the edge of the bed, hair damp from the shower, knotting a fresh tie. You try to roll over and immediately regret it. Every muscle between your hips screams. Your thighs are sticky, your pussy swollen and aching, and when you clench experimentally, you feel the slow, obscene slide of everything he left inside you only a couple of hours ago.

He glances back, eyes satisfied.

“Up,” he says, voice still rough from sleep and sex. “Wheels up in forty.”

You groan. Actually groan. Getting vertical feels like an Olympic event that you never trained for.

He watches you struggle into yesterday’s jeans with the faintest smirk curling his mouth, when in reality, all you want is a pair of sweatpants.

The panties he pulled back up your legs after he finally untied you are soaked through, his cum, yours, the evidence of four separate loads, and every step makes the fabric drag against your oversensitive clit.

By the time you limp into the hotel lobby, the whole team is already waiting. Morgan does a double-take.

“Damn, sweetheart. You pull a muscle wrestling that unsub... or something?”

You flip him off with the hand that isn’t clutching your go-bag strap for support.

Hotch doesn’t say a word, just opens the back door of the SUV for you like a perfect gentleman, as you make it to the cars. You slide across the seat and bite the inside of your cheek to keep from whimpering when your ass meets cold and slightly hard leather.

On the jet, you take the seat farthest from the group, legs pressed tightly together, praying the movement of the plane doesn’t jostle anything loose. Hotch sits directly across the aisle from you, tablet in hand, leading the debrief like nothing happened last night. Like he didn’t wreck you so thoroughly that you’re still tasting him through your pussy.

He starts with the profile review. You’re supposed to contribute. Instead, you’re hyper-aware of the slow trickle working its way down your thigh every time the jet banks left. You shift, and the wet drag of cotton against your folds makes you swallow a gasp.

Hotch’s eyes flick to you. Calm and professional. Except for the slight curve at the corner of his mouth that says he knows exactly what you’re feeling.

“Agent L/N,” he says smoothly, “care to walk us through the victimology again and what we can learn from it for future cases?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Clear your throat. “Uh. Females, twenty-two to twenty-nine, brunettes, all abducted within—”

Your voice cracks on the last word because the plane hits a pocket of turbulence, and you feel a fresh pulse of warmth slip free. You clamp your thighs harder, face burning.

Reid starts rambling about geographic decay rates. You stop listening. All you can focus on is the slow, steady throb between your legs and the way Hotch’s gaze keeps drifting to your lap like he’s cataloging every squirm.

Forty unending minutes later, the wheels finally touch down in Quantico. You stand too fast, and your knees nearly buckle. Hotch’s hand shoots out to steady your elbow, the perfect picture of a concerned boss... or partner.

You make it down the stairs on wobbly legs, every step making the mess in your panties shift and cling. You’re praying no one notices the way you’re walking like you just rode a horse for twelve hours straight.

Rossi falls into step beside Hotch as you head for the car park. He doesn’t even bother lowering his voice.

“Atta boy,” he mutters, clapping Hotch once on the shoulder.

Hotch doesn’t answer, but you catch the faint, wicked tilt of his lips before he slides on his sunglasses.

You flip Rossi off behind Hotch’s back.

Rossi just laughs knowingly and calls over his shoulder, “Feel better, kid.”

You’re going to kill them both.

Later.

Much, much later.

When you can walk again.

[ssa-dado]

Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

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[alinathinkstoomuch]

DRUNKEN INNUENDO

aaron hotchner x reader

18+ MDNI

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.”

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[crowdedimagines]

Showtime

Aaron Hotchner x reader

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. 

Hotch exhales slowly, “So we canvass. Interview neighbors. Increase patrol presence.” 

“That could spook him into hiding.” JJ argues. 

“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!

[ssa-dado]

The One With (Voyeurism) Veeery Thin Walls

Aaron Hotchner x hinge!reader Genre: SMUT (but you have to endure Hotch’s midlife crisis first) Summary: One night Hotch is stuck in a hotel for a case, all he wants is to read his damn book and drift off in peace... but the couple in the next room is going at it. Lucky for him, he knows another way to knock himself out for the night. Warnings: MDNI!!! Explicit sexual content (M masturbation, fantasy M/F oral, anal play/prostate stimulation, condom use during masturbation, lube), sliiiightly voyeuristic tendencies, 2 seconds of rimming, Hotch is a freak, Dick Buttington is not real Word Count: 5.3k Dado's Corner: Drinking game: take a shot every time the words 'balls' or 'sack' show up in this document. See you in the ER!!! Huge thanks to @hotchology and @sweetheartsocks for… tolerating my delusions!!

masterlist ; hinge!reader's hinge profile

Over the years, Hotch has made a habit of reading at least a chapter or two before bed. No matter how early the alarm or how brutal the day is, he needs the ritual. To keep his mind sharp, yes - but more than that, it’s the only thing that pries him loose from the cases still clawing at him.

(If asked, he’d admit this works better than therapy.)

Especially nights like this one, when he’s drained from chasing yet another unsub. Classic white male in his thirties or forties, mother issues carved into his psyche, targeting women half his age to prove he can still get it up. Hotch has seen the pattern a thousand times, but this one is still slipping from his grasp.

As his keycard blips green, he wonders - if this case had landed on his desk ten years ago, would the man already be behind bars? He values experience, but sometimes he wonders how long he can keep outrunning the fear of being an old dog with no new tricks.

The door shuts behind him. He exhales.

The first release of the night: the gun from his shoulder holster, cradled down into the safe. Then he crouches, the crack of his knee joints slicing through the silence, and pulls the backup from his ankle. Another sigh as both weapons disappear behind metal.

At least six hours without them. Hopefully.

Telling himself he doesn’t have a night routine is, ironically, part of the night routine. The lie that he can still be spontaneous. Unpredictable. That he’s not just a man made of habits.

So tonight, instead of starting from the top (the tie, the shirt, the methodical descent) he decides to mix it up. To prove to himself he can. Shoes first, yes, but then he goes straight for the belt.

Unbuckled first, leather slipping loose with a snap. Completely backwards. Everyone knows you work your way down, not up. Freak behavior. This is so deranged. So deranged. And he does it again, just to spite his own rules.

The button of his slacks slips free with a sigh. Finally, he can breathe.

He folds the trousers with care, slides them into the bag he keeps separate for the dry cleaner. Peels away the sock suspenders, then the socks - doomed for the communal machine downstairs, where he can only hope they don’t come back tinged pink yet again.

The tie takes longer. He eases it free, smooths the silk flat, rolls it carefully into the travel organizer he insisted on packing so that, come morning, every option will be visible, orderly, ready.

…So much for spontaneity.

Even when he tries to break his own rules, he circles back to the same compulsions - neat folds, clean lines, predictable order. Chaos, it turns out, doesn’t suit him. (Suit. Get it? God, listen to him. Maybe he should take this act on the road, try stand-up while he’s at it.)

Which is probably why his newest fixation isn’t reckless or daring but… pajamas. Yes, pajamas. That it even qualifies as an “obsession” is humiliating enough. Pajamas, of all things.

He knows perfectly well he’s not one of those enviably cool fifty-year-olds who buy motorcycles, leather jackets, or - God forbid - take up pilates and flood social media with sweaty mirror selfies. No.

His midlife crisis is a pair of classic Italian pajamas, cut from high-end cotton that, yes, costs well over a hundred dollars, which is absurd considering they’re designed for unconsciousness.

In his ideal world, if society allowed it, he’d wear them exclusively. (And underwear, of course. He hasn’t lost all sense of decency.) And really, why not? The fabric is feather-light, the V-neck dips just enough to expose his collarbones and a scatter of freckles across his chest, yet the structured collar reins it all back into something respectable.

No one would ever suspect that the whole thing is, technically, an attempt at being slutty.

Speaking of which - the buttons. God, the buttons. Such a small detail, but his favorite part. There’s a quiet satisfaction in fastening each one. A sense of order. A bedtime ritual that, yes, he times in his head because apparently he’s incapable of letting anything be casual.

(This is what happens when your hobbies are limited to paperwork and insomnia.)

Sometimes he wonders if anyone will ever curl up against his chest, their head rising and falling with his breath, teasing him about how absurdly long it takes to undo every button as impatient fingers fumble down the line. He can almost hear the laughter spilling out, muffled against his throat as those greedy hands wander lower, eager-

Not now.

He exhales, dragging the air all the way out of his lungs. From his breast pocket, he slips out his rounded wireframe glasses and sets them on the bridge of his nose.

Nothing steadies him quite like a swallow of cold water from the glass on his nightstand (well, almost nothing… there’s always the more hands-on option, reserved for the truly desperate hours).

Tonight, though, he reaches for something heavier. His hand finds it without looking, already familiar with the heft - thicker than most, not standard by any stretch, the sort of thing that really requires both hands if you want to do it properly.

Most people would balk at wrestling with something that oversized at the end of a long day, but not him. He takes a certain pride in it: the density, the promise of hours of solitary satisfaction.

A book, obviously.

Specifically, a 496-page biography of an unsung American hero of independence, the kind of figure no one remembers but that he, for reasons he can’t quite defend, had to buy on sight. His latest bedtime partner: Dick Buttington.

He never understood why people claim they love drama but won’t touch history. That’s all history is - gossip, endless gossip, feuds, betrayals, half-truths… it’s reality TV with quills. And he laps it up. Hotch wets his finger, turns the page, adjusts his glasses.

Excerpt from The Life and Trials of Richard “Dick” Buttington (1728–1796) In the winter of 1778, General Buttington took to lodging with his young aide-de-camp, Alexander Fairchild, then a mere twenty-five years of age to Buttington’s fifty. Contemporary observers remarked on the closeness between the two gentlemen, which, though oft remarked upon, was universally regarded as a model of virtuous fraternity. It was, by all accounts, a most exemplary friendship. Several testimonies confirm that on cold nights, the two men would retire together, pull their cots together for warmth, blankets overlapped, bodies angled close. Witnesses frequently reported hearing sounds from within their tent, noises that suggested not quarrel but rather the kind of closeness that words cannot capture. Descriptions vary, but many recall hearing what could only be-

“Oh my God!”

Hotch jerks upright. The cry hasn’t come from the page but from the other side of his wall. Female, breathless, and very much alive. Certainly not General Buttington, then.

He blinks hard, stunned, book frozen in his lap. Before he can process, another moan crashes through, louder, punctuated by the unmistakable slap of skin on skin.

The Unit Chief is… pent up. He just wants to read. He tries to read. He really does, forcing his eyes across the neat rows of text, trying to compartmentalize the rhythmic thrusts bleeding through the drywall as background noise.

Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose, adjusting his glasses like the act alone could tune it out. He draws in a breath that is-

“So deep!”

He huffs a laugh despite himself. For fuck’s sake. Yes. A deep, steadying breath was what he was going for.

He makes a second attempt to return to his book, but the sounds are… distracting.

So distracting that his mind, unhelpfully, drifts back to the months when Haley was pregnant with Jack - when he buried himself in construction manuals, convinced that mastering the craft of a perfect partition wall for the nursery was the most useful contribution he could make.

Later realizations (namely, that this hadn’t been the most graceful approach to impending fatherhood) aside, it’s knowledge he now regrets.

Karma, it seems, is a bitch has a cruel sense of humor, because judging by the way each vibration shudders straight into his bedframe, he can confidently say this is a standard platform-frame wall: wood studs, no acoustic insulation, zero consideration for sound transmission. Of course.

If wood can amplify a symphony in a concert hall, imagine what it can do in a budget hotel with a back-to-back layout and adjoining headboards. He might as well be resting his skull against the exact same plank their bedframe is currently… abusing.

Which, technically, he is.

If this is what “immersive acoustics” feel like, he’d prefer to remain ignorant, considering every thrust rattles his bones and gives him the most unwanted back massage of his life.

And with every jolt, guilt digs deeper. For overhearing. For letting himself feel it.

Everything thrums through the wall and into him - until, at times, it’s as if his own body is the one unravelling beneath the pace… and at others, as if he’s the one pinning her down, driving harder, pulling those sounds out of her throat.

The heat that coils low in his body unsettles him most - not desire he chooses, but something primal, instinctive, out of his control. He tries to smother it, but with every broken moan that slips through the wall, that restraint grows thinner. (No pun intended) Shakier.

And he doesn’t even know her. Not her name, not her face.

Nothing but the sound of her, lovely and unashamed, every cry slipping freely into the night. Unfeigned. Honest.

And so Hotch shifts restlessly against the sheets, rolling onto his side. One arm clamps the pillow tight over his ear, muffling the noise, while the other props up the book. His glasses slip crooked on his face, leaving him to read with one eye, squinting uncomfortably to make the words stay in focus.

Richard “Dick” Buttington was revered well into his later years for his remarkable vigor. Even as age stiffened the bodies of his peers, he remained unbent, commanding admiration with the firmness of his resolve. Accounts describe evenings in which men crowded eagerly into his tent, hungry for his company, clinging to his every word. He could hold an audience rapt for hours, never flagging, always rising to the occasion when duty called.

Um. Sure.

Observers noted that wherever he appeared, heads turned, voices hushed, and many confessed that they longed for just a taste of his greatness.

…Really?!

Hotch frowns at the page. Is Buttington being described as a military freak of nature, or is this biography actually implying that General Buttington had half the Continental Army drooling over his-

No. That can’t be it.

It’s just the environment… being surrounded by sex. Especially now, with the sounds growing louder, the thrusts quicker (what cosmic crime has he committed to deserve this?).

Not to be a prude - God forbid it ever come off as prudish - but right now he has never wished harder for a stranger to be struck by sudden erectile dysfunction.

Defeated, he sets the book aside. Frustrated. His long-standing ritual broken. (A ritual, not a routine… there’s a difference. It’s not like he’s going to unravel because of this. No. Of course not.)

He stares at the blank wall in front of him and, despite himself, listens. Six inches of drywall away, pretty moans rise and fall, breathless, telling him she’s close. He hears the held inhale before the release, the silence that makes him hold his own breath, the sloppy cadence of thrusts slowing until - nothing.

Quiet.

The kind of silence that’s never really empty - more like the hush that follows after, when two bodies collapse into one another, when that frantic, animal pulse dissolves into something softer. Earnest looks. Vulnerability.

A roll to the side, seeking out eye contact even in exhaustion. The sudden chill when bare skin loses heat too quickly, answered by a hand reaching out, cradling a cheek, drawing the other back in. The steady anchor of a palm at the waist, fingers splayed wide, reaching to hold on to as much as possible.

Fingers combing through damp hair, pushing it back from a lined forehead, brushing away sweat. And the unspoken fear that the fresh dye he used to cover his greys might streak and stain her fingertips.

And then, foreheads pressed together, grins breaking through, laughter cutting the tension, possibly even beginning to-

“Fuck!”

…Again?! (So soon?)

By now Hotch has lost count of his sighs - fiftieth, sixtieth, who knows. Maybe that vaguely homoerotic Buttington biography isn’t the worst way to pass the hours after all.

At least it would keep him from dwelling on how he doesn’t have the nerve to knock on the wall and tell them to tone it down - even if their noise means tomorrow he’ll be sleep-deprived and half-useless in the field. Right. Work.

But after recalibrating his concept of stamina, after enduring the unmistakable buzz of a vibrator paired with the rhythm of clapping cheeks (he grudgingly notes: a man who doesn’t view toys as competition but as tools… commendable, impressive), after what he counts as at least three orgasms (not that he’s keeping score… or at least that’s what he tells himself as the guilt builds), he finally decides he has to act.

He’ll get up, knock on their door, and politely ask them to stop. To stop being so loud. Just… just once she’s finished.

(He doesn’t get the signal.)

Instead, the rush of pressured water fills his ears. A shower. Great. Break time. (Which, of course, only means one thing will follow, and he doesn’t want to think about it. He’s not stupid; he’s lived it. Long ago, sure, but still. He knows.)

His pulse spikes. He pulls on his slippers, leaves his pajamas on, his FBI badge tucked neatly into the breast pocket (because habit. Because armor.), glasses still perched on his face. Ridiculous. He looks like someone’s father come to complain about the noise, which, technically, he is.

Still, no time for appearances... he just needs this over with. He steps out into the hall, heart hammering, forcing his legs toward the source of his torment.

He knocks twice. The door, naturally, has a Do Not Disturb sign swinging from the handle. Perfect. Now he feels like a double offender - ignoring both privacy and decency. Great. An old man complaining about sex. Is this really what he’s become?

He sighs, waits. The water keeps running.

He knocks again. Footsteps approach. A pause. His throat hammers with his pulse. Hinges creak. He looks down, inhales one last steadying breath, then lifts his eyes as the door swings open-

This can’t be real.

“Agent Hotchner?”

It’s you.

You. In a robe.

You. Standing in a robe, eyes wide with the same shock mirrored in his. God help him. You probably don’t even realize the way your gaze flicks down his body, then back up, lingering at his face.

No - his glasses. Of course. It must be the glasses.

He takes them off quickly, tries to keep his hand from shaking as he slides them into his breast pocket. Spacious pocket. (Worth every dollar of that pajama set.) He should say something. Anything. Why is he even here?

“Hi-” he starts, and winces at the clumsy sound of his own voice. Is his mouth hanging open?

You raise your brows, still blinking through confusion. “Hi… I- uh- I saw you on the news a few hours ago and now you’re here…” A pause he notices far too much. “…you’re here in Baltimore for the Red Line Killer?” A decent save, he’ll give you that.

“Yes.” The word is clipped. He can’t exactly launch into a lecture about why using the media’s pet name unconsciously glorifies the unsub and misleads the investigation. Not when you’re looking at him like that.

“Um.” He clears his throat. “My room is next door.”

He sees the freeze ripple through you as the words land.

“Oh my God.” Your hand flies to your mouth, then smacks your forehead once, twice. “This is so embarrassing. I’m so sorry. I’m… mortified-”

“It’s alright,” alright?! “If you could just-” He can’t even get the words out. He hopes you understand his gesture.

“Yes! Of course! I’m so sorry.” You shake your head furiously. “Yes, of course, I’m so sorry. I’ve never wanted to bury my head in the sand more than right now, I swear. God.”

Your gaze flickers lower- his exposed chest. No, his breast pocket. The badge. Your eyes go wide. “Oh God, I’m not getting arrested, am I?”

He blinks. Arrested. In pajamas. He’s standing here half-unbuttoned, probably flashing you chest hair, slippers on his feet, and you think this is an arrest? He would never be so indecent, not even for a felony. How the hell could that thought even cross your mind?

He bites the inside of his cheek hard, fighting to keep his expression steady.

“Oh, no. I have the badge for-” Why explain? Why should you care about Bureau protocol? He swallows. “Just… be safe. Out there.”

“Of course… sir.” You really didn’t need to add that. His pulse stutters. “I- I have a taser,” you add quickly. “And pepper spray. In my bag. I carry it everywhere.”

“That’s… reassuring.” The words barely leave his mouth. He steadies his expression, forces his eyes to stay fixed on your face and not on the damp collarbone glinting just beneath the fold of your robe. “Goodnight, then.” God, what is wrong with him.

“Goodnight, Agent Hotchner.”

If you don’t drop the title he’s going to combust. His blood is already boiling, and gravity, faithful bastard that it is, drags the heat straight south until it pounds where he least wants it. Thankfully, you shut the door before the threat of an embarrassing display could announce itself through the fabric.

Dazzling.

He presses his forehead against his own door, thumping it twice in useless reprimand, heart hammering so loud he swears it’ll give him away. He fumbles the keycard, slides it too fast, too slow, curses under his breath until the light finally blinks green.

Relief and panic hit at once, colliding in his chest as he all but bolts inside, slamming the door shut like he’s outrunning something. Outrunning you. Outrunning himself. Outrunning the snarled mess of ethics clawing at his skull.

And of course (surprise, surprise) it doesn’t save him.

