summary ᰋ perks of having a girlfriend that ran hot as shit at night was that clothes were pretty much nonexistent and that gave hotch the perfect opportunity to devour you whole anytime of the day.
perks of having you as a girlfriend was that you ran hot at night, so clothes just didn’t exist in your dictionary. maybe a shirt of aaron that was way too big on you—on a good day—and nothing else.
which brings us to the second point which is that it gave hotch a pretty good easy access in the mornings to do his job as being the alarm since you were a heavy sleeper.
it’s the same routine every time. he usually wake up a little early for his morning run anyway and then he’s on you. gently getting inside the covers kissing his way down your thighs.
he shifts under the covers, the fabric a soft weight over both of you. the air is warm from your body heat, smelling faintly of your body wash and whatever body oil you’ve applied the night before. aaron’s movements are deliberate but unhurried; he has time.
he parts your thighs with a firm but gentle pressure of his hands, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin where they meet your hips. he doesn’t rush to the main event. he kisses the hollows of your hips, the crease where thigh meets torso, his stubble a delicious, rough counterpoint to the softness of his lips. he’s just breathing you in for a moment, his warm breath ghosting over you, making you twitch in your sleep.
then he leans in and gives a slow, flat lick from your entrance up to your clit. the sensation is a slow, creeping wave of heat that pulls you from the depths of sleep. a soft sigh escapes your lips as your body arches instinctively toward his mouth. you recognize him even in your sleep and he takes that as his cue, his hands coming up to grip your hips, holding you open for him.
his tongue is an instrument of pure, focused pleasure. he starts with broad, languid strokes, coating you in his saliva, getting you wet and ready. he explores every fold, every curve, learning your all over again as if it’s the first time. he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, teasing, before flattening it and giving it a firm, slow suck. your hands fly down to tangle in his hair, your hips rocking against his face as you chase the sensation.
he groans against you, the vibration sending a jolt straight through your core. he loves this. loves the taste of you, the way your body responds to him, the soft sounds you make. he doubles down, his tongue becoming more insistent, more pointed. he flicks your clit rapidly, then seals his lips around it and sucks, hard. your breath hitches, your back arching off the bed as the pleasure builds to an almost unbearable peak.
“shit,” you gasp, your voice thick with sleep and arousal.
he hums in response, his tongue never ceasing its delicious torture. he slides one hand from your hip, his fingers finding your entrance. he teases you, circling the tight ring of muscle before slowly pushing one, then two fingers inside. he curls them just so, finding that spot that makes you see stars. his mouth works your clit in tandem with his fingers, a perfect, relentless rhythm that pushes you closer and closer to the edge.
your thighs start to shake, your grip on his hair tightening. the world narrows to the feeling of his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, the coiling tension in your belly. he can feel you’re close, your body clenching around his fingers. he sucks your clit harder, his tongue flicking it in a frantic rhythm, and that’s all it takes—
that’s all it takes—except he stops.
his mouth pulls back just enough to leave you hovering, a breath away from the fall. the only point of contact is the kitten-soft flick of his tongue against your clit, a maddening, teasing rhythm designed to keep you right on the razor’s edge. your hips jerk, trying to force more pressure, but his hands hold you firm, pinning you to the mattress.
“say my name baby?” he murmurs, the words a low vibration against your soaked flesh.
“please,” you whine, the sound thin and desperate. you shove the blanket down just enough to glare at him, and the sight nearly makes you come anyway. his hair is a wreck, his lips and chin are wet and shining with you, and his eyes are dark with smug satisfaction. god, what a sight.
“mm,” is all he says, a noncommittal hum against your clit that makes your whole body clench. he’s not giving in.
“james?” you grit out, a petty, triumphant barely there smirk touching your own lips. you know exactly what you’re doing. this is the downside—no, the brilliant side—of having a girlfriend who knows exactly which buttons to push. you rail him any fucking chance you get, just to see that muscle in his jaw twitch.
can’t help it he just looks so hot when he’s annoyed.
his eyes narrow. he doesn’t say a word. instead, he pulls his hand back and delivers a sharp, stinging slap directly to your pussy. the sound is wet and loud in the quiet room, and the jolt of pleasure-pain that follows is electric. it steals the air from your lungs and sends a fresh gush of wetness against his palm.
“wrong answer,” he grits out, before his mouth is back on you, devouring you with a renewed, punishing intensity. he sucks your clit hard, his tongue working frantically, pushing you right back to the peak in seconds. just as you’re about to tumble over, he stops again.
“try again,” he commands, his voice rough.
you gasp, writhing beneath him. “fuck. you, james.”
another slap. harder this time. you cry out, your back bowing off the bed. the sting blooms into a deep, throbbing heat that makes your head spin. tears of frustration and overwhelming sensation prick at the corners of your eyes.
“one more,” he warns, his tone leaving no room for argument. his fingers replace his tongue, curling inside you, pressing mercilessly against that spot while his thumb rubs tight, fast circles on your clit. the pressure is immense, a coiling spring in your gut wound so tight it’s about to snap.
“aaron,” you sob, the name tearing from your throat as a tear finally escapes and slides down your temple. “please, fuck, it’s aaron.”
“good girl,” he praises, and the relief is so immediate it’s dizzying. he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, his fingers pumping into you with a perfect, relentless rhythm. he doesn’t tease anymore. he takes what he wants, giving you exactly what you need. the orgasm that hits you is violent, explosive. it rips through you, stealing your vision and your breath, leaving you a shaking, sobbing, boneless mess. he works you through every aftershock, his touch softening as you come down, until you’re nothing but a pliant, trembling form beneath the sheets.
see? he’s so sweet when you corporate.
only then does he crawl up your body, kissing a trail over your stomach and tits until he reaches your lips. he kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
“need to leave in 10, i’ll be back before you know it,” he murmurs against your lips, a rare, soft smile in his voice when he sees your dazed expression.
Warnings: handcuffs, oral (fem receiving), overstimulation *moans*, dumbification, fingering, brat tamer!hotch, brat!reader, age-gap, reader is in college
Summary: You get mouthy and Aaron decides you need a break.
MDNI +18
Aaron sat across from you at your guys’ kitchen island. You were entranced by whatever was on your laptop as he spoke,”...and so we were thinking that it had something to do with the suspect from before- Y/n, honey, are you even listening?”
You snapped up,”What?”
Aaron sighed,”How long have you been working on schoolwork today?”
You immediately grabbed your laptop to pull it closer to you,”I had to finish assignments, this is my last one.”
Aaron narrowed his eyes and shook his head,”Nope- you’re gonna take a break.”
You got up from your seat, laptop in hand and backed away,”No! I have to finish this.”