The pajama fabric gives him away instantly. Thin cotton stretched to its limit, neat vertical stripes warped and bent around the thick swell between his legs, making the bulge look bigger than it already is. The head of his cock grinds uncomfortably against the seam, dampening it, leaving behind a dark patch that visibly contrasts against the light blue of the bottoms.

Every nerve in his body screams at him to give in, and still he doesn’t. He calls it discipline, calls it self-control, though deep down he knows it’s fear. Fear of what it says about him.

And yet… some shameful part of him almost hopes you’ll start again. Another round, another soundtrack of moans through the wall. At least then he could pretend it wasn’t his choice.

Not him losing control. Not him palming his cock because he’s imagining how it would feel to bend a woman he barely knows (half his age, no less) over and fuck her until she begged. No - circumstance. Circumstance forcing his hand.

Either way, whether he ends up gritting his teeth and deciding what to do with the problem straining in his pants, or whether your noises start again and hand him the excuse he’s too cowardly to make for himself, it all comes down to waiting.

So Hotch makes another attempt to return to his book, dragging in a steady breath as he shifts beneath the covers.

Buttington’s rifle was a source of fascination to all who beheld it: extraordinarily long, polished to a hard gleam, a weapon both formidable and coveted. Before every engagement, he would clean it with painstaking care, stroking the length until it shone. He insisted the ritual brought good fortune, though some whispered it was simply a pleasure in itself. His companion, Alexander Fairchild, was said to have lent a hand in these preparations, guiding his own touch along the barrel, even blowing across the steel to ensure no speck of dust remained. Men who watched swore they had never seen such devotion to a piece of iron, nor envied so much the chance to hold it.

Oh, this has to be a joke.

Hotch stares up at the ceiling, exhales a long, resigned sigh, and tries to convince himself that jerking off to the clumsy prose of one of America’s more obscure war strategists (a very dead war strategist at that) is still a more acceptable explanation than the reality. At least then it’s history, not you.

He sets the book aside, deliberately face down, so General Dick Buttington isn’t looking at him while he reaches down, hand tracing the thick outline of his cock through the cotton. His palm lingers lower, cupping his balls, giving them a squeeze that sparks a grunt from his diaphragm.

It isn’t enough. Not even close. He pushes his pajama bottoms down, watching as his clothed erection bounces free, slapping heavy against the softness of his stomach.

Of course, he folds the pants before setting them on the other side of the far-too-luxurious queen bed the Bureau sprung for, smirking a little at the thought that the right half of the mattress is being used solely as prep space for his jerk-off session.

He props himself up higher against the headboard, angling so he can really look at himself.

Neat freak that he is, he can’t even bring himself to jerk off without preparation. (Christ, it even rhymes - he could make it into a jingle if he weren’t so painfully aware of himself right now.) He slides open the nightstand drawer, revealing the unassuming box he tucked there the moment he checked in. Inside waits his carefully curated stash: a couple of condoms, Viagra pills, and a few discreet travel-sized packets of lube.

Sliding his sage-green boxers down, he folds them, too, setting them carefully atop the pajama bottoms, making sure the damp spot doesn’t stain or mingle with the fabric beneath.

(Is that compulsive? No. It’s just common sense. Anything else would feel as wrong as mixing peas and carrots on a plate.)

Finally bare, he sits up straighter, letting his eyes wander down the thick length standing tall from his stomach. He’s not above admitting to himself that he likes the sight of himself like this, hard and heavy in his own hand.

Absurd, really, when he still can’t even bring himself to peel off his shirt when he’s alone, too unwilling to face the scars etched across his chest. But below the navel, he allows himself indulgence. Below the hips, he permits admiration.

And there’s plenty to admire.

The heavy length curving slightly toward him, the fat veins ridging up along pale skin, the flushed crown already weeping, precum welling at the slit. A guttural groan rumbles out of him as he drags his thumb through the mess, smearing it slowly over the swollen head.

He focuses there, teasing the tip with a few shallow strokes that barely drag past the ridge, enough to make his head fall back and his throat tighten around a sound he swallows down. The moans press against his teeth, begging to break free, but he clamps down because he knows how easily they’d carry through the wall.

And still, the danger of you hearing him, the suppression of it, makes his cock throb harder. It’s a recurring theme in his life, isn’t it? Holding everything in, strangling it down - until it finally bursts out rawer, than it should.

That’s the thing no one expects. People think he’s quiet in bed, a man of silence even there. They couldn’t be more wrong.

When the restraint finally shatters, he is… loud. Groaning, growling, panting… as if every sound he’s ever swallowed is ripped out all at once. It’s one of the only things he can’t control. But here, now, he has to.

What he can control is the mess. Not on the sheets. Never on sheets that don’t belong to him.

He reaches for the condom, rips the foil and and rolls it down over his cock, savoring the friction. Legs spread wide on the bed, a squeeze of lube in his palm, slicked along the latex, hissing at the relief of it, and – begrudgingly - lets himself reach for a fantasy to anchor to.

A fantasy. Harmless, he tells himself. That’s the very definition: not real. It could be anything.

So if it happens to be you - your hand ghosting up his inner thigh, the other palm cradling his cheek - that’s just coincidence. You were the first thing that came to mind (well, you and General Dick Buttington, though the imagined dialogue with you is admittedly easier to summon).

In fairness to himself, even in this fantasy, he still tries to talk you down, to murmur something about not wanting to rush, not wanting to push things too far too fast.

But then you lean down anyway (at least, in his head you do) mouth hovering right where in his imagination there’s no condom, no neat-freak barrier, just… bare skin. Yes.

Your lips stretch around the fat head of his cock, sealing tight, and your tongue drags slow and deliberate along the thick, throbbing vein underneath. The slick heat is so vivid he nearly jolts off the mattress, a strangled groan ripping out of him as his back arches high - and you’ve only just begun. Pathetic. That’s what you must think already. And he’d be the first to admit you’d be right.

You ease off only to torture him with the drag of your lips, swirling your tongue in messy circles around the swollen crown before lapping at the thick pearls of precum already welling at the slit, savoring the salty tang.

You take him in again, one long, filthy glide from the swollen tip all the way to the base, your tongue flattened and dragging hard so every ridge and pulsing vein is soaked in spit.

Your fist wraps around him where your mouth leaves off, pumping his slick length while you drag your lips lower, tongue teasing across his balls before sucking one into the heat of your mouth. (He’s so damn sorry for using you like this.)

The wet suction makes his hips buck helplessly, cock lurching deeper in your grip as you roll the tender flesh against your tongue, indecent sounds spilling from your mouth. You let it slip free with a wet pop, saliva stringing, only to claim the other. (Sorry.)

He pulls his legs up, knees pointing toward the ceiling as your mouth drifts south. You lift his sack, tongue finding the tender spot beneath, and he shivers, a deep groan rumbling out of him as you tease the sensitive skin.

Then – suddenly - he gasps, hips jerking up in surprise, when your tongue presses even lower, tracing along the rim of-

No. Christ, no. He can’t let himself go there. Not with you. Not this fast. Not when you’re nothing but a fantasy, conjured by his own pent-up need.

Pivot. He scrambles for a detour. Something safer. Anything safer.

So. Your mouth slides back down his cock anyway - at least in the fantasy he can’t stop building - and he drags in a breath, a ragged apology slipping past his lips because he needs it. Needs more.

(Sorry. He swears he respects you. This is just in his head, he keeps insisting to no one but himself, even as he sinks deeper into the thought of you.)

Something presses at his ass. His hips twitch up without thinking, ramming his cock deeper into your throat as your finger slips inside him.

“Fuck-” he gasps, head thrown back, the unexpected stretch sending fire through his body.

It’s different. Not the dull, predictable friction of his own hand. (Well…) Better. Because it’s you. It’s you forcing him open, while your throat clamps tight around his cock, milking him, choking him on pleasure. You’re fucking him from both ends, and it’s unbearable how good it feels.

You fuck your finger deeper into him, pumping back and forth a rhythm that matches the wet glide of your mouth around his cock. His moans, as his hands return to your head, massaging your scalp in half-conscious gratitude as you swallow him deeper. Each push of your finger urges his hips forward (sorry), fucking your mouth harder without him even realizing it (sorry).

When you push in a second finger, he gasps, hips jerking up, desperate sound tearing from his throat as he bucks into you, cock shoving deeper down your throat until the thick head bumps the back of it.

He’s moaning your name, over and over, louder than he ever imagined he could be (and God, he hopes that in real life he has at least some volume control, so you won’t write him off as just another freak), every shred of control gone.

You curl your fingers inside him, pressing harder, stroking the spot that makes his whole body jolt like he’s been shocked.

“Fuck- God-” The words rasp out broken as you hit it again. (He might have to repent for his sins after this… the blasphemy, and quite possibly the sodomy, too.)

Your mouth works faster, spit and precum smeared down your chin as your throat works greedily around the thick length of him. Your fingers fuck into him deeper, pumping and curling against his prostate until he’s whimpering, almost sobbing, every muscle drawn taut.

He can’t hold back anymore.

“Oh God–” he chokes, clutching your head, forcing you down as his cock pulses hard against your tongue (he is devastated). His whole body seizes, shuddering as he cums deep in your throat, hot spurts spilling while his ass clenches and flutters desperately around your fingers.

Even soft, you don’t let up, your fingers still buried in him, stroking slow while your mouth coaxes the last drops from his twitching lenght. The overstimulation tears broken whimpers out of him, his thighs trembling uncontrollably, every nerve in his body alight like fire under his skin.

Finally his grip slackens, tension draining from him until he’s boneless, ruined. His hand slips from your hair to cup your face instead, thumb dragging tenderly across your cheek. He pants through parted lips, eyes barely open, glassy, barely able to hold you in focus.

You’re about to say something – finally - when his work phone rattles against the nightstand. Work… always comes first, doesn’t it?

Another stiff drink, another stiff case file, another body on a slab… his reward for a lifetime of discipline. He sighs, dragging a hand down his face, the aftershocks still twitching low where he’d rather not admit.

Well. If he isn’t going to have trouble sleeping, he’s sure as hell going to have trouble sitting down. Figures.

Of all the aches a man his age should worry about, this is the one he earns tonight.

Hinge Matches: @aria-chikage ; @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @crying-ang3l ; @donttrustlove ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kiwriteswords ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @msfreedom ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @purechaosss ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @thiswildandpreciouslife ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

He deserves to take a cream pie straight to the face.

[sweetestbian]

oh. my. god.

[mydear-corinthian]

𖥔 ݁aaron hotchner p-links

note: you need to sign/log-in in order to view the links. mature videos below ! ctto:D

no mercy tw: unprotected sex, p in v, overstimulation

hard day's night tw: unprotected sex, rough sex, p in v

"i'll be gentle, sweetheart" tw: unprotected sex, p in v, size kink

after the case tw: unprotected sex, car sex, p in v

his good girl tw: unprotected sex, p in v, age gap (r is 20s, hotch is 30s)

bouncing on it tw: unprotected sex, p in v, riding, overstimulation

early mornings tw: unprotected sex, p in v

dripping for him tw: unprotected sex, p in v, creampie, overstimulation

taste tw: eating out, fingering

sending him a video of you squirting tw: masturbation (f), squirting

"take it, honey" tw: unprotected sex, p in v, creampie, size kink

his cum dripping so much inside you tw: creampie

small favors tw: fingering

tinted windows tw: unprotected sex, p in v, semi-public

his day off tw: unprotected sex, p in v, rough sex

roommates tw: unprotected sex, p in v

"slow down, aaron!" tw: unprotected sex, p in v, squirming, overstimulation, creampie

jealousy tw: unprotected sex, p in v, rough sex, hair pulling

squirting all over his cock tw: unprotected sex, p in v, squirting

punishing you tw: unprotected sex, p in v, rough sex

want to feel you tw: unprotected sex, p in v, creampie, reader takes off the condom

[holdmelikeagrudgee]

How to Cure Insomnia (Hotchner’s Version)

about: Aaron likes to show up in your hotel room when neither of you can sleep

warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), fingering, aaron is a sweetheart, nicknames (call reader honey), aftercare, not really proofread

word count: 1462

a/n: this is a repost from my former account :)

You couldn’t exactly pinpoint the moment things had changed between you and Hotch.

Perhaps it was the weekend you’d spent cramped in a tiny motel room while doing an interview with a serial killer. There had been one queen bed and a lumpy couch. He was ever the gentleman and offered to take the couch. By night two you’d forced him to join you in the bed, even building a pillow wall to maintain a modicum of decency. 

Maybe it had been the night he’d knocked on your hotel door because he’d had a feeling you’d still be awake. And there you were, hunched over some case files even though you’d be flying home in the morning. He’d ended up staying the whole night as you two raided the hotel minibar and talked. 

It became a routine of sorts. 

When people had to share rooms, you bunked with him. If one of you couldn’t sleep you’d text the other – sometimes he’d even show up at your door unannounced – and keep each other company until one of you at least found some sleep. 

But eventually talking wasn’t part of the routine. Instead he’d press his lips against yours, peel off your clothes with expert precision, before he was pressing you into the mattress. The feel of his body against your own chased your thoughts away. He’d strip you down to your barest form where nothing else mattered – not your job, not the rest of the world, nothing but each other. It put you both to sleep. 

Today was another one of those nights. You’d gotten home from a particularly rough case the night before and you hadn’t slept a minute. Tonight was much of the same. You’d been trying to relax all day, considering you had only a few days off, but you’d been restless. 

You were a glass of wine and half an episode of a trashy reality tv show into your evening, before you finally texted Aaron. 

During cases you didn’t mind dragging him into your room. But when you were home, you felt like there was an invisible line drawn between you two. He had a son and a life outside of work. You didn’t want to interrupt that. But you hadn’t slept in nearly 48 hours. 

You: Hi

You chewed on your bottom lip – a nervous habit – as you waited for a response. 

A text never came but there was a knock on your apartment door. Eyebrows shot up as you clambered off the couch. You weren’t sure who was here considering you didn’t have many friends outside of the BAU. 

You weren’t expecting to see Aaron Hotchner standing in your doorway, holding his phone up. You could see your text message lit up on the screen. “Hey.” 

“Were you seriously already on your way over?” you asked, humor lacing your words. “Before I even texted?"

Aaron shrugged. “Jack’s asleep and Jessica was staying the night anyway. Figured you’d still be awake.” 

You opened your door wider, letting him step inside your apartment. He’d only been here a few times but it felt like he belonged in the space whenever he was inside. He’d slotted himself into your life like the perfect puzzle piece. 

He glanced around, taking in the sight of your wine glass and the faint hum of the tv. “Trying to bore yourself to sleep?” he asked, gesturing to the screen. 

You shrugged. “Needed something to stop myself from thinking too much.”

“I think I can take care of that for you.” He moved towards you, gently pressing his lips against yours. 

“That sounds better,” you murmured against his mouth. 

He backed you up, guiding you to your own bedroom. Pieces of clothing were discarded as you stumbled through your house. By the time you made it to the bed, the only thing keeping you separated from him was underwear.

He nudged your thighs apart as he hovered over you. He dipped his fingers between your legs, dragging them through your slick folds.

“You were waiting for me to come over, weren’t you honey?” 

You nodded. “Yeah,” you replied breathlessly. You were always waiting for him. 

He sunk two of his fingers into your wet heat, curling them. He knew your body well by now. He knew just how to make you cry out for him, back arching off the mattress. As he slowly pumped his fingers, he pressed his thumb to your clit. 

“Aaron,” you keened. 

“Shh,” he hushed you gently. “It’s late. Don’t want to wake your neighbors, hm?” 

“N-no…” 

He pressed his lips against your, muffling any noise that came out of your mouth as he thoroughly fucked you with his fingers. Each pass of his thumb over your clit had you careening towards the edge. The knot in your tummy was close to snapping. And Aaron didn’t stop until your thighs were shaking. 

He slowly worked you through your first orgasm of the night. He never only left you with one. His goal was to tire you out and to make you feel good. 

You watched as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, peeling them down his legs. His cock was already hard and leaking precum. It was a sight you’d never tire of seeing. 

He ran the tip through your folds. “You want my cock?” 

“Yes,” you nodded, voice breaking off into a moan as he pressed his cock into your aching cunt. 

“Fuck,” he groaned as he bottomed out. “You always feel so good, honey.” 

Nails dug into his back as he rocked his hips against yours. Each roll of his hips had him hitting depths you didn’t know anyone could, brushing up against your g-spot with each movement. Moans tumbled out of your mouth. 

He hushed you again, hand coming up to cover your mouth. “What did I tell you about being loud, hm?” 

It was late. This was always what happened – he’d have to quiet you one way or another while he pounded you into the mattress. And you didn’t exactly want your neighbors to complain about the noise. So you let him clamp his hand over your mouth to muffle your sounds. 

His free hand moved across your body – raking across your tits, pinching at your nipples until they were hard, before moving down to find your clit. He rubbed tight, quick circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he asked as he felt your cunt tighten around his length. You were gripping him like a vice, making him groan softly. His head dropped down and he pulled his hand away from your mouth, to claim your lips in a heated kiss. 

You nodded as best you could as you returned the kiss. 

Aaron was spurred on. He needed to feel you come undone around him. The feel of your perfect, warm cunt, squeezing him was the closest he’d ever get to heaven in this life. 

“Come for me, honey,” he mumbled against your mouth. 

That was all the encouragement you needed before the knot in your stomach was unraveling. Warmth spread through your body – like every nerve was on fire – and your toes curled. He worked you through your second orgasm of the night until he himself was coming undone. 

He buried himself to the hilt, as his body shook. “God, you feel so good,” he groaned. 

He tried not to totally collapse on top of you, but you seemed to have different plans. You tugged him all the way down so his body was completely blanketing your own. 

“You gotta let me clean you up,” he said, trying to untangle his limbs from your own. 

Reluctantly you let him leave your bed. He pulled his boxers up his hips as he headed for the bathroom. He’d been in here enough that he knew where you kept all your things. He grabbed a washcloth from the cabinet, wetting it, before returning to your bed. 

His hands were gentle as he cleaned up the mess he’d made between your thighs. 

“Thanks,” you murmured. 

He smiled softly. “Of course.” 

Once your body was cleaned up he pulled an oversized t-shirt from your drawer for you to wear. He settled back in bed next to you, letting you snuggle up against his side. 

While the multiple orgasms always helped you fall asleep, being tucked against him helped you sleep even more. With your head on his chest, you were already getting sleepy, eyes drooping shut. He played with your hair as you drifted off. 

“Thanks for coming over,” you whispered. 

“You know you don’t have to thank me for that, honey.” 

“I know. But still… thank you.” 

He kissed the top of your head. “Just go to sleep, honey. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight, Aaron.”

[itslowkeyatthenightshift]

quarantined - day 8

dr jack abbot x senior resident!reader

description: you and your attending butt heads—and it’s no secret around the ED that Dr. Jack Abbot is harder on you than the other residents. He pushes you further, critiques you sharper, expects more—and you’re done with it. Just as you’re about to go to Dr. Robby to request a switch to days and finally put some distance between you and him, your patient—and his patient—tests positive for COVID-19. Suddenly, you’re both exposed, and with hospital protocol leaving no room for argument, you have no choice but to quarantine together.

wc: 6.9k

tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance, quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension tension tensionnn, PAYDAY IS CLOSE, incorrect use of kitchen counter, good friend Robby (REALLY DEROGATORY) i think u guys are going to hate me

series masterlist

I DONT HAVE A TAGLIST. Pls follow @meep-updates and turn your notifications on <333 the tags aren’t fully working so i want to make sure everyone gets notified

For lack of a better word, things were…awkward.

Except that didn’t feel right. Awkward implied discomfort. Uncertainty. Like you didn’t belong in the space you were standing in.

You didn’t feel that.

What you felt was tense.

Like your body was tuned too sharply, picking up on every shift he made across the kitchen. The way he leaned against the counter. The quiet movements of his hands. The subtle pauses between words that didn’t used to exist.

You stood opposite him now, back on your side like the natural order of things had been restored. Like the invisible line between you had been redrawn overnight.

The emergency department thrived on cohesion.

It’s why staffing wasn’t random—it was deliberate. A balance of personalities, instincts, and experience. Everyone moving in sync, reading each other without needing to ask, creating something efficient. Predictable in its unpredictability.

And you and Abbot had always been good at that.

You knew his tells like muscle memory. You knew the crinkle in his eyebrow when he didn’t like the way someone’s sats were reading. The way his jaw ticked when your eyes met his after disagreeing on a call you were making, like bracing himself for your words of disdain. How he fidgeted with the heel of his surgical gloves while waiting for the color of the low-end tidal of a bag.

And he knew you the same way.

He knew the small things you didn’t even realize you did—the way your jaw set when you disagreed but hadn’t said it yet, the way you rolled your shoulders before committing to a call, the quiet inhale you took right before pushing back on someone who thought they knew better.

He read you just as easily.

That had always been the strength of it.

Now it felt like the problem.

Because you couldn’t escape it.

You couldn’t bury yourself in another case, slip into a different bay, or hide out in the break room with Shen until the feeling passed. There was no dodging it here. No distraction strong enough to dull it.

The house—ironically—felt too small for that.

Not when you still knew exactly how his hands felt on your skin. Fleeting. Careful. Just shy of crossing a line.

And still, it lingered.

His touch had been brief, but your body hadn’t gotten the memo. You swore you could still feel the imprint of his fingers along your hipbone, like something that should have faded by now—but hadn’t.

Like it didn’t want to.

And that felt too scary to admit.

You’d basically cornered him into it last night—liquid courage doing most of the heavy lifting—until he finally said it. That he wanted it too.

Just like you.

Followed, of course, by a but.

He was your attending.

The word was starting to piss you off, if only because of how often you heard it—out loud from him, and on a relentless loop in your own head. Attending. Attending. Attending.

Like that alone was supposed to be enough to shut this down.

Except it wasn’t.

Because with every hour that dragged by in this quarantine, your grip on self-control loosened a little more. Eight days in, and whatever restraint you’d been clinging to was starting to slip through your fingers.

And the worst part?

This whole thing—this slow-building, all-consuming avalanche—had started over something so stupid. Non-dairy creamer. Tylenol. Small, meaningless things that shouldn’t have mattered.

But they did.

Or maybe it wasn’t about any of that.

Maybe it was the fact that you’d been backed into a corner with the truth—one that had been quietly building since the moment you met.

You wanted him.

Badly.

And now there was nowhere left to hide from it.

Not when he read you like a fucking billboard.

He always had—even back when you first started on nights.

A fluke, really. You’d picked up the shift as a favor, chasing a little extra cash, and somehow it had stuck. Turned into something that fit you better than anything else ever had.

You thrived at night.

You always had—more comfortable in the quiet, in the lull between chaos, when the world dimmed just enough to breathe. Might as well get paid for it.

So when you showed up for that first shift—still new to PTMC, barely settled in as an R2—you’d gone looking for him.

The attending.

You’d asked around, trying to play it off like routine. Like you weren’t just trying to get your footing, make a decent impression, figure out who you were supposed to be under before the night swallowed you whole.

Get your bearings. And your marching orders.

Cue the rush.

Post–9-to-5 commute collisions. Patients who held out all day just to finally cave and come into the ER. After-school sports injuries that couldn’t wait until morning.

Six p.m. hit, and the ED turned into a whirlwind.

And you were right in the middle of it.

You fell into step faster than you expected, the chaos clicking into something almost instinctual. Somewhere between your second and third patient, you’d made fast friends with John Shen and Parker Ellis—both of them immediately taken with your energy, already folding you into what they affectionately called the night crawlers.

And then—you met him.

Dr. Jack Abbot. Night shift attending.

It wasn’t even a proper introduction. Just a split second between helping an EMT roll a patient through the doors and getting pulled toward a trauma bay.

But it was enough.

You took him in all at once—muscular, veined forearms stretching the sleeves of fitted scrubs, sharp eyes that missed nothing, and a voice that cut clean through the noise. Commanding, steady.

The kind of presence that demanded respect…and somehow made the chaos feel manageable at the same time.

And him?

You almost missed the double take when he saw you.

He’d seen you around before—passing through day shift here and there—but this was different. Now he was watching you work.

And it stopped him.

You moved like you’d been doing this for years. Confidence that didn’t match your level on paper, knowledge that went deeper than it should have, and an ease that made it all look second nature.

It caught his attention immediately.

Held it.

There was no hesitation in you. No second-guessing. Just sharp, decisive movement—like you already knew exactly where you belonged.

And it was…compelling.

More than that, if he was being honest.

Then you looked at him.

You were running a case by him—more out of courtesy than necessity—and the second your attention locked in, something shifted.

Lips slightly parted, adrenaline still in your system. Eyes wide, focused—completely on him.

And just like that, he knew.

If you kept looking at him like that, he’d give you anything you asked for.

Which was a problem. A dangerous one. So he did the only thing that made sense to him.

He gave you shit.

And he never really stopped.

And now, here you both were.

Years later.

You, on the edge of finishing your residency. Him, still exactly where he’d always been—steady, sharp, impossible to ignore.

And between you?

Years of history.

On paper, it was clean. Professional. Exactly what it was supposed to be. But in reality, it had never felt that simple.

Not with the way he knew you. The way he pushed you, challenged you, read you before you even opened your mouth. Not with the way your conversations lingered just a second too long, or how easily the two of you slipped into something that felt a little too natural, a little too familiar.

A little too intimate.

“I’m going to order more groceries,” His voice ripped you from your thoughts. “Want to add anything?”

“Let me see what you have.” You wiped your hands on a dish towel, readying them for him to slide the phone across the island.

Anything to minimize the chances of contact.

You caught the phone, quickly scrolling through—produce, lunch items, all perfectly acceptable, but with the tone of him wanting you to feel included. Like you had a say, like you had a role in this house.

Like it mattered that you were here.

You didn’t look up right away, but you could feel him watching you.

Not in a heavy way. Not obvious enough to call out.

Just…present.

Leaning lightly against the counter on his side of the island, arms probably crossed or braced on his hips—you didn’t need to see it to know. Stillness that wasn’t relaxation so much as restraint. Like he was occupying space carefully, aware of exactly how much of it you were taking up in his line of sight.

Your thumb slowed.

He noticed.

A small shift—fabric probably moving as he adjusted his weight, like he was telling himself not to move too much, not to step into anything unnecessary. But his eyes stayed on you anyway.

They always did.

You scrolled again, pretending the list was more interesting than the way the air felt suddenly tighter between you two.

“Anything you actually want?” he asked, softer this time. 

Like he already knew the answer might be complicated.

“More wine?” You looked up at him with a saccharine smile.

He gave you a look.

“Oh, what, I’m cut off now?” you scoffed, brow lifting in challenge. “I’m not sick anymore.”

“I’m less concerned about that,” he said evenly, “and more about what you turn into after a glass or two.”

“And what the hell is that?”

“Confrontational.”

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it, head shaking in disbelief. “At least I was being honest.”

“I was incredibly honest last night.”

“Fine,” you shot back, “but that doesn’t mean you get to revoke my wine privileges.”

“I want to make sure you can control yourself.”

Your jaw dropped. “Control myself?” You stared at him. “What’s your excuse then? When you pushed me against the counter while stone-cold sober? You call that self-control?”

His gaze didn’t move.

“Self-control,” he said, voice lower now, edged in something restrained, “is the only reason you being pushed against the counter didn’t turn into you being lifted up onto it.”

The air went still.

Your heartbeat didn’t just drop—it plunged, heavy and immediate, settling somewhere low in your stomach like gravity had shifted.

Because now, that image may as well have been projected onto every wall in this house. 

A beat.

Then you laughed, but there was no humor in it this time.

“So that’s it?” You leaned a little closer across the island, phone still forgotten in your hand. “That’s your line? You’re going to stand there and act like you’re the responsible one in this situation?”

His eyes narrowed slightly—not in warning, but in focus. Like he could feel where this was going and wasn’t stepping away from it.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

But you didn’t.

“No, I want to be very clear,” you continued, voice sharpening now, confidence slipping fully into something dangerous. “Because you don’t get to say things like that and then hide behind boundaries like it’s some kind of moral high ground.”

His jaw flexed.

You saw it.

“You also don’t get to talk about lifting me onto a counter like it’s some hypothetical,” you went on, softer—but more stern somehow. “And then act like I’m the only one who lost control last night.”

No response.

Your fingers tightened around the phone.

“Because if I’m being honest?” you added, eyes locked on his now, unwavering. “You didn’t exactly push me away either.”

Silence.

Your eyes dropped back to the phone.

Without looking at him, you added two more bottles of wine—expensive ones—before finalizing the cart.

Then you slid the phone back across the island with a little more force than necessary. And walked out.

No hesitation. No glance back.

Just the sharp sound of your footsteps fading down the hall.

He didn’t move right away. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, watching the space you’d left behind like it still held you in it.

Then his hands tightened on the edge of the counter, hard enough that it grounded him.

Because of course he’d thought about it.

Not once. Not abstractly. Not harmlessly.

All the ways it could go if he stopped holding himself to the line he’d drawn so carefully between you.

Every version of it.

Every angle. Every breath. Every sound you would make if he let himself cross that line.

And the worst part wasn’t the imagining. It was how easy it came.

Too easy.

There were nights—long shifts, high pressure, the kind that left his head ringing long after the trauma bay went quiet—when the thought of you would slip in at the edges of everything else. Uninvited. Persistent.

And suddenly, a patient’s chart wasn’t the only thing he was trying to keep steady.

Because he couldn’t have you.

And that fact—clean, absolute, inescapable—had become something dangerously close to fuel. 

Six more days suddenly felt like a prison sentence. 

The day dragged on, with every interaction more tense than the last. Jack’s body was screaming for a release of energy, right around the time that he was due for his afternoon run. Something in him was grateful to get out of the house, especially since he’d been cooped up in the office with his headphones on, listening to seminars that bored him to tears. 

He grabbed his keys out of habit, already halfway through the mental shift into movement, into rhythm, into something that would quiet the noise in his head.

And then he saw it.

Rain.

Not light rain. Not manageable rain.

The kind that hit the windows in heavy sheets, turning the outside world into static.

He stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he could will it into stopping.

It didn’t.

A muscle in his jaw tightened. He exhaled once, slow, controlled—then turned back to the house. He cursed under his breath, eyes drifting to the door to the spare room you affectionately called the “home gym.” 

Not ideal. Not even close. But it would have to be enough.

He walked down the hall already loosening the grip of his frustration, already preparing to lose himself in something physical enough to shut his brain off.

Except when he pushed the door open—

You were there.

On the mat. Mid-stretch.

Yoga again. Second time today, if he wasn’t mistaken.

You must’ve had the same desire to release. He tried not to think about that too hard. 

The room felt smaller immediately. Not because it actually was, but because suddenly he had nowhere to put his attention that wasn’t you.

You didn’t look up right away. Just held the position, calm, composed, completely unbothered by the fact that he’d just walked in like a storm that didn’t belong in here.

He hesitated.

Just for half a beat.

Then—too late to pretend otherwise—he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

The sound was soft.

Decisive. 

You shifted slightly into another position, slow and controlled, like you were aware he was there but refusing to acknowledge it directly.

“Rain?” you asked casually, still not looking at him.

“Yeah.”

One word. Flat. Controlled.

He moved toward the Peloton, not looking at you.

That felt important to note. 

He started adjusting the seat height a little too precisely. Like it mattered. Like it required that much attention. It didn’t.

You exhaled softly through your nose—almost a scoff, almost not—and rolled your shoulders into a stretch.

“You going to pretend I’m not here?” you asked.

“I’m not pretending anything,” he said.

He started the ride—resistance up, noise in. Something to burn through.

It should’ve worked. It usually did.

But it didn’t fully take.

Because every time his focus tried to lock forward—pedal, breath, rhythm—it slipped. Just slightly. Just enough.

Back to you.

On the mat.

Moving slow and deliberate, like the room didn’t shift when he walked in, like nothing about his presence had changed the air between you. Controlled breath, steady movement, strong and toned, the kind that came from repetition and discipline—like this wasn’t effort for you, just something your body knew how to do without thinking.

His grip tightened on the handlebars.

Like the image of your hips high in the air could be evaporated if his body pushed itself harder. 

He told himself not to look again, but he looked again anyway.

Just once.

Because there you were, still moving through your stretch like time didn’t apply to you, and every so often—just barely—he caught it again. That flicker. That hesitation. That glance that never quite committed to being a glance.

Like neither of you were trying all that hard not to look.

Like neither of you were winning at pretending.

It was suffocating him—both of you shoved into this room, still acting like there was any real separation between you, still trying to build invisible partitions that didn’t hold up under pressure.

The harder he pedaled, the worse it got. Heat building, effort sharpening into something almost punishing. Sweat gathered and then broke loose, running down his neck, and with a quiet, frustrated exhale, he tugged his shirt off and hung it over the handlebars like it was in the way of something more important than his pride.

You glanced over.

Just once—meant to be nothing.

Except it wasn’t.

He was leaned back in the seat during a brief rest, one arm braced, the other lifting a water bottle to his mouth. His head tipped back as he drank, throat working, chest rising and falling like he hadn’t quite caught up with his own heartbeat yet.

And your eyes betrayed you.

They tracked it without permission—the slow bead of sweat that traced a line down his chest, disappearing into the tense rise and fall of muscle that looked carved more than built. The kind of strength that wasn’t for show, but from hard-earned experience. 

You gulped.

You needed to look away—reset your posture, adjust your twist, do anything before he caught the fact that you were very much not doing shavasana in any meaningful sense of the word.

Instead, you forced it. A slow exhale. A deliberate shake of your head. Then you lowered yourself onto your back, arms settling into place, palms up, the picture of composure. Eyes closed. Breath steady. Hands resting lightly on your stomach like you were actually meditating instead of actively trying to reboot your brain.

Silence. That was the goal.

Except it didn’t come.

Because now there was him.

The low, rhythmic sound of effort—his pedaling, steady at first, then sharper as resistance climbed. The subtle shift of his breathing as he followed the instructor on screen. 

A quiet grunt when he pushed harder.

The faint pant of breath when the climb got steeper.

And with your eyes closed, there was nothing to filter it out. Nothing to distract you from the fact that your mind had suddenly decided every sound he made mattered more than it should.

It catalogued them instead. Held onto them. Replayed them.

The scrape of effort, the rhythm of exertion, the way his breathing changed when he stopped pretending it didn’t cost him something.

And worse—your imagination filled in the rest.

Because apparently your brain had no interest in meditation either.

Finally, you stood—too quickly, like you’d suddenly remembered you had somewhere else to be, somewhere that wasn’t this room and definitely wasn’t your own thoughts.

A shower. That was the goal. Wash off the sweat, reset your brain, pretend your nervous system hadn’t just been hijacked by a man on a stationary bike.

You straightened, already turning toward the door.

And that was when his eyes flicked to you. Not subtle. Not accidental. A clean, immediate sweep, like he’d been waiting for you to move.

He tilted his head back for a drink of water at the same time, throat working as he swallowed, but his attention didn’t leave you. Not even for a second. It just… tracked. Effortlessly. Like it didn’t require effort at all.

Your mistake was simple.

Fatal, really.

Your eyes did one last pass over him.

Chest. Shoulders. The sheen of sweat still catching under the light, the quiet tension in the way he sat there like he could stop at any time but chose not to.

And of course—

of course—

you got caught.

His gaze snapped back to you just as yours lingered a fraction too long, and something shifted instantly in his expression. Not surprise.

Amusement.

That same infuriating, knowing look he always got when he caught you slipping. Like he’d just confirmed something he already suspected.

Except this time, it didn’t feel playful.

It felt deliberate.

And then—that smirk.

Small. Controlled. Utterly confident.

Not loud enough to be a declaration.

Just enough to be a challenge.

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

Two could play at that game.

You felt better after your shower—lotioned skin, damp hair starting to curl at the ends, the tension rinsed off in theory even if it still lingered somewhere under your ribs.

You’d taken your time getting dressed. Cream pajamas—the same set that had already caused a problem once.

You’d chosen them anyway.

You stepped into the kitchen with more confidence than you probably had a right to, letting the moment feel normal on purpose. Controlled. Easy. 

Abbot had his back to you.

He was at the counter, sorting through paper grocery bags with that same efficient focus he brought to everything—placing items out, organizing without thinking, hair damp from his own shower, the whole scene annoyingly domestic in a way that fit the version of him you’d become accustomed to this past week.

You didn’t pause. Didn’t hesitate.

Just crossed the room and took your usual spot at the island like it was muscle memory.

Like you hadn’t just walked into something that already felt charged again the second you entered it.

And for a brief second, neither of you said anything.

Just the sound of rustling bags.

Fridge door opening.

The quiet, normal rhythm of him pretending not to notice you were there yet.

But you could feel it.

The awareness.

The shift in him that always happened before he turned around.

Like he always knew exactly where you were in a room—even when he was trying not to.

And when he finally turned, the look on his face was better than you’d imagined.

His eyes found you immediately.

Then dropped.

Just for a second too long.

His attention snapped back up to your face, but not quickly enough to pretend it hadn’t happened.

His jaw tightened.

A familiar reaction. Controlled, but never completely neutral.

You’d seen it before—when you pushed too far, when you said something he didn’t want to acknowledge, when you managed to get under his skin just enough for him to feel it.

Only this time, it didn’t come with a comment right away.

That was new.

He set the bag down slower than necessary, gaze still on you like he was recalibrating the space between you. Like you’d changed the rules just by existing in his line of sight again.

“What’s for dinner, Jack?” you asked innocently, already reaching past him to pluck a strawberry from the carton on the counter.

The sound was small, but it landed loud in the quiet kitchen—the soft crunch as you bit into it whole, juice immediately catching at the corner of your mouth.

He didn’t mean to turn.

But he did.

And then he saw it.

The way your lips closed around the fruit, unhurried, careless in that way you always were when you knew you had his attention whether he admitted it or not.

“What are you doing?” he asked, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the counter.

“Pardon?” you replied, voice slightly muffled, like you didn’t understand the question at all.

You wiped at your chin with the back of your hand, smearing away a drop of strawberry juice.

His jaw ticked.

Not enough to be visible unless someone knew to look for it. And you did.

He held your gaze a beat too long before speaking again, quieter this time. More controlled.

“You’re not helping.”

A pause.

You tilted your head slightly, still chewing like nothing about this moment mattered.

“Helping with what?”

His eyes flicked—briefly, unwillingly—to your mouth again before returning to your face.

“Nothing,” he said flatly. “Go put a jacket on.”

“But I’m not cold,” you argued.

“Could’ve fooled me.” His gaze dipped again before he could stop it.

You looked down at yourself with exaggerated innocence, like this was a genuine oversight you were just now discovering.

“Oh,” you said, slow and deliberately light. “Forgot about these pajamas.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Oh, did you?”

The way he said it wasn’t quite a question.

You shrugged, biting into the last of the strawberry like you had all the time in the world. “They’re just pajamas, Jack.”

A beat.

He pushed off the counter slightly, like he needed the movement to stay contained—like getting closer might be enough to make you back down from whatever had gotten into you.

Unfortunately for him, you’d spent years learning exactly how to do the opposite.

“That’s not the point.”

You hummed softly, setting the empty stem down with careful precision. “Then what is the point?”

Silence stretched.

Not empty—never empty with him—but tight. Measured. Like something being actively held back in real time.

His gaze held yours now, fully.

No more pretending it was accidental.

“No more games,” he said finally, voice lower.

That tone made something in your expression shift—just slightly. Usually, you pushed back against that tone, but in this context, you wanted to give in. 

But you had some fight left. 

“You’re the one taking off your shirt while I’m trying to do yoga,” you replied lightly. “Feels like a game to me.”