Aaron cocked his head to the side in surprise,”Excuse me? Is that how you talk to me?”
“This is my schoolwork. Get off my case,” You spat.
Aaron's eyebrows raised as he rounded the kitchen counter. He took steps towards you closing the space only for you to step back and create more. “You’re barking up the wrong tree and you know it. Now hand me the laptop.”
“No! Leave me alone.” You quickly realized you were being backed into a wall. Aaron stood looking down at you sternly. There was something in his eyes that you couldn’t quite place, but you realized you were in for it now.
“I won’t ask again. Now give me the laptop, you’re too mentally drained to make any more progress,”Aaron stated.
“But-”
“Nope. Hand it over.” You accepted defeat and handed him the laptop with a sigh. Aaron took the laptop and set it back on the counter in the kitchen. Without looking up at you he commanded,”Go get on the bed. No clothes. Now.”
“What?” You asked confused.
“Do not make me repeat myself.”
Your heartbeat began a rapid thump in your chest as you quickly made your way down the hallway. You speedily removed all your clothes and laid on the bed expectantly. Aaron came in through the doorway, his white button-up shirt rolled up at the sleeves and dangling from his right hand a pair of police grade handcuffs. He didn’t say a word until he came up to the foot of the bed. He gripped your ankle and tugged you down closer to him. An involuntary yelp escaped your throat.
“Give me your hands,” he finally spoke. You obeyed him wordlessly afraid that if you mouthed off even a little whatever punishment Aaron had in mind would only grow worse. He took your hands and lifted your legs to press into your chest, essentially folding you in half. He took your wrists and forced them to wrap around your legs, holding them in positions. You felt the cold metal of the handcuffs press into the skin of your wrists and listened for the click.
You looked up at Aaron as he stood up straight. You were on display for him. Completely at his mercy. Your hands and legs restrained all you could effectively do was rock from side to side. You stared up at him, eyes blown wide waiting for his next instructions.
“Do you think it’s okay that you spoke to me that way?” Aaron asked.
“No- I’m sorry-,” you responded.
“Now, what happens to brats that mouth off?” Aaron queried.
You sighed looking down at your own arms and legs,”They get-.”
“Punished. That’s right, now you’re a smart girl, so here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m going to eat you out, and I’m not going to stop until you’re crying and all you can think about is me. Then maybe you’ll learn how important a break is.”
Your eyes got wider as he spoke and lowered himself to be face to face with your cunt. Aaron covered your pussy in a long broad stroke of his tongue. He dragged the wetness that pooled around your entrance and brought it up to your stiffened clit. Aaron drew tiny circles with the tip of his tongue. Each circle built up the pressure that sat in your lower belly. Aaron wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked it in, releasing a high pitched squeal from you.
Aaron continued his ministrations until you came for the first time that night. A static feeling was left before it quickly turned into overstimulation. Little whines left your lips as Aaron continued to eat your pussy with no remorse. And as quickly as the pain had arisen it dissipated into pleasure again.
Aaron smiled into your pussy as his fingers traced your entrance. Aaron’s index and middle finger breached your opening and stretched you out. You almost screamed at the sudden intrusion and Aaron laughed against your clit.
“Wait- too- too much!” You pleaded.
“Aw too bad.” Aaron spoke against your cunt continuing to pump his fingers in and out of you, curling them just right to brush against the spot that made you see stars. You came for the second time a slow build up pooling in your gut and spilling over all your senses. Letting out breathless moans that quickly turned into yelps as Aaron refused to cease.
“Please Aaron- I- I can’t-,” you begged, squeezing your eyes shut.
“You should've thought about that before you decided to be a brat. Cause now you’re gonna take it like a good girl.”
Little “ah”s escaped your lips as Aaron pushed you through the aftershocks of your orgasm and into the build up of the third.
“I- please- can’t-,” you breathlessly forced out.
“Aw, my clever girl, gone so dumb just from me having my tongue on her clit and my fingers stuffed in her cunt?”
“Aaron- please~,” you begged for nothing in particular. Was it for him to stop? Were you begging for release? You didn’t know anymore. Your poor brain had become so foggy and overstimulated that you just couldn’t take it. Your eyes squeezed shut as tears began to form, running down your cheeks, clumping up your eyelashes until you looked like a princess. At least that’s what Aaron thought as he stared up at you from between your legs. A final pump and suction of your clit was all it took for you to come again. This time you went out screaming, yelps and choked moans filled your shared bedroom as Aaron finally parted and ended his onslaught of your pussy.
“Aw you poor thing. That was a lot huh? Tired your poor brain out.”
You sniffled and looked at him as he stood up, chin gleaming in the low-light of the room. The glaze on his chin a reminder of the beautiful torture you just went through.
“Now, what’s the verdict? Are you gonna listen to me now when I tell you, you need a break?”
You nodded in response knowing damn well tomorrow night would probably leave you in a similar position.
Here for baby blurbs!! How about Hotch pulling reader into his lap and laying kisses over her forehead, either just because or because he’s had a long day and that makes him fully unwind 🥹🫶🏼
fem, 0.8k
It’s not that Aaron isn’t a cuddler, but he usually waits to be in bed. The moment you're climbing into the sheets beside him, his body will shift toward you and his arm curls over your front, tugging you backwards, broad front behind your and his face sharing your pillow.
On the couch, he tends to allow for more space. Your Aaron, the tentative. You never would’ve thought he’d be careful in love, but he is. Always waiting for your say so, before he kisses too deeply or touches ardently. He never pinches you. Never bites unless you ask. And it’s kind of how you like things, like, you’re too precious to roughen up, even in heated moments, but it also means that most hugs in the daylight are ones you initiate, like he might hurt you in the wrap of his arms.
But tonight, he doesn’t wait for your outstretched hand. You’re sitting in the corner seat with a share bag of chips you have, perhaps greedily, decimated in less than half an hour. You did ask Aaron if he wanted any, but he said his usual, “I would’ve got my own bag, honey, don’t worry.” He’s old school. Your money is your money and his money is also your money. Your chips are your chips, etc. You wipe your fingers on a tissue from the coffee table after a while, and take a couple of sips of Aaron’s drink without asking because he loves you and never cares, but you’re wondering if that’s true still when he apprehends you, dragging you to his side.
“Woah!” you laugh. “What!”
“Come here, you.”
“I could’ve gotten here myself,” you say, giggling as he lays you out across his lap, your head on the armrest and your back to his thighs. You wriggle. He shifts you around until you’re comfortably settled.
“I didn’t mind helping,” he says. You laugh again.