A flicker in his jaw.

There it was again—that restraint. Not gone. Just harder to maintain now.

“You’re pushing it,” he said.

You leaned back slightly against the island, calm as anything, like you weren’t aware of exactly how charged the air had become—the picture of deliberate nonchalance.

“No,” you corrected softly. “I’m just standing here.”

“You know what you’re doing.”

Your head tilted just slightly. “What am I doing, Jack?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Because his attention snagged where it always seemed to now—on the details he told himself not to notice. The steady way you held his gaze. The faint shine of your hair still damp at the ends. The loose ease of your posture that somehow made you look more confident, not less.

And the way you looked at him.

Like you weren’t intimidated.

Like you were interested in what would happen if he stopped holding himself back.

His jaw tightened again.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”

But you already knew.

And he could tell you did.

The worst part was how easily you met his stare while asking anyway—like you were testing how far you could push before something finally gave.

And he was starting to think you already knew the answer to that too.

“I’m your—”

“Fuck’s sake,” you breathed, the words barely clearing the space between you now that he’d stepped closer again. “If you say you’re my attending one more time—”

His eyes were half-lidded now, focus locked entirely on you. “But I am.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that we’re here,” you said, voice softening in spite of yourself. “In your kitchen. In your house. Eating dinner together. Standing in the exact same spot as last night, wondering what would’ve happened if you’d just gone a little further.”

Something shifted in his expression at that—subtle, but unmistakable. Like you’d stopped pretending at the exact same moment.

“If I had put you on the counter?” His voice dropped, quieter now, almost careful. He moved closer without fully realizing it until there wasn’t much space left to argue with anymore. 

Your breath caught, but you didn’t lean back.

“If you’d just done what both of us have thought about for years,” 

Silence.

Charged—heavy with everything neither of you had ever said out loud until now.

His gaze didn’t leave yours, not even for a second. Whatever restraint he’d been holding onto wasn’t gone, but it was thinner now. Frayed at the edges.

Then it snapped.

His hands found your waist, strong fingers pressing into soft flesh as he lifted you effortlessly onto the counter. The cold marble shocked your heated skin, sending a shiver up your spine as your thighs parted instinctively for him. 

He moved into the space you created, his body radiating warmth against yours as his palm traced a deliberate path from your ankle to your inner thigh, finally coming to rest where your femoral pulse hammered beneath thin skin.

"What we've both thought about?" His breath caressed your ear, lips grazing the sensitive hollow beneath it.

You felt his thumb circle slowly, precisely, the pressure building as you caught your lower lip between your teeth to stifle a sound. The thin linen between you might as well have been nothing at all. 

When his finger finally slipped beneath the fabric to trace your entrance, finding you slick with want, your breath caught painfully in your throat. Your eyes fluttered closed as sensation overwhelmed thought.

“Jack,” His name escaped your lips like a plea. Your hand instinctively reached for his, desperate to guide him deeper, but he caught your wrist, pinning it firmly against the cool countertop.

"What is it that we've both thought about?" The question hung in the heated space between you.

When his finger finally slid inside, the thickness of it made you gasp. Your forehead dropped to his shoulder, eyes fixated on where your bodies joined. Each deliberate drag sent tremors through you, his subtle curl finding places that made coherent thought impossible. Your legs trembled, your entire weight surrendering to him.

"Answer me," he commanded, his voice low and dangerous. The torturous rhythm continued—never faster, just deeper—sending waves of sensation sprinting through you. 

"This," you breathed, your voice catching on the word. "We’ve thought about this."

"Good girl," he murmured against your neck, the vibration of his voice sending shivers down your spine as he slipped another finger inside you. Your head fell back, a sound escaping your lips that made Jack's eyes darken with desire. "Tell me what else you've thought about."

He was exploring you deeply, your linen shorts pushed aside, his palm cupping your heat as his fingers curled with deliberate precision, finding that spot that made your vision blur.

"I—" The word dissolved into a gasp as you bit down on your lower lip, your hips pathetically attempting to rise to meet his rhythm, silently begging for more. 

"What was that?" His voice was velvet.

Words failed you as pleasure took over—the heat between your thighs, the whisper of his breath against your skin, the exquisite pressure building with each careful stroke.

His voice dropped to a whisper. "Talk to me, pretty girl."

"Fuck," you gasped, the word catching in your throat. "I've thought about you befo—" Your confession shattered as pleasure surged through you. "—when I'm c-close."

"Yeah?" The single syllable dripped with satisfaction.

His thumb found you then—deliberate pressure that made your vision blur at the edges. Each slow, precise circle felt like a reward for your vulnerability, drawing truth from your lips and tension from your core. 

When he pressed against that spot—the one that made your breath hitch and your thoughts scatter—your body arched involuntarily toward his hand. His fingers curled deeper inside you, quickening their pace as your pulse did the same, the rhythm becoming urgent, insistent.

His breath was warm against your neck. "So eager," he murmured, the words vibrating against your skin. "Were you thinking about this last night?"

"Mmhm," you managed, fingernails sinking into his shoulder.

"Yeah, me too," he confessed, his touch growing more deliberate, more precise. The intensity in his eyes told you everything—how your pleasure had become his singular focus, how your body's response to his touch was the only reward he sought.

"More," you pleaded, your legs trembling against his torso. It was mortifying how quickly you'd unraveled—shaking on his counter like something feral with his fingers buried inside you—but shame had surrendered to need.

Not when his thick fingers crowded your pussy, glistening with your arousal when he withdrew them. The sight alone made you clench around nothing.

"Yeah, I bet you do," he murmured, that smug edge in his voice making you ache instead of bristle. Everything about him did that now—turned irritation into hunger.

His fingers traced the hem of your shorts, gripping the fabric. Ready to pull—

A knock shattered the moment.

You both froze, the air between you suddenly hostile and foreign. Your skin went cold. You became acutely aware of yourself—your disheveled shorts, the evidence of your arousal, his hand still splayed against your hip, suspended mid-motion.

The knock came again.

“Who is that?” Your voice came out slightly panicked, slightly breathless, which only made your stomach drop harder.

Jack didn’t answer right away.

His jaw tightened instead, the kind of controlled irritation that meant he was already trying to pivot into something functional, something normal, even though nothing about this situation qualified.

Then—

Another knock, followed by a muffled, “Abbot, you alive in there or did she finally take you out?”

A beat.

“Robby,” he said flatly.

“Robby?” Your eyes widened slightly as reality fully settled in. “He’s—he’s at the door?”

“It would appear so.”

Another knock, more insistent now. “I brought beer. Also I need proof of life. Preferably yours. But I’ll accept hers too.”

Jack exhaled through his nose, slow, controlled—like he was physically forcing his brain back into something resembling professionalism.

You, on the other hand, were still very much not there.

“Jack,” you hissed under your breath, suddenly very aware of everything again. “We cannot—”

“I know,” he cut in immediately.

But he still hadn’t moved.

Neither of you had.

Because the problem wasn’t just Robby at the door.

It was what would’ve happened had Robby not been at the door. 

Another knock.

“Abbot! I swear if you’re dead I’m using your Netflix account out of respect.”

That finally broke the tension just enough for Jack to move.

Not away from you immediately—but into action. His hand dropped, reluctantly, like it didn’t want to, and he stepped back half a pace, already switching gears in that infuriatingly practiced way of his.

But his eyes flicked to you once more before he did.

Quick.

Loaded.

“Go,” You whisper-yelled, sliding off the counter. 

Jack walked over to the door, pulling it open swiftly and trying to adjust where his sweatpants had gotten very tight from what just occurred. And there was Robby—umbrella in hand, beer in the other as he stood approximately six feet from the front door. 

“Jesus, about time,” He exhaled. “For a second I thought she was hiding your body or something,” 

“Yeah, something like that,” Abbot’s head slightly swiveled to see that you had disappeared from sight. 

Robby squinted past him, trying to see inside. “Everything good in there? Or did quarantine finally turn into a murder-suicide?”

Jack didn’t move. “We’re fine.”

“That’s what people in horror movies say right before the blood starts showing up on the ceiling.”

“Robby.”

“Alright, alright.” He lifted the beer slightly like it was an offering. “Brought peace tribute. Hopefully you guys feel well enough to drink it.”

Jack looked at the beer with a tired glance that said this is the worst possible time for this conversation. “You didn’t have to come all the way over.”

“Yeah, well,” Robby said, stepping slightly to the side to try and peek inside again, “you weren’t answering texts, and last time you went radio silent was when your phone broke mid-update and you were too lazy to buy a new one.”

“Shit shouldn’t break in the middle of an update.”

“Absolutely. Should write a letter.”

A beat of silence.

Then Robby’s eyes narrowed. “Why do I feel like I’m interrupting something?”

“You’re not.”

“That was too fast.”

Jack exhaled slowly through his nose. “You came over uninvited.”

“Didn’t realize an invite was required,” Robby said, leaning in a fraction, “to bring over sustenance for my favorite employees.”

“I was in the middle of cooking dinner.”

“I don’t smell anything.”

From somewhere deeper in the house, there was the soft sound of movement. Fabric shifting. A floorboard creaking.

“Maybe you have COVID,” Jack mused. 

“Who has COVID?” 

And then you appeared behind him.

Completely changed.

Sweat set—soft gray shorts and a matching top, hair loosely gathered, skin still faintly flushed like you’d just come out of the shower and decided the entire last ten minutes had never happened.

Which, judging by your expression, you were committed to pretending.

“Hey,” you said calmly, like there wasn’t an entire battle scene that had just been paused in the kitchen.

Robby blinked.

Then looked at Jack.

Then back at you.

“You feeling better?” Robby turned fully toward you now, concern threading through his tone. “He told me you had some severe symptoms.”

“All healed up, thanks to Dr. Abbot here.” You gave him a light, almost playful punch to the shoulder.

And the second your skin made contact—

It hit you.

The kitchen. The counter. His hands. His fingers. 

Your breath nearly stuttered.

Jack didn’t react outwardly. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look at you. But he leaned into it.

Just slightly.

So subtle Robby might’ve missed it—if he weren’t already watching like a hawk.

His eyes flicked between you both, something curious sparking behind them.

“You brought beer,” you said quickly, stepping back, smile widening just a touch too bright. “Perfect.”

“Figured you’d be bored out of your minds all cooped up in there,” Robby said, testing the waters. “Not much to do.”

“We’ve managed to stick to a routine,” you replied, tone smoothing out into something easy. Half-true. “I study, Abbot does paperwork.”

Jack finally shifted beside you, crossing his arms like he needed somewhere to put the tension still sitting in his body. The scrutiny Robby was giving the two of you wasn’t subtle—and for once, Jack looked like he wanted out of a conversation.

“Abbot also does dinner,” Jack added, voice level, already angling the interaction toward an exit. “Which he was just in the middle of. Thanks for the beer, brother.”

Robby’s eyes lingered for a second longer—on Jack, then on you—like he was filing something away for later.

“Anytime,” he said finally, setting the six-pack on the steps. “You kids behave.”

There was a beat where it almost felt like he might say more.

He didn’t.

Just a smirk, a shake of his head, and then he turned back into the rain.

Jack waited until he was fully down the walkway before closing the door, the soft click sounding louder than it should have.

And just like that—

Silence again.

You slipped back inside fully, putting distance between yourself and the doorway, your heart still racing harder than it had any right to after a simple interruption.

That had been close. Too close.

The way Robby had looked between you both—like he could see straight through whatever version of “normal” you were trying to sell—sat heavy in your chest.

Because he hadn’t been wrong.

Not really.

And if he could see it that easily…

Then maybe the distance between this house and the ED wasn’t as wide as you’d both been pretending it was.

And just like that—it was gone. Not the memory of it. Not the way your body still felt like it hadn’t caught up yet.

But the moment.

The version of the two of you that had existed in that kitchen only minutes ago—reckless, contained, orbiting nothing but each other—had been interrupted, dragged back into something recognizable.

Something with rules.

You felt it settle in your chest, heavy and unwelcome.

Robby hadn’t even said anything outright. He didn’t have to.

Just showing up—just being there—had been enough to remind you of exactly what this was supposed to be.

What it had always been.

Resident and attending.

Lines that existed whether you ignored them or not.

You swallowed, arms crossing loosely over yourself like you needed something to hold onto.

Behind you, Jack hadn’t moved much either.

But the shift in him was unmistakable.

Like he’d stepped back into himself.

Into the version of him that knew exactly where the lines were—and didn’t cross them.

Even if he had, just minutes ago.

You glanced at the counter without meaning to, immediately looking away.

Because now all you could see was how close you’d been to something neither of you could undo.

And how quickly it had almost been seen. 

You cleared your throat.

Jack’s eyes snapped to you instantly—like he’d been waiting for it. Waiting for you to say something. Anything.

You held his gaze for a moment, longer than necessary, trying to read him. To make sense of what had just happened, what it meant now, what it meant later.

But whatever had been there before—heat, tension, something dangerously unchecked—was gone.

Or at least, buried.

“So, what’s for dinner?” 

previous || next

[myladysapphire]

When did you get hot

Stuck on a bad date, your boss comes to your rescue. And he sees it as the perfect excuse to make you realise his flirting wasn't just an act.

Dr Jack Abbot x Fem!reader

Word count: 1,444

CW: MDI, 18+, bad dates (not with Abbot), fliritng, kissing, mentions of viagra. Yearning, idiots in love? Implied age gap. Not proofread. Tinder. Drinking.

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Swipe right *match*

“What are you doing?” A voice sounds behind you, your eyes darting down to the phone in your hand, and the man in front of you.

“Dr Abbott,” you swallowed roughly, reaching to place your phone in your pocket, only for his hand to grab it before you could.

“What is this?”

“A phone?” You tease, reaching to grab it back, “I know you're old, but surely you’ve seen one before?”

He shook his head, a soft smile on his lips, “I know what a phone is, I meant the app.”

You flushed, embarrassment filling you. “It’s umm.. Tinder.” You cleared your throat, bouncing on the balls of your feet, nervously watching as Jack studied your phone, and no doubt your failed attempts at finding a half-decent man.

“Tinder?” he cocked his brown, smirking slightly, “the dating app?”

You nodded, reaching for your phone, only for Jack to move it out of your reach, his eyes snapping to the screen.

“And you want to date this…Ollie?”

You shrugged, “Maybe, he looks nice enough,” you shrugged, moving closer to him, your hands reaching desperately for your phone as Jack goes to type. “Don’t do that-” you snatched the phone, reading the message Ollie had sent you, asking you out for Saturday night.

“Are you going to go?” he asked, looking over your shoulder, as you drafted your reply, a slight scowl on your face.

“Well, how else am I meant to meet anyone?” Your eyes dart to Abbots, “It’s not like I can date anyone here,” your eyes bore into his. When you had first come here, you had considered yourself half in love with him and had thought he liked you back. He constantly flirted with you, brought you coffee at the start of every shift, complimented your hair, your eyes. You had thought you had something, had refused every date your friends had tried to set you up on, holding out till he finally asked you out.

Then you saw him flirting with everyone else, the same way he did with you and suddenly, all the reasons you had put off dating everyone else sounded ridiculous.

He nodded his eyes still looking at your phone as you sent your reply, “just stay safe kid, okay?”

You hummed, already feeling the drop in your stomach, that you felt after every failed date. The same drop you felt every time you gave Abbot an opening to ask you out, and he completely ignored it.

You shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up, shouldn’t have spent more time than usual getting ready, shouldn’t have tried to hard to make yourself feel good about a date you definitely shouldn’t have agreed to go on at all.

He had taken you to a bar, nothing too nice but acceptable for a first date. Had made you pay for your own drinks, which was fine honestly, most guys didn’t pay anymore. But then he got drunk, his eyes moved from your face to stare at the neckline of your top, his hands that had stayed at his side most of the night suddenly kept moving to touch you, to squeeze your had or your thigh.

Your discomfort was clear, anyone could see it, and god you prayed someone would come save you.

And for once someone answered your prayers, as you heard your name called across the room.

You had shrunk into your seat as the night went on, trying to hide from your date and the rest of the world, but no amount of hiding could seem to block Jack Abott finding you in the crowded bar.

He walked towards you, his brow set in a frown as he took in the sight of your date and you. It was clear the guy was drunk and even clearer you wanted to be anywhere but here.

“Hey kid,” he greeted, his gaze set in you, as you sat up in your seat, your hand reaching for your bag.

“Who’s this?” Your date, Ollie slurred. Moving to grab your hand, stopping you from making any efforts to leave.

A frown fell across Jacks face at his action, his gave still set on you, concern in his eyes.

You swallowed roughly, voice nervous as you spoke, “this is my boss I- “ your gaze turned to Abbot, “is there an emergency? Am I needed back at the hospital?” You asked, hoping he got the hint.

Abbot nodded, a serious look on his face, “sorry man,” he said speaking to your date though his eyes were still set on you.

Ollie nodded, “that’s no fun” he slurred, his hand pulling you down slightly as you moved to stand “message me after your shift.” His eyes looked you up and down “then we can have some fun,”

You made no effort to hide your recoil at his words. Roughly pulling your hand from his grip, and rushing away from the table. Only feeling comfortable when outside the bar, and with Abbots hand resting on your back, comforting you.

He walked you to his car. He said nothing, just watched you settle into your seat, watching you closely.

“Thank you, dr-“

“Call me jack,” he interrupted, his hand flexing on his leg, as if holding himself back from reaching for you.

“What?”

“Just call me jack, from now on,”

“I- okay,” you nodded turning in your seat to face him, “thank you jack,”

He smiled, “don’t thank me, sweetheart,” a small smirk lifting his lips as you flushed at the nickname “you deserve better than someone like that,”

You scoffed, “no one decent seems to like me,” you kissed your teeth, “all the decent ones are either taken or oblivious,”

Jack tilted his head “oblivious? You like someone then, who?,” you scoffed, It wasn’t like you hide your crush on him. Either he was cruel and toying with your feelings or he was as oblivious as you thought.

“Why do you care?”

“Because someone as pretty, smart and kind as you, is worth someone so much better than that asshole,” he started his hand slowly reaching for your knee, “and if you like someone then clearly they are pretty special,”

“Oh they are special to me, I’m just not special to them,”

“You? not special?” It was his turn to scoff now, “your one of the best residents I’ve seen, you have the highest bedside manner score out do everyone, and your -“ he cut himself off, starting at you and your wide eyes, and flushed face, his tongue reaching out to wet his lips. “Your beautiful,” he moved closer the consol of the car pressing into his side, “your so special,”

“I am?” You asked, voice quiet as you moved closer to the console. “To you?”

“Haven’t I made it obvious?” He titled his head, watching as you realised exactly what he was saying.

“You- you flirt with everyone!”

“Oh sweetheart,” he shook his head, his hand fully in your thigh no, his face close to yours as he spoke, “ if you think I flirt with everyone then you clearly have no idea what flirting is,”

“And what do you consider flirting?” You whispered your face itching even closer to his, you were mere breaths apart now.

He smirked, his hand leaving your thigh and cradling your cheek, pulling you closer to him, “this,” he breathed as his lips fell on yours.

His mouth was softer than you had imagined, though the kiss was in no way soft. His mouth pressed against yours perfectly slotting against you, his tongue tracing your lips until you finally let him in. The kiss was hot and messy. His mouth dominated yours, swallowing your gaps ans moans as he kissed you.

His hand moved from your face down to your waist, pulling you across the console and onto his lap. His hands squeeze your waist as he kisses you, his mouth never breaking from yours even as you grow breathless, your hands gripping his hair.

He broke apart from you slowly, a trail of saliva connecting you both, his head leaning against yours as he caught his breath.

“Is that what you call flirting, Jack?”

“Wasn’t it obvious?” He smiles, rubbing your waist as you settle into his lap, you nod, your head falling into his the crook of his neck.

“want me to take you home?”

“Only if your coming inside with me?” You place a chaste kiss to his neck, “or do we need to go to yours to get you some viagra first?” You teased, not letting him answer as you pulled him back into a bruising kiss.

Authors note: jump scared myself with her evil dates name. Sorry to anyone called Ollie but if I’m naming a sleazbag it’s going to be my evil exs name.

[amandamariee]

jack abbot fic recs (my military doctor husband)

scar tissue by @inlovewithquestionablecharacters

rumors by @yawnlovescookies

lost and found by @zivistardust

↳ i gave it to her by @/zivistardust

in the way by @mehchuis

a little old for you by @thesewordsareallihavetogive

emergency contact by @imaginesofwonder

plenty of fish by @katchamb3rs

place your bets by @theadventuresoftheunknown

doc, i think she's crashing out by @softundermoonlight

after hours by @abbotafterhours

night shift by @lilyswritings

coming around again by @lovebugism

nanny by @bitters-n-sweets

honesty is the best policy by @moondustfairies

prove you wrong by @cryonme

is this it by @lovableapocalypse

cologne and money by @relaxdiva

don''t worry by @abbots-go-bag

she's my wife by @petalsforjoy

call me by @butyoudidthis4what

these walls have eyes by @asxgard

the night shift by @betonlosingdogs

this fic by @belleeebelleee

let me take care of you by @voidsagent

↳ 10 things i hate about you by @/voidsagent

↳ tiny hands by @/voidsagent

a side of sweetness by @i-love-hozier

tuesday by @notyourlovemonkey

emergency contact by @kalila

busy bee by @mercvry-glow

cry into him by @richeeduvie

too sweet by @pencil-n-pen

↳ you've ruined my life by@/pencil-n-pen

distance by @s-writing-s

where the hell is my husband by @imaginesofwonder

↳ happily married by @/imaginesofwonder

married? by @yawnlovescookies

on me by @snoopysupe

kisses and made up by @targaryenluvs

[thecherrypittttttt]

THE FIVE STAGES; dr jack abbot x dr!reader

PART TWO

words: 13.3k

content warnings: 18+!!!! Gets quite smutty, fluffy, jack abbot invented YEARNING, age gap!!!, no use of Y/N

notes: i know this one sounds kinda depressing but i promise its fun and funny and flirty and it’s my favorite one ive ever written!! also debating on making an ao3 account - should i?

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Jack Abbot was unfortunately intimately familiar with the 5 Stages of Grief. Depression, Bargaining, Denial, Anger, Acceptance.

He grieved his leg at the ripe age of 31 - courtesy of an IED in the desert of Afghanistan.

He began grieving his late wife the following year at 32 - courtesy of an arrogant, misogynistic emergency medicine resident.

At 33, he grieved the life he thought he was going to have while he started a new one. No longer a husband, but a widow. No longer an army medic, but an Emergency Room attending at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Sometimes when he would come back to the empty home he bought at 34, the ghosts of that life were louder than any silence he thought he could drown out with the police scanner.

Jack Abbot knew the 5 Stages of Grief like the back of his hand.

In hindsight, he didn’t know how he didn't realize the 5 stages in which he fell in love with her were quite similar. A mirror of his grief refracted through a lens of unconditional love.

depression

If someone would have asked Jack at the time, he wouldn't have admitted he was depressed. He truly didn't think he was.

He didn't need therapy to deal with his trauma. His wife passed away a decade ago. His leg, or lack thereof, the constant reminder of the time he gave up while he had her on this earth - was physically healed. As much as it was going to be anyways. So therefore he was mentally healed. As much as he thought he was going to ever be anyways.

He'd been running on autopilot. It carried him from but mostly to the emergency room at PTMC. It's what made him stop at the unfamiliar sight of Gloria in his ED. This was why he didn't work the day shift. He never wanted to deal with all of the bureaucratic administrative bullshit. The only business Jack Abbot was ever interested in was the one of saving lives. Gloria hadn't even opened her mouth and Jack already knew that Robby was going to owe him one.

"Dr Abbot! Wonderful timing. I have a residency interview waiting in Robby's office for you."

Now Robby really owed him one. "Doesn't Robby usually..." Jack scratched at the back of his neck, still confused as to why Gloria had involved herself, and now him, in a residency interview, "...facilitate those?"

Gloria gave a curt nod before glancing around them, as if checking to make sure they would not be overheard. She lowered her voice as she spoke, "Yes but I specifically scheduled this one when I knew you were covering. She is the best candidate we have ever had and probably ever will. I cannot risk Robby running her off."

Right. The Adamson of it all. There was a joke in there somewhere about Jack being considered the stable one in the ED. He guessed he must be. He had become fairly good at presenting an even keeled, calm front. He still had kind of felt like a mess in every other area of his life but the ED was the one place he was the furthest from one. It's where he solved the mess instead of becoming it.

She shoved a printed resume into Jack's hands before she was off. Back up to her ivory tower. He took a look as he strode over to Robby's office. Full ride to Stanford for both her undergraduate and medical degree.

For once, he agreed with Gloria. What the hell did this candidate want to do with PTMC?

He asked her as much as he sat across the desk from her, brow furrowed in genuine curiosity. Residency interviews usually went one of two ways. The candidate was either far too cocky or so nervous they barely got a complete sentence out.

She struck the balance. She was confident. More so than some of his residents who had been out on the floor that day. She wore a dark gray wool sweater and maxi skirt set. The monochrome was only cut by the deep maroon of her belt, tights, heels, and purse. Her long hair was slicked back into a simple pony tail and her makeup was minimal, if any.

It wasn't the typical look of a medical student on a residency interview. Still completely appropriate, but far less stuffy and much more self assured.

Jack wouldn't know good style if it had slapped him in the face but he did know what hers revealed to him about herself. It was the kind of style that someone who knew who they were had. Who had spent time getting to know what they liked. Whether it was what they were reading, listening to, watching, or doing. Her style wasn’t an afterthought but she carried it with a quiet confidence that let everyone know she was not overcompensating for anything either.

It was a demeanor and style that was derivative of having a life outside of medicine - which was quite uncommon for medical students and residents alike. It was completely foreign to Jack. It intrigued him. She intrigued him.

Her body language was relaxed but respectful. One leg crossed over the other as she leaned back into the wooden chair that was probably older than she was, hands clasped in her lap. Jack doubted her heart rate had reached over 65 the whole time she had been in there.

She took a beat to answer his question which also intrigued Jack. She was not rushing to answer just to fill space. She seemed to be comfortable with the time silence gave her to craft intentional responses. Why PTMC?

A ghost of a smile that looked like it might be haunted by one appeared on her face, "My family is here."

"That's it?"

"Do you want the practiced professional answer that every other interviewer has gotten or do you want the real one?"

Jack bit back a grin at her bluntness. Ignored the stirring in his stomach that made him feel special that she may share something about herself with him that she hadn't with anyone else. He tells himself to Get. A. Grip.

"I am sure the absolute best residencies in the country are foaming at the mouth to land you and you want to come here because of your family? Give me the real reason." He let his smirk slip through as he crossed his arms over his broad chest, "I'm a captive audience after all."

The airy laugh that he got out of her almost knocked him out of his seat. What was wrong with him? He had a feeling she didn't just hand out a laugh as ethereal as that one. That she was not the kind of woman who just giggled because it was the part of the conversation where she'd been socialized to appease the man speaking that he was funny. She seemed far too smart for that. For probably everyone in the building. For him, especially.

"I have already been away in California for eight years. I could have fifty years left with my dad and my brothers and my sister in laws and my nieces and nephews or they could be gone next week," she uncrossed and recrossed her legs before continuing. Didn't rush before speaking again, "I don't want to build an unguaranteed future alone and then have no one to share it with when I get there. I wanna spend time with them now."

Jack's adam's apple bobbed in his throat. His eyes burned as he fought to hold back tears. It must have been some kind of cruel joke that right then his phantom limb pain wanted to shoot up through his thigh. Like a reminder of the time he spent wasting while he had his wife alive.

He had joined the army to become a doctor debt free. Then he had spent all of their marriage overseas, saving money for a life they never even got to spend together. He had borrowed time from the future that didn't even exist. And all he had to show for it was ironically - more money - monthly life insurance, disability, and veteran affairs checks. Oh and one and a half legs.

He blinked rapidly. He was not about to cry at work. Nevertheless while he was conducting a residency interview. He diverted the conversation away from himself, "You didn't mention your mom."

"She died. When I was a teenager, about ten years ago. After coming here actually," She coughed out a dry laugh that sounded like she dragged it up through her throat, kicking and screaming. Awfully different to the one Jack had floated out of her moments prior, "She was pregnant and they sent her away without so much as a full consultation. Just chalked her symptoms up to pregnancy and she died from an aortic dissection later that night."

Jack wanted to vomit at the almost exact recountance of how his wife had died. He was so focused on not emptying his breakfast onto Robby's desk that a tear slipped - the first in probably years.

"Oh, Dr Abbot. I didn't mean to make you emotional. I can go back to the professional answer any time you want." Another scoffed laugh, her eyes full of compassion but no tears, "Trust me - it's probably easier for both of us."

Jack really never talked about his late wife anymore. He liked to tell himself he was healed. He most definitely didn't talk about it at work. But he found himself wanting to then - with her, "No it's just - my late wife - she died the same way, about a decade ago. I was away on a stupid bachelor party trip and she didn't want to worry me so she didn't call me about it and then she, uh, never called again."

"Jesus - I am so sorry, Dr Abbot."

He noticed, appreciated, the way her head didn't tip and her eye contact didn't waver. She was not expressing her condolences out of pity or not understanding but of exactly the opposite. She knew exactly how he felt. He ignored the way his heart jumped out of his chest at the thought.

God, Robby really owed him one.

"Thank you - I am sorry about your mom. I am just impressed you still wanna work here. I could never work in the hospital that did that to my wife. The couple years after she passed - I could barely work here."

"Well, the other option was becoming one of those weirdos who swears off doctors and hospitals and science."

Jack tilted his chin at her in consideration, rubbed at the scruff there, and let out a sputtering laugh, "Are you sure that is the only other option?"

He pulled another light chuckle from her and he exhaled. Truly exhaled. For the first time in maybe ten years - like he had been underwater for so long he had forgotten what fresh air felt like.

"This is my way of letting her live on through me. To do something about what happened to her rather than using it as an excuse to sulk through life. I wanna see life as something that comes from me and not at me."

She picked at the lining of her purse that was perched in her lap. The first sign of potentially any nerves. The first time he realized that he was getting the true her. Not the front she must put up for interviews. It didn't seem much different - just a little more vulnerable.

Jack could talk. So much so he had a reputation for it in the ED. He was no stranger to being on the receiving end of a 'God do you ever shutup?' so he was a bit stunned that she had managed to shock him into silence.

He hugged his crossed arms closer to his chest as if that was even possible and just stared.

She cracked a smile, back to what was seemingly her calm and confident self, "Too esoteric for a residency interview?"

"Oh no. Not at all. I just..." Jack couldn't seem to find the right words to tell her that she had just reframed his entire outlook on his life and his grief in one sentence so he settled on, "...I uh never really thought of it that way."

"Me neither. But I have an excellent therapist."

"I will have you know, if you choose to do your residency here, I do not make it a habit of trauma dumping on my residents like I did on you today."

"I think I started that, Dr Abbot. But since I made you cry - does that mean I am in?"

That earned a genuine cackle out of Jack. A cackle. A kind of sound he wasn't even sure he was capable of making anymore but the bright, beaming smile she reciprocated made him want to do it for the rest of his life.

Maybe he owed Robby one.

Jack tried not to think about her as he got the old laptop down from his hallway closet later that night. He may never even see her again. He ignored the fact that that thought made him sick to his stomach.

Tried not to think about how Gloria had never ever personally been the residency candidate welcome committee until today while he googled 'Veteran, disabled, widower therapists near me'.

He tried not to think about how she looked the best anyone has ever looked in that emergency department as he murmured to himself, "God, that's a depressing search."

He tried not to think about how she had the most beautifully intriguing brain of anyone who had ever stepped foot into that hospital, potentially his entire life, as he booked his very first therapy appointment.

bargaining

"Remember when you told me you didn't make it a habit of trauma dumping on your residents?"

Jack didn't even have to look at her to know there was a huge smirk plastered on her face. She had been his resident for a little over a year. Although, it had taken much less time for the ribbing to start.

"Telling you about how Shen won't stop calling me 'Unc'," Jack had put air quotes around the Gen Z slang term as he continued, "is not trauma dumping."

"You seem pretty traumatized by it. You've only brought it up 85 times this shift."

"And to think - I was gonna ask you to a research breakfast after this." Jack nudged his shoulder gently with hers, tried his best to stave off the grin that played on his lips.

"And to think! You're going to anyway, old man." She nudged him right back, a little less gentle causing him to turn his shoulders and gaze towards her, feigning shock and offense.

That got the exact reaction he was fishing for - a big bright smile, loud laugh, and a second or so more of eye contact that he wouldn't have had a reason to justify otherwise.

What can he say? When it came to her - he was greedy.

"You two! I would prefer to get the hand off completed before you're both back on shift tonight. I swear you're like young and dumb medical students after shift sometimes." Dana chastised them but not without a hint of a smile.

Dana had known Jack for over ten years at this point. Seen him in a lot of different moods; but never as happy as this.

"Well, I'm young." She emphasized the 'I' with a smirk and pointed the finger that she had aimed at herself over at Jack, "He is just being dumb."

Jack barked a laugh. A sound that was no longer so foreign to him. No longer so foreign to everyone else in the ED.

He didn't miss the knowing glance Dana shot his way, a grin fighting to appear on both of their faces. He did his best to give Dana a look that said that he wasn't hopelessly infatuated with his resident. That he enjoyed spending time with each of his residents equally. He was not entirely sure he convinced Dana. He wasn't even good at convincing himself.

He could take her to breakfast if it was to help her with her research. It was most definitely not to see how many times he could pull a laugh from her. Bonus points if he got a nose scrunch or an accidental spit take of the orange juice that was already half way down her throat.

He could bring her a coffee every shift if it was to ensure his best resident was energized for her shift. It was not because of the way she looked up at him with her bright, big eyes through her lashes and said "Thank you, Dr Abbot!" like it was some sort of melody. If he started buying coffee for Dr Ellis and Dr Shen as well to make his affection less obvious - what was the difference?

He could let her do a pericardiocentesis way before anyone else her year probably should have if it was to improve her education. And because she truly was ready. He'd have bet his entire career that she was better at it than all of the surgical residents upstairs. Which meant it wasn't so totally obvious that he was staring at her in awe all of the time. Because when she was doing shit like that - everyone was. Being able to guide her hands through a procedure was just a bonus. Even if there were latex gloves between them.

He could bring extra food to shift, knowing she was going to eat half of it, if it was because he wanted to ensure his best resident was properly fueled and empowered to do her job to the best of her ability. He kept it to himself that he drove to a grocery store thirty minutes out of his way to get the specific kind of candy he knew she liked.

He could drive her home if it was to ensure his smartest resident got home safe. It was totally not because he got to spend more time with her. He definitely didn't take the long way to her apartment and he went exactly the speed limit because that was what was safe. Not because it meant extra time with her. No one else needed to know that he went at least fifteen over when she wasn't in his passenger seat.

No one also needed to know that he bought an aux cord just for her because he loved to hear what kinds of songs she liked. He definitely didn't have a playlist compiled of them all that he listened to at home now instead of his police scanner.

denial

She had been his resident for a bit over two years now and the ED was Q word tonight. No one had said it but the combined time they had all spent fucking around at the hub proved it.

Shen was on his fifth tiktok trend of the night. He thought he was being inconspicuous about the amount of time he had been spending with Javadi but his new found interest in the social media app gave him away. Jack couldn't really say anything to his new junior attending about the dangers of falling for someone that you were the superior to without blowing up his own soft spot for a certain resident.

So Shen was on his fifth tiktok trend of the night and he had roped her in.

Jack thought he knew all of her secret talents by now but he watched from behind her, amused and hands tugging at his stethoscope looped behind his neck, as Shen played various Britney Spears songs to see how quickly she could guess them.

She hadn't needed more than 3 seconds for any of them.

Then they were busy for an hour or so. A couple drunk twenty somethings with some concussions and laceration repairs - nothing too crazy. And then they were back at central. The quiet was interrupted by a gasp from Dr Shen. Which was quickly followed by Dr Ellis looking over his shoulder at his phone and then both of them dying laughing.

"I don't even want to know." Jack threw his hands up in surrender.

"Oh, yes you do! You're going viral for being hot!" Shen exclaimed.

"I don't know what viral means if it’s not to do with an infection and I already know that I’m hot thank you very much." Jack didn't even glance up from his charting as he spoke.

“For being hot and being hopelessly in love.” Ellis clarified.

That got Jack's attention. He got up, snatched Shen's phone out of his hand as he muttered, “I am not hopelessly -" he didn't even want to give the accusation a real denial to validate it, "-let me see that.” He pressed play.

It was ironic that he had been telling himself he needed to start schooling his expressions when it came to her when the same dopey smile and enamored eyes he had going in the video were on his face as he watched the video.

He knew Shen and Ellis were monitoring his reaction closely but he couldn't help but let out a laugh at the part of the video where he had guessed the song 'Lucky' before she had.

She had whipped around in the spinning chair so fast - her hair had stuck to her glossed lips, "How the hell do you know that?!" she asked surprised, a wide smile taking over her face.

Jack shuffled around in his wide stance, large hands going from the ends of his stethoscope to clasped behind his back, his chin tilted up at her as he spoke with a drawl, "I let you play your music when I drive you home, don’t I?”

In the moment, Jack had missed what was caught on camera - the knowing smirk Dr Ellis had leveled at Dr Shen off camera as she said, “Oh, I’m sure you do.”

Jack's rebuttal hadn't even had a chance to leave his mouth before Shen and Ellis were reading the comments aloud, taking turns as they went.

"WHOOOO DAT IN THE BACK!?"

"Paging Doctor biceps in the back"

"Close enough. Welcome back Lexie grey and mark sloan"

"What in the greys anatomy"

"Do the two doctor sexys know that age gap august is upon us"

"If she doesn’t wanna bite on his biceps I will"

"Does that girl know she has 30mins to claim that man before I do"

"He does not play about her!"

"A man who YEARNS is a man who EARNS"

"Dr sexy is down bad for the other doctor sexy"

"Where is this emergency room at … for research purposes"

"I want Doctor sexy to look at me like that"

"Okay, I don’t look at her like anything!" Jack hissed low in a whisper, hoping to a god he did not believe in that she was still busy with the drunk college kids and was not hearing any of this.

"Well, you definitely don’t look at me like that." Shen laughed, sucking on his Dunkin straw even though nothing had been left in his cup for hours.

"I look at you all the same." Jack deadpanned. He sat back down at his computer. An attempt to get back to charting. But not before taking a sweep of the ED and making sure she was nowhere within earshot. Not that Shen and Ellis were making it easy with their hysterics.

"Bro - if you looked at me like that I would call HR. She's just into it."

“Into what?" She asked monotonically, not even looking up from her iPad as she approached the rest of the night shift crew at the hub.

“Nothing!” Jack barely got out, grumbling and exasperatedly running a hand through his silver curls as he got up from his computer and went to chairs.

He didn't miss the raise in her brows as she looked at Shen and Ellis, silently asking 'What the hell is up with him?'.

He couldn't tell you the last time he voluntarily went out to chairs but he was hoping his fair Irish skin would be finished betraying him with the pinkness in his cheeks, ears, and neck by the time he made his way back to central.

He knew it was only a matter of time before Shen and Ellis showed her the video and he did not want to be there when they did.

So he missed the flush in her cheeks, ears, and neck that had been identical to his.

And her slightly embarrassed, definitely exaggerated, "You guys stop - he is literally our boss."

"But you're not not into it?" Ellis had pushed. If anyone was getting it out of her, it was Ellis. They had been attached at the hip since their residency began.

"It doesn't matter if I'm into it. He is our boss! He is not into it."