From this angle, he’s different. Not any less handsome, but soft. His hair is dark and his eyes are stern. Five minutes in his lap can make you ache: there is something about Aaron that keeps drawing you in, even now. He will always be kind, generous, but it’s this strange bit of authority that will always linger and that toys with you. You think he’s the hottest guy ever, so what? He pulled you into his lap, after all.
“What’s up?” you ask.
“I saw you drinking my soda and couldn’t resist you,” he says, teasing and honest at once.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I figured we use the same toothbrush–”
“Once, accidentally–”
“–and share bodily fluids enough for you to not mind.”
“I will never mind.” He cups your cheek. His hand is so, so big, rough palm, callouses aligned with a leather grip, but soft enough as he cradles your face, a warm thumb sliding over your lips and under your nose and back again, uncaring of the slight distension it makes of your mouth. “You are an uncouth girl,” he murmurs, wrinkling his nose.
“Shut up, I am not,” you murmur back, cheeks hot under his touch.
He smiles. It makes you think of all the times he’s smiled before, on top of each other; in a shower too small for you both, suds on his chest; across a supermarket aisle choosing porridge oats with the heaviest basket in the world lying in his elbow; just ten minutes ago, when you’d whined about your legs hurting and declined his massage, citing his unlikely sordid reasoning, just to make him laugh.
“I’m not a girl, and I’m polite,” you say.
Aaron leans down to kiss you between the brows. “I know.”
His kisses move and multiply. He places one at the arch of your right eyebrow, into your temple, and across your crown. His lips falter at the edge of your hairline and he ducks his head, rubbing his nose there as he so often does in bed, during sex and any other closeness, the weight of something unspoken laid in his touch. He slowly, softly, presses another kiss there. You’re surprised you aren’t silken there from the friction of his adoring. It is his favourite place to kiss you, besides your mouth (and the insides of your thighs).
“You don’t understand how much I needed that,” he says.
“What, to kiss me?” you ask, genuinely curious.
“Mm-hm. I feel better now. You fixed me up, honey, because you always do.”
“I’m just laying here,” you say, a touch shy and a greater touch longing for him to kiss you again.
Your Aaron can read minds. He dips down and begins kissing again, traversing across your forehead and down to your ear, then just below it, his content hum going straight to your eardrum.
“You don’t have to do more than that to fix me,” he promises.
You stroke a hand through his hair lovingly. He can cover you in kisses all night if it makes him happy.
pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!reader
genre: smutty smut smut
w.c.: 5k
a/n: requested by @mggslover ty bb i love you and i hope you enjoy <3333
summary: It's finally spring, Aaron wears a short sleeve shirt, and you can't stop staring at his arms.
c.w.: 18+ MDNI, reader has a thing for hotchs arms she just like me fr, choking/breathplay, no prior kink discussion (dont be like them), dom/sub undertones, slight exhibitionism, unprotected p in v sex, established relationship, some dirty talk, hints of breeding kink, aftercare duh
read below or on ao3 here <3
The first time you met Hotch, he immediately drew you in. His tall stature, his impeccably pressed suit, and his unwavering eye contact as he shook your hand from across his desk before your interview.
It took several months for you to really notice him—the delicious way he filled out those suits, the soft honey brown of his eyes when he glanced over at you in concern during briefings, and the way he nearly towered over you at the coffee machine, fingers brushing when you let him use your coffee creamer. He loved his people almost too fiercely and had the most ridiculously dry sense of humor that never failed to crack a smile on your face when the cases began to weigh on your shoulders.
He's the most caring and honest man you’ve ever been with, most likely created to catch the worst of humanity, however today, you were starting to wonder if you could get away with selfishly locking him in your apartment forever.
It had been a strangely warm spring day and Hotch had decided to wear a plain white shirt with dark jeans, both suspiciously tighter than usual. Your mouth already watered at the way the short sleeves were showing off his toned arms, but today? You honestly were starting to wonder if he was doing this all on purpose.
The way he stretched his arm out to hold onto the steering wheel when he drove the both of you to the grocery store, the hem of his shirt lifting to show off his stomach and the flexing of his bicep as he picked up the paper towels from the top shelf, and the way you could see the tension of his muscles as he carried the groceries in after waving off your outstretched hand.
By the time you were dropping onto the couch after finally convincing Aaron to let you help put the groceries away, your eyes drawn to him every time he stored something in the upper cabinets, you were one bicep flex away from jumping his bones.
But you can’t. Not today, when you had a long list of errands that you had been putting off for weeks now. You were starting to regret your choice of sundress as your bare thighs rubbed together, aching for some kind of relief from the heat persistently tugging between them.
“What’s gotten into you lately?” You tear your gaze away from where you were staring at your bare feet to Aaron peering at you in concern from the kitchen. He reaches for a glass of water from the overhead cabinet and you watch the muscles shifting in his arm, in his back, as he turns away to fill it up with the jug from the fridge.
He comes to stand in front of you, hand almost comedically placed on his waist, as he chugs his water. Up close, you’re able to see the sweat beading at his hairline, the hollow of his throat, and gathering underneath the collar of his shirt.
Jesus Christ, it wasn’t that hot outside, was it?
“Nothing,” you choke out, eyes following the bob of his Adam’s apple. “Why?”
He hums, placing the empty glass on the coffee table. For some reason, the sound sends a shiver down your spine, causing goosebumps to rise on your arms despite the cloying humidity in the apartment.
Aaron’s wearing an unreadable expression, face carefully blank, however there’s something swimming in his eyes that causes heat to curl in your stomach. His mouth twitches, something smug tugging at the corners, as his eyes rake over the deep plunge of your neckline and the hem of your dress riding up your thighs.
He sits next to you on the couch, the cushion dipping underneath his weight, and the heat of his body next to yours is nearly unbearable. He turns to you carefully, as if you were a skittish animal, and places a large hand on the bare skin of your thigh. “You only wear that dress when you want something, so use your words, sweetheart.”
You’re not sure how he knew that when you definitely didn’t—having had picked out the first dress you saw that looked like you wouldn’t suffocate in the heat from. But he’s right, because the white sundress you were wearing was one of his favorites; hugging your curves in all the right places, delicate neckline perfectly framing your chest, and short enough where the slightest breeze could lift up the hem.
“Uhm.” And then, despite being a seasoned profiler, your gaze unconsciously flits to his hand on your thigh, trailing up to his biceps, and then back to his face.
The corner of Aaron’s mouth just barely quirks, his fingers on you twitching. “Really? That’s what’s got you all hot and bothered today?”
“You’re the one wearing— that!”
He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, but you can see the faintest twinge of pink on the tips of his ears. For someone as ridiculously handsome as him, he’s always struggled with handling compliments, which you’re sure has greatly increased since you two have been together.