"God, for someone so smart you are so stupid sometimes."

Jack had waved Shen off when Shen had come out to chairs to tell him about that interaction, practically vibrating with excitement. Or maybe that was the caffeine. Jack had parroted her, tried to make a joke of it all. Said something along the lines of, "I know you guys like to pretend otherwise but I am your boss."

But once Jack was home, black out shades drawn and snug in his bed, he couldn't wipe the huge, stupid grin off of his face.

anger

Jack was not an angry man. Never had been. Very few things on this earth made him genuinely angry - one of them being the annual hospital gala. Every year they were trotted out as show ponies to raise money that the ED would never even see. You can't save patients with empty compliments and an open bar.

He had managed to avoid it the past couple years - always worked instead. So when he saw he wasn't scheduled to work the night of this year's gala, he printed out the schedule and marched right over to Robby's workstation to rectify what was surely a mistake.

"Why am I not scheduled to work tomorrow? I didn't even check the schedule until now because I just assumed that my friend would do me a solid because he owes me one-"

"Because you have to go to the gala, man." Robby interrupted Jack's rambling.

"What part of 'you owe me one' did you not understand?"

"Did you happen to see who else is not scheduled?"

Neither of them had to say anything for them both to know who's name Jack was scanning that piece of paper for.

Robby clapped him on the back, satisfied with a smile on his face as he walked away, "Go home and rest, Romeo. You got a big date tomorrow night - you’re welcome!"

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

So again, Jack was not an angry man. Never had been. But he had decided to add a new line item to the short list of things that made his blood absolutely boil. The thing being every single young, conventionally attractive, rich, tall surgeon working in his hospital hitting on his resident at this stupid fucking gala.

They hadn't even made it to dinner yet and he was sure she'd been approached over ten times. Jack had to step away after the most recent one - under the guise of getting a drink.

Jack unfortunately was very familiar with this particular suitor of hers. She was well into her last year of her residency and it had not been an uncommon occurrence for Dr Harvard from cardio thoracic surgery to make any and every excuse to come down and consult when she was on shift.

Jack made a conscious effort to forget his name. Shen and Ellis loved to remind him of it.

They'd tease him about it. They'd say that there was a plus side to it all. They never had to wait long on a cardiac surgery consultation anymore. But selfishly, Jack would wait fucking years if it meant he was chatting her ear off instead of Mr Harvard.

Jack wasn't naive. She was practically glowing. She always was. She always looked beautiful. Before tonight, he basically only ever saw her with no makeup on, hair a mess, wearing hospital issued scrubs and he still thought she was the most gorgeous person alive.

But tonight. Tonight, Jack was surprised he did not end up as a patient in his ED the first moment he had laid eyes on her. Her hair was carefully curled, framing her perfect face that was painted with just the right amount of makeup. Her lashes were more prominent than usual, her cheeks more flushed and her lips a bit more pink and a lot more glossy.

And then her dress. That damn dress. It was vintage because of course it was. Of course, she found time to vintage shop on top of the grueling hours she put in at the ED. Even in her last year of residency, she had never lost sight of being her own person both in and outside of work.

The dress reminded Jack of something from the prohibition era - celebratory. He was trying not to be so obvious in his celebration of how the structured seams of the powder blue silk created a corset shape that wasn't too tight for a work function but definitely was tight enough to have his imagination wandering.

With delicate lace panels towards the bottom of her dress and the swooping off the shoulder neckline with draped cap sleeves - Jack was being a sap but she looked like she had stepped out of a romance movie. Or off of a runway.

It was the kind of dress that reminded him of when they first met. He loved getting glimpses of her like this. Of who she was outside of the ED.

She had said she found the dress at a second hand shop on consignment. After that he had spent most of their evening dreaming about what it would be like to hold her hand and watch her shop.

Get to see the process of how she selected what she liked. Get to bring her hand up to his lips and kiss it - knowing that he was one of those things that she liked. Maybe even loved. And of course, buy everything her gaze lingered on even when she insisted not to. Especially then.

So Jack was not naive. He knew she was absolutely, positively stunning. He knew even beyond that - she was kind and funny and fucking whip smart. Smarter than anyone he had ever met and in so many different ways. If he could move into her brain - he would. So he was not naive enough to think other men wouldn't flirt with her. They would be fools not to. He just wished he could be the reason they wouldn't.

He sipped his old fashioned and did his best to pretend like he was looking anywhere but at her and Mr Harvard. He can't imagine that he was very successful. A ding from his phone took him out of his misery.

From Shen: Yo - i know you hate that gala shit. Kinda bogus robby made you go. Thought you guys were friends. Anyway, can you come help? Ellis has got a hot date. Or so she says

Jack had never been more thankful to receive a weird text from Shen in his life. He replied with a quick 'On my way' before taking one last glance over at her.

He sighed at the sight of her digging through her purse for something. He couldn’t see her expression but he sure could see Mr Harvard's. Dude couldn’t wipe the grin off of his face. Jack wished he could do it for him.

Okay chill, he reminded himself. As much as he wanted to, he figured it would be rude to interrupt her to say goodbye. She probably didn’t want her old attending cock blocking her anyways.

Jack set his half finished drink on the bar counter along with a $20 tip and turned on his good heel. He had his hands on the cold metal of the event venue's door when he heard his favorite voice behind him.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Jack turned to see her and the sight made him melt. Arms crossed over her chest, brow furrowed, and lips in a stern line that was slowly slipping into a pout.

"Shen and Ellis need a cover."

"And when were you planning on telling me?" Her hands moved to her hips. Jack's hands flexed at his sides. All he wanted to do was kiss the sass out of her. But he couldn't. She was still his resident. And probably not even interested in him.

"You seemed busy. We haven’t even eaten dinner yet." Jack's response earned an eye roll out of her.

Before he could even blink, her arm threaded under his own - grabbing his bicep, "I'm coming with you."

Who was Jack to argue with that?

"How'd you get out of your conversation with Mr Harvard?"

Another dramatic eye roll. He loved it. Then the prettiest little smile he had ever seen.

"Told him my mean, scary boss said we had to leave."

He couldn't decide his opinion regarding the short walk to his SUV in handicapped parking. One part of him was thankful. He wouldn't be shocked if he had burnt holes in his suit jacket from the way his skin had heated up under her feather light touch. The blush was sure to creep up into his cheeks any moment now.

On the other hand, he could walk for miles if it meant she was touching him the whole way. She stopped at his passenger car door and turned to look at him.

"Mean, scary boss huh?" was all Jack could get out while he was under her gaze. It sounded like he had dragged his words through gravel on their way out. But with the way her eyes still shone in the moonlight and the fact that they were solely trained on his own - he was lucky he managed to get any words out at all.

"The scariest." she winked. She fucking winked. Jack had never been more thankful that he had metal for a leg because if he didn't - his legs were sure to have wobbled out from beneath him right then.

His hands were stuffed into his slack pockets. He didn't trust himself for them to be anywhere else. Her hands had given him a moment of reprieve. No longer lightly squeezing his bicep. But now they trailed up his chest, stopping to pretend to fix his tie even though Jack knew it was perfect. Military habit. Didn't matter - she could do whatever the hell she wanted if it involved touching him.

His breath hitched at her touch. He hoped she didn't notice.

"He cleans up nice though - makes up for all the mean and scary."

"Did your mean, scary boss mention you look beautiful tonight." Jack kept his hands in his pockets but took an experimental step forward. Was this really happening? Was she really hitting on him?

It was almost as if she had heard his inner monologue. Wanted to make her intentions clear as she looped her arms around Jack's neck and absentmindedly threaded her fingers through the curls at the nape there.

Ever since she had started fiddling with his suit, her eyes had dropped to anywhere but his face. Typical Jack would have dipped his head, forced eye contact but Jack right now was just trying to stand up right.

Her gaze snapped to him and this time he hadn't even tried to hide the palpitation in his heart or his breathing, "No." was all she said. Barely a whisper but Jack heard her loud and clear.

His hands immediately fell to her hips. He filed away the way she seemed to sink into his grip. Exhaled a little. Like it was muscle memory from a past life.

Her fingers circled their way higher up onto his head, fully tugging on his curls and lightly scratching at his scalp. Jack had to bite back a groan as he squeezed at her hips and pressed her fully back onto his unopened car door.

"Jack." She murmured out low somewhere between a moan and an airy breath, head tilted back in pleasure at the pressure of his fingers on her hips. Jack was fucked now that he knew what his name sounded like falling off her lips without inhibition.

The expanse of her neck now available to him was like a siren song. The past four years had felt like a siren song and he couldn't help himself any longer. One of his hands found the back of her head, gently cradling it back up for her to look at him. His other hand rubbed at her jaw in sweeping strokes of his thumb.

Neither of them could rip their gaze from the others' lips - their panting chests just a mere centimeter apart. He was finally going to do it. He was finally going to kiss her.

Until he wasn't.

Until a loud bang of the door opening broke them apart. A slew of hospital administrators spilled out behind it looking for their next smoke break. Had Jack mentioned that he fucking hated the annual hospital gala?

They flew off each other at what would have been a rather impressive speed if it hadn't felt so agonizing. What was Jack thinking? That he could make out with his resident against his car like they were a horny teenage couple while all of the people in the building a few feet away from them could have her fired for it in a heartbeat? He had to be better. At least until her residency was over with.

He had to get it together - for the both of them it seemed like. Jack cleared his throat and ran a hand over his stubble to hide the smile threatening to take over his face at the realization that she had wanted to kiss him. The way she had said his name with so much...want. Need, even. Maybe this thing wasn't so one sided after all.

He got out of his own head just in time to stop her closing of the passenger door. He wrapped his hand around the top of the door, held it open and waited for her to look up at him after she had buckled up. But the buckle clicked and her gaze stayed trained on her lap.

"Hey." He whispered softly. They both knew the eye contact he was seeking. She slowly turned her head in his direction, gazing up at where he was standing in front of her.

"You look absolutely breathtaking. You always do."

She sucked in a breath and then there she was - big bright smile, shoulders no longer slumped, no more fiddling with her purse strings just to avoid the space between them. She was back to herself.

"Just for that I'll order pizza to the hospital." His favorite.

"Thank you." He probably should have shut the door by now. Should have probably already been on their way to the hospital. But he couldn't stop fucking staring at her. What's new?

"Don't thank me. I still have your card in my DoorDash account." She giggled and all Jack could get out was good before he shut her door.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

They ate their pizza in their gown and tux at the hub with Ellis and Shen.

Ellis raised the polaroid camera that Dana kept at the hub desk and signaled for them to get together for a photo. Jack hooked two fingers under her rolling stool and tugged her over into his side.

"Woah! Old man still has moves!"

Jack ignored Shen as he wrapped his arm over her collarbone from behind her, pulling her closer. Her head instinctively leaned toward his and her fingers delicately held his wrist as they smiled for Ellis's camera.

Jack didn't miss the look Ellis had given her. Maybe he was delusional or maybe she had gotten her best friend Ellis's advice on making a move on her attending at the gala and now Ellis was checking in on the results.

Jack also didn't miss the way her cheeks heated up and the subtle shake of her head at Ellis. As if to signal that they would talk about it later. Probably, when Jack was out of earshot.

Shen tried to get them to pose like they were going to prom. When they both refused citing unprofessionalism, Shen threw a bit of a hissy fit. Mumbling something along the lines of "Oh, now we are being professional!"

Ellis settled on writing ‘Gala Girlies' as the caption for their polaroid before taping it onto the hub counter with the rest of the pictures that had accumulated over the years. This one was definitely Jack's new favorite.

He knew exactly what Robby was going to say when he saw it tomorrow morning, “You owe me one, brother."

He was so fucked.

acceptance

Jack was bored. He never thought he'd say that but this hospital without her was straight up boring with a capital B. He worked here without her for ten years and now - the ten days of PTO she had taken before her first day as a junior attending - felt like the longest of his life. And he was only on day 6.

He wasn't even supposed to be there right now. He had come in after a Tactical EMS job gone bad. His buddy had already gone up to surgery. Before Jack could leave, Robby had roped Jack into joining him on the new day shift attending, Dr Al-Hashimi's, welcome tour.

He was waiting on a text from her. She was spending the day with her family and then she and Jack were supposed to go watch the fireworks together - alone. It was the Fourth of July after all. He had it all planned. He had practiced how he was going to profess his feelings to her in the mirror like a dork more times than he cared to admit. He had long accepted that he was in love with his resident. Now his colleague. He could work with that.

He checked his phone again. No luck. He ignored Robby's inquisitive glance. Jack had never been so interested in his phone like he had been today.

They stood at the hub as Robby droned on and on about day shift procedures that Jack was so thankful not to have to know too much about. Jack just admired the polaroids on the desk in front of them. He was still plotting a way to inconspicuously steal the one of him and her from the gala for his wallet but it had become a fan favorite in the past few months.

Dr Al-Hashimi directed her next question to Jack, pulling him out of his thoughts. She held up his second favorite polaroid with a raised brow, "Am I going to have the pleasure of meeting..." Dr Al-Hashimi squinted to read the writing below the picture, "...Abbot's Angels?"

Jack couldn't help but laugh. The photo had been taken over a year ago. Shen had begged him to take it. Handed the camera over to Jack as he maneuvered himself between the two girls. Both her and Ellis's backs to Shen. All three of them holding up finger guns to their lips with faux serious expressions.

As if her ears were ringing, Dr Ellis appeared behind Jack at the hub. Clapping him on the shoulder and extending a hand out to greet Dr Al-Hashimi, "Don't bring it up to him. He is going through withdrawals because his favorite is still out on PTO."

"Parker - I do not have favorites. You guys aren't even my residents anymore." Jack muttered in defense as he checked his phone again.

Dr Al-Hashimi clocked him, "Dr Abbot - I am good to go here and I am sure I will be seeing you. You should go. It's your day off and a holiday. I am sure you have plans."

"Yeah, what are your plans, Dr Abbot?" Ellis teased. She must have known her best friend's plans were with him for the night. Ellis was enjoying herself. Jack shot her a glare.

"I think his plans just showed up!" Robby clapped his hands together, sputtered out a laugh at the coincidence.

"Brother - I am not taking another case! I am leav-" Jack looked up from unscrewing his water bottle to follow Robby's gaze.

He spotted her mid sip and he genuinely choked on his water in a way he thought only happened in cartoons. He was ready to send Ellis out to chairs when she patted his back like she was burping a baby and suggested that there was a cooling room in North 5 if he needed it.

She was simply glowing. Wavy hair, bright eyes, sun kissed skin donning a short jean skirt and a white halter tank top that accentuated the tan lines over her collarbones left by her bikini.

"Well if it isn’t the prodigal princess of the pitt herself!" Robby goaded, grabbing a clip board and rounding the hub.

The man she was pushing in the wheelchair piped up at that, "You guys actually call her that? Seriously? I thought she was making that up. Please stop - her ego is big enough as it is."

"What do you got?" Robby asked. Jack was still staring. Who the fuck was this guy?

"Idiot male. 37 years old. Broke his ankle trying to relive his glory days coaching youth soccer practice," She was leaned over, pushing the wheelchair with all her might, "and could stand to lose a few pounds."

That pulls an almost relieved huff from Jack. Whoever this guy was - she must've not been that fond of him.

"Hey -" the man reached behind him and tugged on her hair "-my arms still work!"

Oh hell no, Jack thought. Ellis must have noticed he was about to step in and she stopped him before he could, "At ease, soldier. That is her brother."

"Well your brain clearly doesn't" she whacked him right upside the head.

Her brother imitated her, high pitched while she made a show of dramatically handing over his wheelchair to Robby so he could take him away for X-rays.

She thanked Robby as she made her way over to the hub, introducing herself to Dr Al-Hashimi and grabbing the bag of candy that Jack was offering out to her.

She looked him up and down and nodded her head at his camouflage pants, "Really? What is with the GI Jack get up? I thought you were gonna get a hobby.”

"And I thought you said you were gonna stop stealing my food."

"And I thought you said you were gonna stop buying t-shirts one size too small."

"From Walmart." Dr Ellis added.

"You guys, I told you - I do not shop at Walmart."

She giggled and gently nudged her shoulder into Ellis's, "Oh yeah Parker, how could we forget? He shops at Costco!"

"They send good coupons in the mail!" Jack defended himself

"Bro - you're a disabled, widowed veteran who makes more than half a million dollars a year. I think you can afford real clothes." Ellis deadpanned.

“Any other comments from the fashion police about my outfit?”

“Don’t threaten us with a good time.”

Jack cocked his head towards her, smirk widening. He couldn't hide how happy he was to see her. It had been a long couple of days, "And to think I was just starting to miss you."

"Just starting to!?" She raised her eyebrows in challenge, feigning offense while her eyes practically sparkled up at him. He could feel the weight of Ellis's knowing smile on them. He didn't care.

He was debating how obvious it would be for him to pull her into a hug until Dana beat him to it.

"Dr Al, you have just met one of our finest," Dana squeezed her harder, "Except you probably won't see her much because Abbot is always hogging her on nights."

She was released from Dana's grip just enough to clap a light hand on Jack's shoulder, giving him a squeeze, "He needs someone to keep him sharp in his old age."

Jack grimaced the second her hand had made contact with his shoulder and dread washed over her face. Dana fully released her now. Letting her turn all of her attention onto Jack.

“Jack…”

“I’m fine.” He avoided her probing stare and that was exactly how she knew he was not fine.

“Really?” She asked - not buying what he was selling.

“Yes!" She applied light pressure on his shoulder again and he wriggled out of her grasp with a sharp and hissed, "- ah!”

“The room right there is open. Go patch him up.” Dana pointed to the room across the hall. Shooing them in there before Jack had a chance to protest.

Jack sat on the bed as she shut the door and pulled the curtain. Her back was still turned to him as she said, "Take off your shirt."

"At least let me take you to dinner first." Jack tried to pull a laugh from her. It didn't go over well.

"Jack." She warned. Now turned toward him with her arms crossed, “What happened?”

“I was intubating in open fire and a bullet grazed my vest. I’m fine.” He shrugged as he pulled off his shirt. As if what he just said was a completely normal and frequent occurrence.

“You were shot!?” She hurried over to him, standing in between his legs as he sat on the bed.

“Shot…at."

She tilted her head at him in annoyance. Pausing her opening of the various utensils she was preparing to clean his wound.

“What?” He asked.

“Can’t you just take up tennis or golf or literally anything else? Like a normal person?”

“What fun would that be?” Jack insisted upon keeping it light. She shouldn't ever have to worry about him. That was his job.

She lathered some kind of ointment onto his open wound that was on the front of his chest, right above his collar bone. Jack was too distracted by how close they were to care and see what kind.

“There is nothing fun about me coming to work one day and finding out you’re dead because you wanted an adrenaline rush.”

“That isn’t gonna happen.”

“You don’t know that. You think you’re invincible and you’re not.”

“Is that an old joke?”

“Jack-“ her voice cracked and Jack was immediately on his feet, cupping her face in his hands.

“Woah, woah honey okay - I thought we were kidding. I’m fine.” He cooed, one hand stroked her cheek bone making sure not one tear fell while the other steadied her at her hip as she stood between his legs.

“Look at me." He tilted his chin down while he tilted hers up, holding her gaze with his own, "I’m fine. And I’m not going anywhere."

“I won’t survive you dying, Jack. I can't.” Her voice sounded wrecked as her chin wobbled. Jack felt horribly responsible. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. Naturally, like they had been in this position a million times before. He murmured into the side of her hair, “Okay forget the SWAT thing. Although, you should’ve seen me earlier in my full uniform I looked pretty sick”

Jack huffed a sigh of relief as he felt her laugh vibrate through him. He pulled her back with his hands on her shoulders to get another good look at her, "There's my girl."

She wiped a sniffle with the back of her hand and lightly pushed him back down to a seat. His hands never left her. Just slid down her body until he rested them on the outsides of her upper thighs - a safe distance away from the hem of her jean skirt.