You jump out of your thoughts when you feel Aaron’s hand slowly trail up your thigh, dipping underneath the edge of your dress. His fingertips barely ghost along the edge of your panties before he’s sliding his hand out from underneath the fabric. You watch with bated breath as his hands traces up your thigh again over your dress, up your hip, your side, and grazing the side of your breast.
It would’ve been ticklish, causing you to normally squirm, but the heat from his touch and the intensity in his stare has you rooted to the spot, something molten forming in the pit of your stomach.
And then his hand comes up to the side your neck, the warmth of his palm pressing against you and his thumb brushing your jawline. He’s gentle, nearly reverent, undoubtedly able to feel the thrumming of your pulse and the way your chest has started heaving.
You feel his thick fingers press on the nape of your neck, his thumb coming up to rest on your chin, and the slight pressure has you tilting your chin up at him. Your lips part, your exhale coming out in a rush at the dizzying sensation of his hands on you and so close to where you want him, and then he’s kissing you.
He tastes like summer, sweat and sunlight, with a faint hint of the blueberry pastry that he had sampled at the grocery store. He’s sweet, always tender, and you’re not sure if the barely detectable hunger that you can sense is from him or yourself.
When he pulls away, you instinctively try to chase after him, but the hand on your neck, heavy and comforting, holds you back.
The house is quiet besides the soft humming of the air conditioner, but you don’t seem to hear it with the blood rushing through your ears as Aaron’s eyes flit over your face. You don’t know what kind of expression you’re wearing, your focus honed in on the slight pressure on your neck.
He watches you intently as his thumb drops from your chin, trailing fire across your skin, and then his hand is curling around your throat. He lightens up on the pressure, making sure he’s not pressing down on your windpipe. He just has his hand on your neck, not squeezing, but the feeling of how much bigger he is, the warmth of his palm, and the silent fact that you’re essentially at his mercy and under his control has you releasing a shaky breath.
The sensation of being restricted and the quiet possessiveness of his hold on you has heat surging through your veins, causing your thighs to tremble from how hard you’re squeezing them together in an effort to subdue the onslaught of wetness seeping through your panties. You’re barely conscious of your shoulders slumping, the work week’s tension melting from your body, as your hand comes up to curl around Aaron’s wrist. Not telling him to stop, but to ground yourself from floating away.
Aaron can tell, of course he can, either based off the sudden glassy look in your eyes or the unsteady breaths rattling out of you. He still asks, voice raspy, “Is this okay?”
Yes, yes, fuck yes, it’s okay, is what flashes in your brain in giant neon letters, wanting nothing more than for him to touch you, kiss you, tighten his grip on you.
The words don’t come, your brain having difficulty relaying information to the rest of your body besides complete arousal. You lick your lips, mouth suddenly dry, and delight in the way Aaron’s eyes follow the movement of your tongue. When you swallow, your throat flexes, pressing against his hand and feigning a tighter level of restriction.
“Yes…” you exhale. “More than okay.”
His lips surge into yours, his previous gentleness thrown out the window. You’re able to taste his hunger this time as his mouth frantically moves against yours, deepening the kiss and swallowing the whimper you unconsciously let out.
He maneuvers you, pushing into your space, until you’re laying across the couch with him kneeling in between your legs, splayed open over his thighs. He hovers over you and your eyes fixate on the way his bicep flexes as he props his free arm next to your head. He presses open-mouthed kisses along your cheek, your jawline, and murmurs “I know just what my sweet girl needs, hm?”
His left hand never leaves the base of your throat.
Yes, fuck, you always know what I need and when I need it. He nips at that spot right underneath your jaw, his mouth brushing against his fingers where he still has that intoxicatingly possessive hold on you. You whimper at the cold press of his belt buckle against your lower stomach as he leans in between your legs, so close to where you’re nearly aching for him. “Always.”
He leans away to sit back, his left hand unfurling from around your neck to trail over your chest and grope your breasts through the fabric. You try not to think about how you immediately miss the weight of his hand, resist the urge to grab his wrist to bring it back up to grab your throat like he owned you.
He pauses, eyebrow quirking when he can feel that you weren’t wearing a bra. He easily tugs the neckline down, nearly stretching the fabric, until your breasts spill out. His hands immediately gravitate to them, squeezing and massaging your flesh while he thumbs at your nipples, easily hardening from his touch and the cold apartment air.
“No bra? Dirty girl,” he tuts, shaking his head as if reprimanding you.
You arch into his touch, your breaths coming a little easier now without the heady pressure of his hand as you let out a soft gasp. “It was too hot to wear one today.”
He hums, flippantly, as if he doesn’t believe you, nearly engrossed in the way his hands look on you. There’s a burning, unrestrained kind of hunger in his gaze that has your face growing hot.
His fingers briefly circle your nipple before pinching, tightly enough where you’re squirming in his lap, before leaning in and wrapping soft lips around it while his other hand pinches at the other nub.
A moan startles out of you, eyes fluttering shut as pleasure floods your veins and gathers in between your legs, arching into the warm wet heat of his mouth. “Fuck, Aaron…”
And then he’s pulling away despite the pathetic whine you let out, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. “Always so sensitive…” he murmurs, fingers still casually toying with your nipples, not even paying attention to your breathy moans. “If only I could take my time and suck and play with your nipples all day.”
One of his hands comes down between your legs, fingers brushing the inner flesh of your thigh before flipping the skirt of your dress up, baring you in your lacey white panties. You didn’t have to look to know the center was completely soaked through, melded to your skin.
He makes a quiet choked noise at the sight and it sends a self-satisfied thrill through you, knowing that no matter how many times he’s settled in between your thighs, he still acts like he can’t believe he’s even there in the first place.
You cant your hips up at him, silently vying for some sort of attention, and your breath escapes you in a whoosh when both of his hands come to press your hips down to hold you still. That silent display of power again and the slight flex of his arms has you squirming in his grasp.
“Impatient…,” he chuckles, his left hand releasing you so he could gently trace the lacey edge of your panties. “If only if I had the time to eat your pussy and have you come on my tongue all day.”
Before you could beg him to please do just that, he’s pressing two fingers against your cunt through the soaked fabric. The heat of him and the thickness of his fingers against your clit has you whining.
“But school pick-up is in an hour, so I’ll just fuck you instead.”
Aaron’s words don’t even register through your brain, too busy short-circuiting at the deliberately lazy circles on your clit and the way the damp fabric rubbing against you has you grinding your hips down instinctively. Your mouth drops open, head tilting back to stare up at the ceiling as your breath stutters in your chest as pleasure thrums up your spine.
He tugs your panties aside to swipe his fingers through your pussy, quickly gathering the wetness between your folds with a soft curse, and then pushing one thick finger inside of you.
You choke on a moan, eyes nearly rolling back in your skull at the feeling of finally being filled, the ache in between your thighs only slightly wavering. Aaron always takes his time with you, adamant about making sure you were fully stretched out enough to take his thick cock, but the way he’s immediately crooking his finger into you as he hungrily drinks in the way your tits move with every shaky exhale has you thinking otherwise.
He lets go of you, letting you move your hips down to meet his finger, so he could run his palm up your tensing stomach, over your breasts, and then resting at the base of your neck.
Your eyes snap open at that, meeting Aaron’s heated gaze as best as you could despite the sudden intensifying throb between your legs overwhelming you. You must already look fucked out, eyes glossy and eyebrows pinched together, because Aaron was staring at you like he was willing to spend the rest of his life taking you apart.
You nod, and then his hand is wrapping around your throat, fingers and thumb putting the slightest amount of pressure against the sides of your neck.
The white-hot euphoria was nearly instant—your breath gets knocked out of you, your eyelids flutter, and the fire at the pit of your stomach seems to have spread throughout your entire body. The heavy weight on your throat, your moans turning into wet gasps as your airway was barely restricted, was fucking amazing.
“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” Aaron pushes another thick finger inside of you, causing you to let out a muted whimper. “Christ, you’re so fucking wet.”
You can hear the lewd squelching of your pussy with every thrust of his fingers through the roaring of blood in your ears, because you’ve somehow gotten wetter, hotter, just from his hand on your throat. Your gaze fixates on the muscles tensing in his biceps as his fingers plunge into you, as he chokes you, and you realize you were suddenly close to coming. Almost embarrassingly fast, as your hands immediately fly to Aaron’s wrist hovering above you as the coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter before you could even process it.
“Aaron,” you try to say, cry out, except it comes out as a hoarse whisper. You grind your hips down in attempt to meet his fingers, always able to get so much deeper than your own, but the hand on your throat imperceptibly tightens and you can’t move. He’s holding you down, keeping you exactly where he wants you, and you have no choice but to take it.
“Come on, you can come for me.” It’s new, coming just from Aaron’s words and permission, but you’re wondering if it’s something you need to implement all the time because the band in the pit of your stomach snaps, the dam finally breaking, as your orgasm hits you so hard you would’ve curled in on yourself and screamed if it weren’t for Aaron’s grip on you. Instead, all you can let out was a stifled groan, not even caring how hard you were squeezing Aaron’s wrist, as your hips stutter in the air, against his fingers.
His fingers loosen until it’s splayed open-handed at the base of your throat and you sharply inhale, not even realizing you were starting to get lightheaded, as your thighs squeeze around his hand as he slows down his movements, still fucking into you deep enough to help you come down from the aftershocks.
“Good girl,” he mutters, the low timbre of his voice sending a shiver down your spine and causing you to weakly squeeze your fingers where they’re still wrapped around his wrist.
He leans in, hovering his broad body over yours, as he presses a tender kiss to your sweaty temple. The scent of his cologne, clean and soft, sends a wave of comfort over you despite the ache in between your thighs still nagging at you. “Are you okay?”
You huff a laugh, your hands skimming up his forearm to place on his bicep where you can feel the muscles tense from holding himself up over you. “Jesus Christ, yes.”
“Good.” The way he says it, almost ominously, has your breath hitching. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
And then he’s getting off the couch, standing up and pulling you down with his hands on your ankles until your ass was hanging off the edge of the couch. You let out a delighted laugh at his manhandling, arousal humming low underneath your skin, and you’re about to spread your legs and hitch them onto his hips when he’s grabbing onto your hips to flip you over.
He’s crowding up against you until you’re kneeling, elbows pressed into the back of the couch, and you’re face to face with the large window that takes up most of the living room wall. Your face immediately heats because, from this position, you’re overlooking the apartment complex’s courtyard from the second story window.
It was mid-afternoon on a Friday and your apartment complex was quiet even on Saturday nights as most of the residents were older professionals and luckily not the rowdy college crowd you had hoped to avoid when you signed your lease. You stare at the empty water fountain, the overgrown hedges, and knew that despite the nice weather, no one was going to want to spend their afternoon here. Either way, the idea of someone being able to look up and spot you getting fucked by your incredibly capable boyfriend has something heady curling up your spine.
Aaron’s large hand settling on the base of your spine brings you out of your thoughts, your dress still bunched around your waist. You feel the head of his cock nudging against your entrance, rubbing in between your slick folds, and you moan in surprise as you try to crane your neck to look back over your shoulder.
Your mouth starts watering, because Christ, Aaron’s standing behind you with one knee propped up on the couch, jeans unbuckled and tugged down along with his boxers just enough to free his leaking hard cock. He’s kept his shirt on and you don’t know whether you want to stare at the soft expanse of his tummy that’s exposed or the flex of his arms as he continues using the head of his cock to gather your wetness.
“Look at you,” Aaron growls, eyes fixated on your leaking entrance and your damp thighs. “You were made for taking this cock, weren’t you, sweetheart?”
“Oh, fuck—” He doesn’t give you the option to answer, most likely not even searching for one, as he finally presses his cock inside of you, stretching you blissfully open. Your words die in your throat, catching on a sigh, as your head drops between your shoulders.
You were already wet, possibly wetter than you’ve ever been in your life, but Aaron’s fingers can’t stretch you out the way his thick cock does, can’t split you open deliciously the way having him pressed all the way inside of you feels.
“That’s it, you can take it,” he coos, pressing further and further into you and causing your whimpers to get higher in pitch, until his hips are pushed up against yours. He stills, letting you catch your breath for just a moment while his thumb draws circles on your hip, before he’s pulling back and then thrusting back into you with a grunt.
You let out a wet gasp, your hands scrambling to find purchase on the couch cushions underneath you, as Aaron starts a relentless pace, fucking you in earnest. Fingering and choking you must have gotten to him just as much as it did to you.
He leans in and bears down on you, his chest flush against your back, while the rhythm of his hips doesn’t falter for even a second. You can feel the sporadic warm breaths on the back of your neck, your ear, while his hand snakes underneath you so he can rub tight circles on your swollen clit and the other takes a hold of your shoulder, pulling you off and on of his cock. “Your pussy always feels so good, honey, always so tight for me.”
You can only let out a strangled noise, your thighs shaking and your body nearly crumpling in on itself at the first touch on your aching clit if it weren’t for the arm Aaron had wrapped around your hip. “Fuck, Aaron, please—”
He hums, condescending, mocking—poking at the fire building hot and fast in your stomach. You were somehow already close again. “Please? Please what?”