She worked in silence for a moment until Jack piped back up, “I’ll pick up tennis or golf like a normal person. I promise.”

“You don’t have to do that, Jack. I just want you to have a little more regard for your life okay? Can you please just do that for me?”

“I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t do for you.” Jack didn't even think that was an exaggeration.

“Except for wearing the correct size shirt.”

He teasingly pinched her leg and she swatted at his good shoulder, laughing. She was done helping him but they hadn't moved. Neither of them really wanted to.

“That’s for you too. Don’t think I don’t see you staring at my biceps.”

Her eyebrows rose in faux surprise as she dragged a hand down his freckled arm.

“Oh you wanna talk about staring? I must have picked that up from someone.”

“This is a teaching hospital.”

“Could’ve mistaken it for a staring one.”

“Come on - you’re always performing medical miracles while looking like that. I can’t help it. Cut a guy some slack.” Jack's hands felt like they were on fire, practically kneading her thighs. God, she really had to wear this skirt today of all days.

“You’re a flirt, you know that?”

“Only with you.”

They had about a second to jump apart at the sound of a knock on the door before the curtain was pulled back to reveal Dr Al-Hashimi.

Jack rubbed at the back of his neck. Both him and her were looking anywhere but each other. Jack wasn't planning on getting excited but he was thankful he had placed his shirt over his lap to cover himself now that they were no longer alone.

Dr Al-Hashimi cleared her throat, obviously picking up on the fact that she had interrupted something, "Sorry to uh, interrupt. But my number, Dr Abbot. Like we discussed. For that date.”

Dr Al-Hashimi handed Jack a piece of paper and then turned to her, "You have a visitor from cardio thoracic surgery outside."

Jack groaned. Could Mr Harvard have any worse timing? She shot Jack a glare and stepped outside. Jack could see the shadow of Mr Harvard who he knew was down here pretending he'd have something to do with her brother's ankle surgery just to flirt.

He caught the end of her dismissing Mr Harvard's valiant attempt at being her knight in shining armor. Jack smiled to himself as he made his way back to the hub to catch up with her. He was explaining a procedure to Whitaker as he walked, "You're gonna have to start with your finger. And then slowly over a few minutes as the wetness gathers, go deeper. All the way to the back of the knuckle."

Whitaker nodded in understanding and was on his merry way. She turned right on Jack the second he was in her vicinity.

"What the hell is your problem?!"

"Problem?" Jack asked, genuinely perplexed.

Her voice pitched down, she whispered, "Why do you have to say everything so unnecessarily slutty? You wanna ask Whitaker out too!?"

Now that - Jack was not expecting. He quirked his eyebrow up in surprise. Also in confusion.

"Ask Whitaker out? What are you-"

He was cut off by a little girl screaming her name and running right into her arms, "Look! Look! Your work is on my new soccer jersey!"

The girl couldn't be older than five. Jack recognized the little girl as her niece from photos she had shown him. He noticed who must have been her sister in law a few feet away, talking to Robby presumably about discharge instructions for her brother as he awaited surgery that he would probably have next week once the swelling went down.

"What are you talking about? Lemme see that." She plucked the jersey from her niece and examined the PTMC logo on it.

Jack knew his cheeks were ruby red. He could see the gears in her head putting it all together as she stared at the small jersey with the ironed on PTMC ED patch. A couple weeks ago, she had told him offhandedly that her niece's soccer league was going to get cancelled since they had no sponsor. So Jack called up the park district and paid for it himself. Under the guise it was the PTMC ED. It was no big deal. If her niece was happy, she was happy.

She put her niece down next to her on the ground as her eyes looked up to Jack, softening, "We don't have the budget for this."

"I know. But I do."

She opened her mouth to say something but her niece cut her off, climbing into her dad's lap on his wheelchair as he, her sister in law, and Robby joined them at the hub, "Auntie, is this Dr Sexy?"

Jack's lips immediatley preened, quirking up into an amused smirk, Dr Ellis and Robby doubled over in laughter.

"No baby - this is Dr Abbot." She tried to recover, her eyes blown wide, mouth agape and her cheeks beet red. She couldn't even look at Jack.

"But you always call him Dr Sexy when you are talking to mommy. What does sexy mean?"

"OKAY-" she said loudly, still looking anywhere but at Jack. She turned her gaze on her brother as she clapped her hands together, "-it is time for you all to leave."

"Only if Dr Sexy walks us out." Her brother teased.

She groaned, putting her head in her hands as Jack wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She hid in the crook of his neck, "I am getting a new job."

"Oh no you're not."

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Jack met her at her car after he helped her family to theirs. “Dr Sexy, huh?”

“Shut up. I'm trying to be annoyed with you and you’re making it damn hard”

“Why are you annoyed with me?” Jack steadied himself with a wide stance, crossed his arms over his chest as she turned to look at him, leaning against her car door.

“Seriously?"

Jack just raised his eyebrows back at her in question.

She mirrored his stance, crossed arms over chest, "So you go on dates now?”

“What are you talking about? Is this about tonight? If you don't want to go anymore we don't have to-”

She imitated him and Dr Al-Hashimi from earlier, "Sorry to uh, interrupt. But my number, Dr Abbot. Like we discussed. For that date.” She emphasized the word.

Jack rubbed his hand over his face, stopping at his scruff and trying to mask the smirk that was threatening to take over his face, “Are you…jealous?”

She scoffed, trying to sound nonchalant but Jack knew her too well for that, “Me? Jealous? No, Jack I just think it’s wildly inappropriate. This is our workplace.”

“Well that’s a damn shame because I didn’t ask Dr Al on a date. I’m setting her up on one. With my army buddy actually."

Her lips formed a barely there oh, "Well…now I just feel like a bitch."

Jack laughed and stepped closer, shaking his head in refute to her statement. He let his hands find purchase on her car, caging her in.

His voice came out far more groveled than expected, "But I’ve been wanting to ask you on a date for going on, oh I don’t know almost five years now, but if you think it’s so wildly inappropri-"

“I don’t!”

“You dont? But I thought-“

He earned himself an eyeroll and a stern, “Jack.”

“You just said-" He couldn't help the huge grin spreading across his face.

“I know what I said.”

“So - let me get this straight - it’s only wildly inappropriate if it’s a date with anyone but you? Is that stated somewhere in the HR handbook or-”

"God, do you ever shutup?" And then her lips were on his.

His whole body felt like it was on fire. Her hands on each side of his face, his squeezing at her hips and pressing her up against the car. Just like that night at the gala. Except this time he actually got to kiss her. He was kissing her.

His head spun at the way her fingers circled around to the nape of his neck, tugging at his curls. He cradled her jaw in one strong hand and grabbed her waist with the other, hand pushing up the white tank she had on to make contact with her bare skin. They couldn't possible get any closer but it still didn't feel close enough.

Jack didn't want to ever stop the exploration of his hands along her body. He grabbed at the flesh on the outside of her upper thigh, hiking it up slightly around his hips. She ground herself down onto his bulge and the gasp she let out was heavenly. Jack took the chance to swipe his tongue into her mouth, as she ground down again, slower this time. Jack couldn't keep his moan from tumbling out.

He pulled back ever so slightly, their lips still practically touching as their chests heaved, "Baby, where are your keys?"

"My keys? That is what you care about right now?" She went to grind on him again but Jack's hands grabbed her hips, halting her.

"If you keep doing that I am going to come in my pants in the hospital parking garage and I would much rather come somewhere else in the comfort of my own home. I've been thinking about this for a long time. I want to take my time with you."

"How long?" She asked as she slipped her keys into Jack's front pocket.

"Inappropriatley long. Now get in the car so Dr Sexy can drive us home."

"I am never gonna live that down, am I?"

"Absolutely not."

"I hate you."

Jack grabbed her chin and peppered her face with kisses, ending with one on her lips as she giggled. Kissing her hard because he could do that now, "Somehow, I am not convinced."

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Jack's left hand flexed hard on her steering wheel. His right hand preoccupied with a steady grip on her upper thigh. Her left hand played with his curls as he drove.

"What are you thinking about?"

"How after the gala last year I went home and touched myself. Imagined my fingers were yours." Jack choked on nothing at her words.

"Jesus Christ - I am trying not to cause a mass casualty event, honey. Can you please just wait till we get home."

She groaned his name in frustration and squeezed his fingers between her thighs, trying to find friction anyway she could.

"You're that needy?"

"Yes, Jack."

"Show me then." His voice was gritty and low as he knocked her knees apart. He batted down the sun visor on her side, sliding the mirror cover up and aiming it perfectly to reflect her lap.

She whined at the loss of contact as both of his hands now gripped the steering wheel. Her eyes screwed shut and her chest lifted, breathing heavy. The way her hard nipples were peaking through her tank top was enough to make Jack scared he was going to crash the car.

"Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me. You think you can handle that for me, baby?"

His words seemed to hit her all at once. Demanding in the way it was when he was ordering people around the ED. The tone went straight to her core as she hiked her jean skirt up over her hips and slid her small lacy black thong down her legs. She stuffed it in one of the pockets of Jack's camo pants, lightly squeezing his bulge as she did. All Jack could murmur out was a hissed fuck as she angled her center to the mirror above her, giving him a perfect view of her absolutely soaked core.

"I asked you a question."

"Yes, yes I can handle it. I promise." She rushed her words out in one run on sentence, out of breath as her chest heaved.

"Good girl, baby. Show me how you touch yourself."

She nodded as she began to rub her clit, her voice shakey as she spoke, "I start like this and I think about everything you said to me that day. When you tell me good job after a prodecure or how you order everyone around or how-"

A tumbled moan falls from her lips, cutting herself off.

"Do you play with these pretty tits?" Jack reached over and gripped the nape of her neck, tugging at the string of her halter top and letting it fall. He pulled it down, her tits spilling out as he tweaked a nipple, kneading it after with his palm.

He thought she squeaked out a soft uh huh with a nod that trailed into a moan as her right hand slipped two fingers into her center. The sound was obscene as she pushed in and out, her head falling back and her chest pushing forward into Jack's hand.

"Jack!" She was getting louder now, the pace of her fingers moving quicker. The tone of her voice filled with unabashed need.

"What else, baby?"

All she could do was babble in response. Jack's hand fell from her nipples to her pussy, giving it a slap before grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at herself in the mirror, "Do you see how pretty your pussy is? What was that you said earlier? That I say everything so slutty? Look who's the slut now."

They both saw the way her pussy contracted around her two fingers at his words. The way her already dripping core somehow managed to get even more wet at the filth he was spilling.

"Oh you like when I am a little mean, don't you?"

She could barely nod, her chest hitting her chin as her breathing became more rapid the closer she inched towards her finish line.

"You wanna come for me?"

"Please." She panted. Jack smirked to himself as he grabbed her wrist, pulled her hand from her center before she could even think about finishing, and pressed her fingers into his mouth - licking them clean.

Her head lolled against the seat, she groaned his name. A mix of frustration and want as she dazedly stared at him.

"I've waited almost five years to taste you, honey. You can wait five more minutes till we are home, yeah?"

She huffed out an, "I hate you."

"Somehow, I am not convinced." He chuckled as he placed a soft kiss on the back of her hand.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Jack held her hand gently as he tugged her into his house. She was practically bouncing on her heels behind him. "I'm gonna shower first and then-"

"Like hell you are." She snipped. Now she was pulling him. Through his foyer and straight to his couch where she perched herself on his lap, bracketing his hips with her thighs and grinding down on his bulge that was dying to spring out of his pants.

He pushed her skirt back up her hips and rubbed her upper thighs as she rocked her bare pussy down on him, her hands steadying herself on his neck as she leaned into press her mouth to his.

Jack's chest was heaving, "Baby, I'm all sweaty and gross from TEMS."

"I couldn't care less, Jack. You might be patient enough to wait five years but I sure as hell am not. Please touch me."

"Like this?" His fingers rubbed her clit, her head falling back in relief at him finally touching her where she needed him most.

"God, you were dripping all over your car and now you're soaking my couch? Who's got you so worked up?" She gasped as Jack entered two thick fingers in her, kissing up her neck as he did. Nipping at her jaw line as he pulled her tank top down so he could swirl his mouth around one of her sensitive nipples.

She pulled his shirt off over his head, flashing him a mischevious smirk before, "Dr Harvard from cardiac surgery."

Jack's fingers stopped immediatley. She whined and writhed in his lap at the loss of contact. Jack wrapped his other hand around her neck, squeezing slightly, "I thought you were gonna be good for me?"

"I will, I will. I am." She begged. Jack didn't know what he did in a past life to get her begging like this in his lap but he was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Atta girl." He cooed, adding a third finger and plunging back into her tight core, "I am gonna ask you again - what's got you so worked up?"

"You, Jack! Your voice and your arms and your curls and these stupid fucking pants."

"Oh my girl likes my uniform, yeah? Is that what had you so bratty today? Want me to fuck you in it?"

"Please." she huffed. Sweat beading at the top of her forehead as she began to rock her hips, riding his fingers.

"Come for me first."

"Yeah, thats it." Jack hissed, trying hard not to imagine what it would feel like to have his cock where his fingers were. That would surely lead to an early curtain call, "That's it. My good girl."

"Fuck, Jack" She let out a shakey laugh as she came down from her orgasm, riding it out on Jack's fingers as she threaded her fingers in his hair.

"The uniform really does it for you, huh?"

She kissed him hard, "You do it for me. The uniform is just a bonus."

Jack readjusted her in his lap, pushing her legs open further over the expanse of his thick thighs. She whined at the stretch, "Come here, baby. you're doing so good for me. Wanna take my time with you."

"You can take your time with me later. I need you to fuck me now."

"Yeah? That needy, huh?"

"Yes, Jack please." She murmured as she undid the belt on his camo pants.

"You're the boss." Jack winked. He may have been her boss at work. She may have liked him bossing her around in bed. But she was the boss in every other sense of the word.

"Funny."

"Glad you think so." Jack hissed as she wrapped her hand around his hard length, preening with pre cum at the tip. She pushed his pants and his boxers down in one go, his erection immediatley slapping up against his stomach.

Jack's head fell back onto the couch as he let out a moan, her fingers rubbing the precum from his tip down his shaft and back up again. She spit into her hand and repeated the same movement. Jack thought he might come right then and there.

"Wanna ride you, please. I'm clean and have an IUD. Need to feel you."

Jack couldn’t even get words out. He was too busy trying not to come from a handjob like a horned up teenager, "Same. Mm clean, too" He managed to get out, eyes fluttering shut as another wave of pleasure wracked his body, "Fuck, baby."

She sunk down on him in an instant, relishing the stretch and sending them both into a fit of whimpered moans. Jack used one hand on her hip to guide her motions, the other rubbing up and down her back, eventually landing in her hair as he tugged her forward into a blistering kiss. Now that he knew what her lips felt like he was never gonna go long without kissing them.

"Fuck!" She rocked down hard on him again, "You feel fucking phenomenal. So tight, So. Perfect." He emphasized his praise with kisses, "Taking me so well. Like you were fucking made for me."

He took the hand from her hair and placed it on her clit, rubbing it as she started to rock quicker. He could tell she was close again. He was in danger of spilling over at any second, "You have no business being so good at this. Fuck, I'm not gonna last long baby. Fuck, look at you." Jack brought the hand from her hip up to her mouth, pushing his thumb into her mouth, moaning as she immediatley began to suck on it.

"All these years. Had a feeling you'd get off on praise. Knew you'd wanna be so good for me. Knew you'd be such a good slut just for me, yeah?"

"Yeah, please. Just for you, I promise." Jack didn't know how he had managed to keep himself from finishing with the way she was riding him. She steadied herself on his shoulders, brought herself all the way up and then slowly rocked herself back down, taking all of him and making sure he felt every fucking inch of her velvety walls.

"If you keep doing that I am not gonna last long." He managed to grunt out.

"Then don't. Come in me, please. Want you to fill me up."

Those words alone did it for Jack as he spilled his warm release into her, continuing to rub her clit. "Give me another one baby. I know you can do it. You can do anything. You're fucking brilliant. Your brilliant fucking brain. C'mon, I feel you clenching. Let go. Come on my cock, please."

She tugged hard on his hair, mixing her own release with his as she came. Panting into Jack's mouth as he whispered, "Good girl."

Jack cradled her cheek as she rode out her orgasm on his cock, whispering praise as she did. He swiped two fingers through the mix of their arousals and brought them to her mouth.

Jacks eyes watched, mesmerized, blown out with arousal as she sucked on his fingers, released them with a pop and then, "The second I saw you in that uniform I wanted to drop to my knees in the middle of the hub and suck the soul out of you."

She wrapped her arms around his neck, laying her bare chest over his and nuzzling into his neck, peppering kisses there as he scratched her back. His laugh vibrated through her, "Jesus Christ - you can't say shit like that when I'm still inside of you."

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

He eventually gently cleaned her up. Once she agreed to finally get off of him. He had to bribe her with kisses. He didn't mind one bit. He dragged her to the shower which lead to him having to clean her up again. Again, he didn't mind one bit.

He was at the stove now. Donning only a pair of gray sweatpants as he cooked dinner and watched her pad around his kitchen in only his tshirt and some basketball shorts with probably the dopiest smile of all time on his face.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, tucking herself into his side. He used his free hand to wrap his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer, pressing kisses into her hair. She behaved for a moment until he felt a pair of soft lips pressing kisses across the side of his chest that was accessible to her.

He turned the burner down, dropped the spoon he had been using to stir the pasta on the counter and then grabbed her hips, trapping her against his kitchen island, "You're going to make me burn dinner."

She put her finger to her lips, pretended to think about what he had to say and then with a quick kiss to his lips she muttered against them, "Mmmm, don't care!"

He dug into his pocket, unlocked his phone and put it in her hands, "Put on music. It is already hooked up to the speaker system,"

He picked her up by her hips, causing the cutest squeal he had ever heard, and plopped her down onto his counter. He rubbed a gentle thumb against her cheek, the other against her hip as he stood between her legs, "You need to eat, baby."

She grumbled a fine. She knew when it came to taking care of her - Jack would not budge. She scrolled through his Spotify - she wanted to find something both of them would like but first she was gonna stalk what he already listened to. Of course her curiosity was gonna get the better of her.

A quiet gasp fell from her lips - causing Jack to look over from his spot in front of the stove, "What?"

She turned his phone screen to him, already spotting the flush creeping up on his chest. He recognized the playlist almost immediatley. Made up of all the songs she had played while he drove her home these past couple years - simply titled with her name. There was hundreds of songs on there.

"Did you make this? Do you listen to it?"

Jack figured now was as good a time as ever to lay out all his cards onto the table. Even if he was so embarrassed he couldn't even look up from the dinner he was cooking. He spoke fast, "Would you be entirely creeped out if I told you I replaced the police scanner with it?"

"Would you be entirely creeped out if I told you I am so beyond in love with you?"

Jack's head snapped up from the dinner. He'd never moved so quickly in his life. He was back to standing in between her legs, holding her face - just staring at her with a huge smile. The same expression was being mirrored back to him. It made his heart soar.

"You do? I mean, you are?"

She laughed, "Where have you been the past couple years?”

"Waiting for you to realize that I've been hopelessly in love with you."

"Are we the dumbest smart people alive?"

"Potentially. But doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Only you. Only us." He kissed her now. Slotted his lips over hers like the perfect final piece of a puzzle. His stomach fluttered at the sensation of her fingers finding their home in his curls. He couldn't believe that this was real. That she loved him. He already knew that the astronomical amount he loved her was very, very real.

"God, I love you." Kiss, "So much." Another kiss.

"Say it again." Jack whispered against her lips, smiling like a little kid.

"I love you, Jack."

He pulled back just a bit. Just enough to murmur how much he loved her and get a good look at her face, "Remember when you were so jealous earlier?" He teased.

"I was not-" She began to deny it but Jack leveled a look at her, "I hate you!" she giggled, swatting at his shoulder that was not bandaged up.

"Somehow, I am not convinced." He preened.