You don’t know what you’re begging for, the word having escaped your mouth before you could stop it, but you could tell something was missing. You want him to please don’t stop fucking you, please don’t stop rubbing your clit the perfectly calculated way he always does, please don’t stop leaving hot and open-mouthed kisses on the back of your shoulder as he grunts in your ear.
You catch your reflection in the window and the tips of your ears warm from the sudden thrill of humiliation at the sight. Your mouth was dropped open with every shaky moan that rose from your chest, your half-lidded eyes nearly glazed over, and your breasts swaying with every roll of Aaron’s hips.
When you notice the sudden emptiness at the base of your throat and his fingers grappled onto your shoulder, you realize exactly what you’re begging for.
“Please,” you pant, meeting Aaron’s smoldering gaze through the reflection. “Please choke me.”
His rhythm falters for a second before stilling, the hand on your hip tightening as he hides his face against your shoulder blade. You think you see an incredulous smile tugging at his mouth, a huff of a laugh before he’s kissing at a notch in your spine as he says “I think you’re trying to kill me.”
“As long as you don’t actually kill me,” you say, voice suspiciously sounding like a whine as you wiggle your hips because why did he stop moving.
You can hear Aaron rolling his eyes, feeling him press another kiss to your back, and then he’s pulling you up until you were kneeling back into his chest, causing your back to arch. His hand moves from your shoulder to the base of your neck, until he’s slowly wrapping his left hand completely around your throat.
A shudder runs through you, the ache in your chest finally evaporating and the itch underneath your skin melting away as the weight of his hand gets heavier against you. When you catch your reflection in the mirror again and notice how much bigger his hand looks wrapped around your neck and the bulge of muscle next to your head, the veins of his forearms taunting you, the thought of asking him to put you in a headlock and restricting your breathing even further was dizzying.
The request dies on your tongue with a particularly powerful and deep thrust, your mouth dropping open as you cry out, and you suddenly felt like you were dangling off the edge of a dangerous precipice.
Aaron lets out a guttural groan at the way your walls flutter around him, and when he pulls back and fucks back into you hard, the sounds of his skin slapping against your ass, he hisses right in your ear, “You always beg so pretty for me, sweetheart.”
The low rasp of his voice, his fingers rubbing deliberately over your clit, and the gentle squeeze of his hand around your throat has your entire body tensing and coming with a gasp. It’s not as intense as your first one, something sharper and sudden that still has your thighs trembling and breath stuttering.
Before you’ve even come down from your high, Aaron pulls you with his fucking grip on your throat until you’re sitting up straighter, still flushed against his chest, and then pounding into you with a brutal pace.
You’re overstimulated, thighs trembling, as his hips snap against yours, the vulgar noises of your soaked pussy filling the room. You don’t move away—you can’t, when you notice how Aaron’s forearm presses against your chest, right in between your breasts, essentially holding you there while he uses you to chase his own orgasm.
Your eyes roll back at the thought of him using your pussy, keeping you right where he wants you so he can fill you up, his hand on your throat like he owns you.
“One more,” he growls, causing you to meet his gaze through the reflection in surprise. His hair has started to stick to his forehead and there’s a furrow in his brow, as if he’s staving off his orgasm for your impossible third one.
You give a weak shake of your head, feeling like your body was melting in on itself as he continues rutting into you.
“I c-can’t…” you whisper despite the spark of heat between your thighs, sharp arousal humming through your veins. You’ve never been able to come more than twice and the second one already made you feel lightheaded, your hips starting to squirm.
“One more,” he repeats, as if he never even heard you, as if he didn’t care, before he’s fucking into you relentlessly, desperately, and swiping against your clit so hard it was bordering on painful.
You cry out, nearly screaming, but it’s swiftly cut off into a whine by the tightening of his hand on your throat. Pure ecstasy hits you like a fucking freight train again at the sudden lack of oxygen, nearly exhilarating, as you try to meet Aaron’s intense stare through the windowpane with half-lidded eyes.
Your orgasm creeps up on you as you writhe against his hold, too focused on the intoxicating feeling of his thick forearm and the tensing of his bicep muscle as he holds you against him. The power he had over you in that moment was addicting, physically, maybe even emotionally, and you suddenly wished you could have his hand around your throat all the time.
You were floating, brain most likely having melted and leaked out of your ears, because you don’t even notice your orgasm splintering through you until Aaron’s hips stutter from your walls spasming and contracting around his cock and he rasps “There we go, that’s my sweet girl.”
When he releases his hold around you, allowing you to suck in a sharp breath, he’s pumping into you not even once, twice, before he’s spilling into you with a low groan and a stutter of his hips. He grinds into you, as if making sure your pussy was filled with every last drop, and the action makes your knees buckle.
You’re breathless, not even entirely because of your boyfriend’s hand squeezing around your throat, and feeling significantly dazed as your entire body trembles with aftershocks. Aaron shivers at that, pressing a kiss at the top of your spine, before he slowly pulls out of you.
He grabs the spare blanket thrown over the arm of the couch to splay out before wrapping his wonderful, sexy, strong arms around your waist to maneuver your limp body until both of you were lying on your sides. The two of you made a tight fit, your legs intertwining and bunched together, covered in sweat, but you didn’t care.
You didn’t care because Aaron’s hands were flitting over your body, tenderly checking you for any marks on your neck, while he trailed chaste kisses along the shell of your ear.
“You okay?” he whispers once your breathing has evened out, thumb rubbing sweet circles against your hip.
Your brain still hasn’t caught up with you yet, but you swallow, throat dry, and shakily say “That was…”
“Good?”
You let out an exasperated huff. If you had any feeling in your body, you would’ve swatted him on his arm. “Can we do that every time now?”
“Very funny,” he says, undoubtedly trying to refrain from rolling his eyes because he’s nice and knows not to poke too much fun at you right after you come so hard you’ve ascended to another planet.
You hum, partly because you knew he would let you do whatever you wanted and partly because you didn’t have the energy to say anything more. The two of you spend the next ten minutes like that, Aaron pushing his nose into the nape of your neck and squeezing his arms around your waist to pull you impossibly closer, while your heart felt significantly full.
Later, when Aaron has helped clean you up and the two of you were heading out the door, Aaron pulls you back over the threshold with a hand around your wrist. “Wait.”
“Hm?” You turn around, expecting him to tell you that you forgot your purse or your keys.
You don’t expect him to crowd you against the wall to kiss you, one of his hands coming up to lightly wrap around your throat.
It’s almost concerning how immediate your reaction is—knees buckling, all the air escaping from your lungs in one fell swoop, your body essentially turning limp as a daze overtakes you. You return his kiss, as best as you could, but that quiet possessiveness and control he has over you causes heat to weakly stir in between your legs.