"Mmmm, good." She was kissing him again. He could do this forever. He will do this forever - if he has anything to say about it.

The ding of her phone was what made him pull away. But not by much. They both looked at the cause of the disruption, Jack planting kisses up and down her neck, jaw, and chest as she unlocked her phone.

From Robby: Doing scheduling. Can you pick up a shift next Tuesday night please? Shen needs off. You'll get to see your doctor sexy🤪

They both let out a cackle. Jack took her phone and took a selfie with his middle finger up. He sent it to Robby along with a message that read, 'Stop texting my girlfriend.'

"Girlfriend, huh?"

Jack rubbed up and down her thighs as he spoke, "Figured you might think I was insane if I said wife after just one day but trust me that is part of the plan."

"What else is in the plan?”

“Maybe a kid or two? Or four? Or zero. Really as many or as little as you’ll give me. I’m just happy to be here.”

She chuckled, kissed him while lovingly stroking his face, “I like that plan.”

“Yeah?” He asked, brimming with hope.

She nodded as her phone went off again, a message from Robby flashing across the screen. Jack kissed each of her cheeks, her forehead, and then her lips before reading it out loud - sending them both into a fit of giggles.

From Robby: You owe me one, man.

Boy, did he.

[kill3ill]

maze of horrors ⦂ 18+

⤿ synopsis. your friends drag you, a chronic homebody, to come to a corn maze. you think you're so cool and morbid and edgy for calling bullshit on the cheesy jumpscares and cheap decor. a particular scarer takes offense to this.

⤿ part of my kinktober series!

the gravel parking lot makes crunching noises as you and your friends climb out of the car, your breath puffing in light gusts due to the chill in the night air. the corn maze looms not far ahead of you. tall stalks rustling against each other in the breeze, forming walls that reach at least twelve feet high. bright floodlights mark the entrance, among the scrawny teenage attendants and the people lining up to buy tickets.

you can hear the muffled screams echo faintly from somewhere inside.

you huff, not intrigued by your first impression of the maze. you'd rather be at home, warm and cozy in your bed while eating snacks and watching a movie, but your friends had insisted - “come on, it'll be fun! where's your halloween spirit?”

against your better judgment, you had caved.

the closer you trek to the entrance, the more your annoyance grows. it's all so predictable and juvenile. despite the staggering height of the cornstalks, they're flimsy and see through, propped up only with weak wooden planks. the fake webs strung up at the entrance have gnats that flew too close to the overhead lights stuck in them. as for the costumed workers... a few of them have wandered out of the maze to adjust their masks and take a break. one's smoking a cigarette a few meters away, and another downs a bottle of water before ducking back into the maze.

peak professionalism.

shaking your head, you turn back to your friends. "is this seriously what people are going on about? a couple of losers in rubber masks jumping out at you? please."

your friends groan at your disinterest, and one of them elbows you. “don't jinx it. you're gonna eat your words when you piss yourself at the first scare.”

"i doubt it." you look back at the maze. one of the lights are flickering and then goes dim. you doubt that was intentional, just the results of a low budget. “this is all bullshit.” your friends tune out your grumbles and hand over tickets, a staff in poorly done SFX makeup offering you a lazy "good luck" as you pass under the archway. the light fades the further you venture inside, leaving only thin strings with bulbs tied on them to light your path.

your friends cling to each other as you walk deeper, jumping in surprise anytime there's a scream or a rush of footsteps in the distance. when a scarer lunges from the shadows, the group of them let out shrill shrieks. you just flinch a little from being caught off guard, then roll your eyes and sigh.

...

as the maze winds deeper, twisting in tight turns and long stretches that all look exactly the same, your sentiments continue.

true, your stomach does give a little drop each time someone jumps out at you, telegraphing their movements with rustling stalks and heavy footsteps, but it's not actually getting to you.

it's easier to look unimpressed than admit there's a part of you that is listening closely for every shift in the corn and too-heavy footsteps that don't sound practiced or intentional. you brush it off as a nervous tic.

something starts to feel weird, then. you feel eyes on you from the distance, and the path you're walking through seems be herding slowly. the fog has crept over your shins, and then rises slowly. you can hardly see where you're going anymore.

everything feels quieter, as if your group had been cut off from the others.

you must be tucked into a corner of the maze where the noise can't reach.

fog suddenly rolls in from one of the hidden machines in a huge gust, swallowing up the air until your lungs sting, and you bring your sleeve over your face, coughing. "what the hell," you protest, eyes watering a little from the bit that'd gotten in your eyes.

you lower your arm just in time to see movement through the misty clouds and see a figure running at you through the fog. two costumed workers barrel toward you and your friends with a cleaver in hand, distracting you from the weird feeling you'd felt in your gut just a moment ago.

your friends scream and scatter, bolting ahead in a frenzy of panic, and the two workers opt to chase the bigger crowd, leaving you on your own. you're a little displeased that your friends didn't check that you were following them, especially since it's practically impossible to see anything right now and you have no fucking idea where you are.

with a grumble, you stalk after them, jogging so you don't lag behind too much. you're determined not to be stranded alone in this place, but with how the mist thickens in the air and clouds your vision, you can feel the distance between you and the group increasing.

“guys?” you cough, waving your arms in front of you to try and clear the air. “guys, ugh- slow down!”

weaving through the maze, your focus on catching up with your friends inhibits you from noticing you'd taken a wrong turn. your feet carry you down the passage, your path slipping away from theirs without you realizing it.

a light then fizzles at the end of the path, popping and burning out. then another fizzles. "of course they can't get proper lighting for this place." you mumble to yourself, but your anxiety is starting to return. the air, fogged. feels heavier and cooler. you can hardly see shit.

then you hear a sound.

not the predictable rush of footsteps from a scarer leaping into your path, just the crunch of gravel somewhere behind you, sounding slow and too heavy to be one of your friends. you freeze, goosebumps raising along your skin.it stops when you stop.

you force your feet to keep moving, fast, despite the sounds continuing after you. a drag, as if someone is brushing against the edge of the corn as they move. tracking you. the feeling of being watched makes your skin slick with a cold sweat. encouraging yourself to keep walking with a quick shake of your head, you continue forward down one path.

"i'm fine." you breathe. "they'll be at the next turn. this is just some scheme to get me to admit they're right about this place being not-lame."

step... step... step.

closer this time, definitely.

you take a sharp left, then another. everything is still for a second, the path ahead of you empty. relief floods your chest momentarily; even though you're still separated from your friends, at least some creep isn't on your tail. it was simply some worker trying to mess with you-

and then someone steps in front of you out of nowhere, a huge shadow intercepting your path. a wall of a man, chest rising and falling slow and steady. he's not winded like you are.

he's bigger than the other staff, shouldered and towering. his costume is hand-made rather than one with plastic material found in a costume store.

his mask is featureless except for the deep, soulless eyeholes.

skidding to a halt, your momentum betrays you and you stumble forward. he catches you, massive, gloved hands shooting out to clamp under your arms. your feet kick uselessly in the air as he hoists you up like you weigh nothing with zero warning.

“no… no! put me down!”

he doesn't. he hauls you to the side where the path ends in rough wooden planks nailed into a makeshift wall. your back hits them with a dull thud, the boards rattling under the impact. he pins you there with your toes barely scraping the dirt, his body crowding into yours.

you squirm, kicking and clawing at his wrists, but it's pathetic—childish. at your outburst, his head tilts curiously, leaning in to watch you freeze up and go quiet very quickly.

“still not scared?”

your whole body jolts. the words come out quiet, mocking. by now, you're trembling hard, the only sound you're able to make a pitiful whimper. all your bravado is gone. stripped clean away by this man.

you gasp when he shifts his grip, one broad hand sliding down to catch under the bend of your thigh, the other braced against the boards. he pushes up into you, forcing your legs to curl around his hips. in this position, he has you pinned open, the warmth radiating from his body seeping straight through your clothes.

as he leans closer, the mask scrapes along your jaw. you turn your face away, trembling, until he lifts the corner of it to push his exposed mouth to your throat. his lips are hot and wet as they close over the pulse in your neck. he bites, not hard enough to break skin but to bruise. then he descends with his teeth scraping down to the hollow of your collarbone.

he keeps your legs forced around him while he mouths at your skin. when you squirm, caught off guard, he locks his mouth around your skin and bites - like an animal warning its mate to behave. "w-wait, i... don't- anh!" your whimpers tilt into cries when his teeth nip behind your ear. once he's realized he's located your sweet spot, he focuses his attention there.

your body betrays you, arching up into him, pressing closer instead of pulling away. every instinct to resist twists into a pulse of need in your core.

his hips roll up against yours with no warning. he drags his thick, clothed bulge right up against you, rocking your body higher against the wall. he holds you there, pinned open, feeding you each drag of his body until your head tips back against the planks with a thud.

"wh-what are you... mnh, wh-what..." you gasp, trying to find a way to steady yourself or figure out what's going on and who this man is - but before you can react any more, he tilts your chin back down and steals your mouth.

this is not the kind of kiss you're familiar with. not the sweet little press of lips after a date. he's devouring you. mask shoved up high enough for you to feel his stubble scraping your face as his mouth covers yours. as he pries your mouth open, his tongue slides hot and wet against yours to curl and push in your mouth until your head is spinning.

the shocked, desperate sounds you make just get swallowed, lost in the slurping of spit and your tongues tangling. he laves his tongue disgustingly against yours, then sucks it to get every drop of you in his mouth, rutting up into you eagerly. "mmm... you taste so good," he grunts. "bet your pussy'll suck me in real nice when i put my cock in you. just like this ngh- tongue."

strings of your shared spit slide down your chin and soak the corner of your jaw. his tongue chases them too, licking up the mess before plunging right back between your lips.

your arms finally give up their struggle and snake up around his neck, elbows hooked tight to keep yourself from sliding down - despite him holding you up just fine on his own. still, he doesn't even let you breathe properly. every gasp turns into another mouthful of him. another sloppy push of tongue, another grind of his teeth against your lip, another swallow of shared spit.

all the while, his hips don't stop.

when you finally wrench your lips free, a string of spit snaps between you. you're so lightheaded you could faint, but you can't even get air before his tongue is dragging along your throat. while he distracts you, he tugs down your bottoms, prying you open for the main event. "h-hey! y'know w-we're in public right? why can't we go in a shack or something?" you say squeakily.

" 'cause this is what happens when you run your mouth," he responds, tugging at the soaked strip of lace that used to be covering you. the cold night air hits your bare cunt and makes you shiver. you can hear him rustling around to get his boxers off next. "i won't take any disrespect for what i do. you need a lesson."

you can't see much, just a shift of bulk and the faint gleam of moisture beading at his tip. he lets you feel it soon after, the heavy, fat head grinding against your swollen slit. no clothes to protect you now.

he nudges in slowly, pushing just the tip into your hole and stretching you around him. your protesting splinters into an embarrassingly loud whine, and your walls seize around him instantly, gripping so tight that every inch he pushes in is a struggle. "it's too big! s-slow down please," you moan, even though it feels perfect. you've never felt so full in your life. as your body fails to accommodate his girth, he pushes a little further in, knowing you can take him. "c'mon," he croons. "be a big girl. you can take me just fine. i know it. just a little more."

you nod slightly, and he bottoms out in a rough thrust, the stretch obscene in your tight pussy. the squelching noises coming from your holes are nearly as loud as your screaming as he rolls his hips to make his cock drag deeper, bullying your insides. the veins wrapped around his cock scrape along your puffy walls, adding to your overstimulation and making you clamp down on him tighter.

he hisses at the tight fit, face screwing up. "too much noise," he chastises, grunting with the effort of pulling back just enough to pound back inside you to the hilt, thrusting inside you slow and deep. the movement makes you open your mouth to squeal louder, and to keep you quiet, he seals his mouth over yours again.

while kissing you, he begins pounding up into you, aiming to rut against that spongy, aching spot deep inside. each push in forces your cunt to swallow more. he moans into your mouth, savoring how you're squeezing him. your tight little cunt is better than anything he's ever had. he nips your lip, sucks the spit from your tongue, and fucks you harder, forcing a muffled sob from you.

he adjusts his grip, massive hands sliding down to clamp under the swell of your ass, palms covering you completely, fingers digging hard enough that you know you'll be bruised. and then he lifts you up proper, and spears you back down on his cock all the way. he can hear how loud you get at that, and so he keeps his mouth over yours as he begins bouncing you - up, down, up, down - slamming you onto his cock like a toy.

“thought you were brave,” he murmurs through kisses, teeth catching your bottom lip before releasing it. he keeps fucking up into you, while dragging you back down on him to meet his thrusts. his balls slap into the curve of your ass, and getting soaked at the juices leaking down your thighs. he's so deep inside that his pelvis keeps bumping against your swollen clit. “so much attitude...” he cuts himself off with a groan as your walls clamp around him, “and now you're getting fucked by some loser in a rubber mask.” he repeats your own words from earlier back to you.

he squeezes your ass, fingers spreading you open wider as he yanks you down harder onto him. despite how your walls milk him and suck him back in each time he pulls back, he doesn't slow down, forcing himself inside you. if anything, he bounces you faster, rougher. every slam of his cock pushes slick down your thighs. he growls when the mess slicks his shaft enough that the thrusts get wetter and messier.

of course, his hands have to be busy while he uses you. thick fingers dig into your ass cheeks to keep you split apart and unable to close your legs or force him out of your sweet pussy. he squeezes handfuls, using the fat as grips to fuck you onto him.

his thumb sneaks under the bunched-up hem of your bottoms, pressing against your slick mound. the contact makes you jerk and cry out, but pays you no mind. two fingers trap your clit, tugging the swollen bud gently at first, then harder, pinching rough enough to make your cunt seize on his cock. your face screws up, eyes rolling back and lips parting against his in an expression of pure ecstasy.

your moan dissolves against his tongue as he grinds the pad of his thumb over the trapped bud, rolling it in quick circles that make your cunt splatter with creamy juices.

he plants his feet, drags you down onto him until his cock is lodged impossibly deep, the fat head pressing into the gummy sweet spots you didn't even know you had until now. and then he rocks his hips, scraping himself against that tender spot again and again.

this is worse than the pounding. your body can't escape the pressure - you're forced to take it. his cock swells inside you with every roll, a sign he's close to filling you up. but he wants you to come apart before he does so you learn your lesson. with one last twist of your swollen bud and a roll against your g-spot, you break.

the orgasm rips through you, walls spasming so hard he loses his rhythm, hips stuttering as he reaches climax as well. he slams deep one last time, and spills inside of you in thick, sticky globs. with how deep it is you swear it might be filling up your womb.

after cleaning you up and sending you on the right path next to your friends, you have to hobble over to them, tugging up your collar to hide love bites and swiping the back of your hand on your swollen lips.

"where the hell were you? we were about to send a bunch of people to look for you!"

"...i got a little more than i bargained for."

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[kill3ill]

your doctor father invites a couple of his buddies to a barbeque on a hot summer day on one of the only days of the year where they're all off at the same time, and they're having a good time drinking beers and flipping burgers when you go out into the backyard. "hey dad, where do you keep the toolkit again? the vanity you built me is coming loose."

your voice is sweet and bright, and you're wearing shorts and a tank top due to the sweltering heat outside. your father directs you to where his tools are, and you turn around, about to head off, when you and jack make direct eye contact.

he coughs a bit, burying his face into his fist while you nearly collapse into the grass from pure shock. your dad's coworker/friend is the guy who you met on a night out a few months ago who told you he was a mechanic.

the same guy you've been fucking once a week in seedy motels. your dad turns around to see why you're still here, and you and jack quickly look away from each other. it's too late though. your dad smiles at the two of you. "oh, have you two met?" he asks curiously. he and jack aren't always scheduled at the same time, so he assumes you went into the hospital looking for your father at one point only to be met with jack. or you might've met him somewhere in the city. it is a small world. and your father trusts you enough not to think about the possibility that you and jack know each other for far less decent reasons.

jack is quick to come up with a lie, saying; "yeah, met y'kid at the hospital once. she came from college looking to talk to you a little while ago. only talked for a little bit."

your dad buys it immediately, happy his daughter and friend are acquainted. in fact, "jack, buddy. do you mind helping her with her vanity? keeps coming undone. i know you're good with your hands."

again, both you and jack nearly choke on your spit.

he nods nevertheless, walking towards your house and muttering a quick, "c'mon kiddo." and leads you to get the toolkit then go to your room.

you watch in quiet disbelief as you sit on your bed with jack abbot in your room, fixing your vanity. doctor jack abbot. he'd lied to you.

"so you just weren't going to tell me you were a doctor?"

he sighs and presses his lips together, not responding for a beat. then, "i don't like to mix work and life, kid. you'd get it if you were my age trying to date."

you stare at him. "so you wanted to date me?"

he looks up at you. "dunno. maybe. thought you'd rather i just fuck you. and 's not like i can date you now, with your dad being my buddy."

you cross your arms and stare at him. "good enough to fuck but not enough to date. got it."

"did you not hear what i just said?" his face tightens a bit.

"well if you liked me enough, you'd make it work with my dad."

jack gives you a deadpan look and stands up, putting the tool in his hand down for a minute "he wouldn't like it, i'll tell you that much." he walks over to you slowly, standing over you from where you're sitting on the bed. he gives you a onceover, analyzing those skimpy clothes of yours.

"but who'd be better to take care of his little girl than me?" he whispers, laying you back in the bed and placing a soft kiss to your cheek, the sensation making you giggle under him. "i'd be so good for you." he whispers between kisses, lifting off your clothes and making his way down your body, telling you everything you want to hear.

"make sure you're home at a reasonable time every night..."

"taking you to nice restaurants and on trips, making sure your bills are paid and you're not having any difficulty with your course work..."

"taking care of you in ways only an older, stronger, sensible man can do." he finishes, stopping right by the fluffy patch of hair above your glistening pussy. he probes your clit with his tongue, circling it until it hardens and peeks out for him. he immediately gives it more attention, kissing and tweaking the bundle of nerves between his soft lips while you squirm, bucking your hips into his face and fisting your hand in his hair.

he lets out a soft laugh into your cunt and buries his face into your folds, munching on your pussy happily. his eyes are closed with contentment as your tangy-sweet taste hits his tastebuds, his long, thick tongue lapping a broad stripe along your drooly slit and stopping at your swollen clit, which he hasn't forgotten about. he offers a couple licks there before making his way back down, closing his mouth around your cunt - lips and all, and slobbering his tongue around your pussy.

jack eats you out in a way only he could. nudging your thighs around his head so you can crush him, two thick fingers already pushing their way into your puffy hole and stroking, curling, and poking along your insides, and his tongue and mouth making out with your cunt. all in your childhood bedroom as well, with your dad and the rest of his friends having wondering what the hell jack's doing up there so long.

jack pumps his fingers in and out of you, looking up at you with hooded eyes while you make those pretty noises above him, pleading and moaning and panting his name. "yeah baby? you wanna cum on my face?" he says sweetly, spreading your thighs just enough to suck bruises onto the soft, meaty part of your flesh just below where the cuff of your shorts were earlier. a spot where if someone stared at you long enough, they'd notice the mark that certainly wasn't there before. he puts marks on both sides of your thighs, then dives back in, somehow pushing his tongue inside you with his fingers.

jack probes you with his digits and tongue faster, his tongue's pattern erratic and unpredictable. one second its inside you, swallowing up the tasty cream that's been leaking out of you since he started sucking your clit, then lapping up your swollen folds, making nasty noises. the entire lower half of his face is slick with your essence.

you cum on his tongue with no warning, adding to that earlier mess and cumming straight into his mouth and on his fingers. he skillfully coaxes you through it, trying to push as much cum out of your pretty pussy as possible by eating you out while thrusting his fingers knuckle deep into your hole hard and fast. you scream and thrash under him, having no care that you're not home alone at all.

all that matters is jack, and how he's just proved how well he can take care of you by making you cum so hard your vision's gone white.

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