When he pulls away and notices your pupils blown wide and shaky breathing, he gives you a devastatingly handsome, yet wicked smile. “Just wanted to kiss you.”
And then he’s releasing you and out the door, nearly halfway across the parking lot to his car and leaving you utterly stunned with the front door still open. When the faint breeze carries in through the entryway and does nothing to cool the heat emanating from your face, you knew you were going to be in trouble.
taglist <3 kisses for all of you @kiwriteswords @solardrop @knitmeatardis @maeintree @pastelpinkflowerlife @storiesofsvu @actualdeemon @khxna
I need hotch with angry bau reader 😔😔 I’m genuinely so pissed off recently and him calming me down would actually heal me
over the line
you and me both 😣 cw; bau fem!reader, established relationship, typical cm case descriptions, a misogynistic rude officer, hurt to comfort <3 wc; 1.2k
You’d just finished another debrief on a case you already knew would be especially difficult. After all, it wasn’t every day you were called out after only one victim; this one had been so brutal that nobody wanted to give the guy a chance to do much as think about making it serial.
Now, you were all gathered around the table, deep in discussion of victimology. But despite the focus, you still caught the murmur of a side discussion to the left of you.
"Don’t know why we’re even trying to find this guy. Way she was flirting, sounds like she had it coming." One of the officers snickered under his breath, muttering to his colleague. He got a laugh in response. A laugh. Un-fucking-believable.
You were already in a bad mood hearing about the case on the jet, but rehashing it brought an even sicker feeling to your stomach. It didn’t help that your features left you a practical mirror image to the victim. It may have well been you plastered up on that board.
You turned towards the officer, your expression full of shock and disdain. "What did you just say?"
Sharing a glance with his friend, he realized he had two options: retreat and shut up, or continue to be an asshole. Clearly he chose the latter, the option that fed his ego. “I said she had it coming. Look at her,” he added, gesturing towards the table with open disgust.
The crime scene photos. The victim bound and mutilated. The defense marks were clear as day, painting the image of her struggle in your mind as if you’d watched it happen right in front of you.
"She had it coming." You repeated, taking an authoritative, threatening step towards him. The rest of the group fell silent, their attention snapping to you. "You think she asked for this to happen? Is that what you think?"
He shrugged, a smirk forming on his face. He challenged you right back: Yes.
A sharp, disbelieving laugh tore out of you. Your fists clenched as you stepped in again, deliberately invading his space. “Maybe we should hand you over to him next,” you snapped, your voice rising with fury. “Then we’ll see how fast you realize nobody asks for this.”
“From the looks of it, I’d think he’d prefer you.”
“Oh-”
Before you could finish, Aaron intervened, gently yet resolutely grabbing your elbow. He held back the Sweetheart that threatened to pass his lips. "Agent. A word, please."
"Get your men in order. It's disgusting." You snapped at the chief as he joined the rest of you, arriving too late to stop what had already been said.
Your glare didn’t waver as Aaron began to guide you away. You allowed him to do so, even as anger burned hot in your chest, your hands still trembling at your sides. His grip was grounding, even as your pulse still pounded, rage coursing through your veins.
"I don't care if I was out of line." You started rambling as soon as the conference room door shut behind the two of you. "I wasn't going to stand there and let him belittle that poor girl."
Now, finally able to use the endearments he’d grown accustomed to, Aaron tried, “Sweetheart-“
"The fucking audacity.” You let out an exasperated sigh, beginning to pace. “Again, I don’t care if I overstepped, I don’t care how ‘unprofessional’ it was. He had no right - none - to speak about her like that, to twist what happened into some sick joke.”
"That's not why I pulled you away. I was afraid you'd start swinging at the guy."
You scoffed, averting your eyes, though the tension in your expression didn’t ease. Crossing your arms tightly over your chest, you shook your head, your jaw set. "He deserved it."
"He did. He was out of line, and thought he could get away with it without consequence. You made sure he didn’t.“ Aaron's lips tugged into a smile, referring to you barking at the person in charge. "And you did my job for me. Maybe you should do it more often."
You laughed gently, but it faded as quickly as it came. You felt yourself coming back down, the anger no longer flaring but settling into something quieter, heavier.
“Hey.” His hands rested gently on your forearms, holding you still and steadying you once more. While appropriate, an outburst from you was rare. "Do you want to talk about it?"
As Aaron studied you, his brown were soft and full of concern. He could see the exhaustion etched into your features, the way your shoulders carried the weight of the past few days. The empathy you felt for the victim.
He was infuriated by the way the officer had spoken to you, and in moments like this, he almost wished he didn’t have a badge - or the restraint that came with it; sometimes it would be nice - and warranted - to be able to use his fists to make a point. He ached at the thought of how it must have made you feel, even as a quiet sense of pride settled in at how you’d handled yourself.
You shrugged, biting on the inside of your cheek. To hold back tears? Buying time to answer? You weren’t quite sure.
Quickly glancing around to make sure no one was coming, he pulled you into his arms and held you close. There were no words that felt right - sometimes, that was just how it was. So he held you tighter, hoping it might be enough to say what he couldn’t.
You sank deeper into his touch, letting out a sigh as he pulled you close. For the first time in days, the tension in your shoulders began to ease. His embrace was familiar and loving, a quiet refuge from everything that had come before. If only you could stay here forever, wrapped in this quiet safety, shielded from all that was cruel and ugly.
"It's getting to me too." He offered softly. You weren't the only one visualizing yourself as one of the victims, and the thought unsettled him deeply.
You hummed sadly into his chest, burying your face deeper into it. For a moment, you were overtaken by the juvenile notion that you could hide here forever.
Much too soon, a knock on the door signaled that the two of you were needed. Aaron sighed and pulled back reluctantly, maintaining his hold on you. “Do you need another minute? Can I get you anything?”
Did you? Maybe you could manage, but the thought made your stomach twist into knots. Back into the suffocating atmosphere of the bullpen where horror awaited. Back to the misogynist asshole who thought he could belittle and poke fun without consequence. It would be much easier to stay here and hide - concealed and safe. But you couldn’t. You owed it to the victim. You had to see it through.
At your prolonged silence, and from the expression of unease that grew quietly on your face, Aaron decided for you. “Take all the time you need, sweetheart.”
“No, no, I’m okay,” you started to protest, rather unconvincingly - the shakiness in your voice giving you away. “I just want to catch this son of a bitch unsub.”
“Take two more minutes.” Aaron pressed a kiss to your forehead, reaching for the doorknob.
“Is that an order?”
With the door open halfway, he turned back, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “If that’s what it takes.”
Summary: Reader has worked for Aaron Hotchner for the past 6 months as the babysitter to his son, Jack.
Pairing: Hotch x (Female) Reader
Word Count: 7.4k – she thicc
Category: Smut/Fluff…and some angst because of who I am as a person.
Content Warning:
A/n: We all know that Hotch’s favorite album is the Beatles “White Album.” And I have odd choices for songs that I use as lullabies. This idea came into my head and never left. This video of Billie Eillish singing part of the song is the closest to the structure of how I imagined it.
Okay, okay, look, I know Roy wasn’t diagnosed until season 10. But I am taking creative liberties because I needed Jack to be younger.
Meaning this would be set around season 7. Hotch would be about 41, Jack is around 7; so, I made Reader around 26, giving them a 15-year age gap. Please don’t check my math. 😌
y/n = your name. y/l/n = your last name. italicized texts are Reader’s thoughts.
– If you want me to, I will. –
I was disoriented when I woke up. This isn’t my bed, I thought groggily. Wait…this isn’t even my house.
“Y/n,” a deep voice rumbled beside me.
I jackknifed up into a sitting position, eyes wide and my face flushed with embarrassment. “Mr. Hotchner!” I quickly brought my hand up to my cheek to make sure I hadn’t drooled in my sleep. Because that would really be the cherry on top of my embarrassment. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to fall asleep. This is so embarrassing.”
either before they together or when they first get together <3
Hot & Bothered (No, Like, Literally, You Have a Fever) - A.H.
summary: bimbo!assistant!reader is feverish, clingy & just a little delirious, except, not too delirious to shamelessly flirt with your very attractive, very exasperated boyfriend.
pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader
warnings: sick!reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, soft!hotch, flirty banter, suggestive-ish content, clingy!reader, hotch ignoring all cdc guidelines, reader is kinda being a baby about everything (just like me fr), theatre kid hotch.
wc: 2.3k
You started off playing it cute. All little sighs, sending Aaron pouty texts filled with emojis, making sure he knew you missed him, but in a haha, just kidding (unless?) kind of way. Now you're way past that. The cute phase had dissolved into something far more desperate.
You were sick-sick. The terrible kind of sick where your limbs feel like they're made of granite, and your skin somehow manages to burn and freeze at the same time.
Worst of all, Aaron wasn't here.
And really, what was the point of having a boyfriend as stupidly gorgeous, painfully competent, and naturally overprotective as Aaron Hotchner if he wasn't going to be around when you need him most?
You knew you were being dramatic. You knew this was your own fault. Aaron had practically ordered you to let him come home with you, standing there in his office with his disapproving frown, telling you that you shouldn't be alone if you weren't feeling well.
But in your infinite wisdom, you had waved him off, told him to stay at work. Because at the time, you were fine. Or, more so, fine-adjacent. And because sometimes, your brain tricks you into thinking you are a capable, independent woman who does not, in fact, require Hotch-shaped supervision.
So now you're curled up in bed, drowning in the well-worn fabric of his FBI academy hoodie, the one that smells like him. And it helps. But not enough.
Because if he were here, he'd be so good at taking care of you. He'd probably be all bossy and stern about it, telling you to drink your water, go to sleep, and stop pouting. But then he'd turn around and betray himself completely by smoothing your hair back so, so softly, by tucking the blankets up to your chin like you're something delicate. Contrary to popular belief, he did have a soft side.
Maybe you should call him. Maybe you should be really, really pathetic about it and beg him to come home.
Maybe you're just a little too codependent. (Just a little.)
The second the front door opens, you think you must be imaging it. You convince yourself it's the fever, twisting reality into want instead of what actually is. Because Aaron shouldn't be home yet.
You squint at the clock, but it's just a bunch of blurry numbers, and math is already hard enough without feeling like your brain is actively melting.
But then there's the sound of leather against hardwood, and not just any leather.
You know those shoes. The custom Italian Oxfords you forced him to let you buy. He'd grumbled about the price, all exasperated and dramatic (as if he had any real concept of what good leather actually costs), but he still let you drag him to the store. Still let you lace them up for him. Still let you kiss him senseless in the parking lot because he looked too insanely sexy in them to be allowed to exist without immediate compensation.
You'd told him once that good shoes take you good places. And now look where they took him.
Straight home to you.
The relief is so instantaneous, it makes your head spin. And suddenly, he's there, shoulders broad against the door frame, arms crossed, eyes warm despite the unimpressed look he's attempting to pull off.
"My poor baby," he says, half-teasing, but mostly just achingly soft.
Your bottom lip wobbles. "It's not that bad."
Aaron sighs loudly, already loosening his tie as he strides over, assessing the damage, which, in this case, is you, buried under what is objectively a very reasonable amount of blankets.
"Uh-huh." Flat. Dry. But he's already reaching to fix them, like he can't help himself. "That why you're buried in every blanket we own?"
You burrow deeper into said blankets. Maybe if you commit hard enough, he'll stop looking so smug.
"They're comfy."
He crouches beside the bed, undoing the last button on his cuff before pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. His touch is cool, and you lean into it immediately, shameless at how much you enjoy his skin against your overheated own.
"You're hot."
You blink at him, dazed, and—without thinking—mumble, "So are you."
The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret them. Not because they're untrue, that's indisputable, but because of the sheer pathetic delivery of it, all scratchy and pitiful and nothing like the effortless flirtation you usually bring to the table.
You groan, squeezing your eyes shut like that might somehow reverse time.
Aaron, of course, is completely unbearable about it. His lips twitch, and you can see it happening in real time, his struggle not to laugh directly in your face.
"Flattered," he drawls, his thumb brushing over your temple, fingers carding through your hair in slow strokes. "Have you been drinking enough water?"
You wrinkle your nose. "Water is boring."
"You're boring."
You gasp, sniffling as you try to look offended, despite the congestion ruining your tone. "Boring? You weren't calling me boring last night when I—,"
"Okay."
Aaron cuts you off immediately, already leaning down, pressing kiss after kiss to your face—forehead, cheeks, anywhere he can reach. You squeal in protest (or, well, try to, your voice is too weak for it to be truly effective), but he just laughs against your skin, relentless.
"Okay, I take it back," he murmurs, kissing your nose like an apology. Like a bribe. "You're the most exciting person I know. Now be exciting and drink some water before I have to force it down your throat."
"Force it down my throat?" you rasp, a weak smirk pulling at your lips as your fingers prod into his dress shirt. "You promise?"
"So inappropriate." He lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, but his hands are already cupping your face, his lips pressing to yours, like he loves kissing you too much to stop himself.
You barely have time to enjoy it before your brain remembers how sickness works.
"Wait, germs!"
Aaron just smirks, tilting your face up with a knuckle under your chin. "Since you brought up last night, that's an interesting concern, considering where your mouth was last night."
You should say something flirty in return. Something about how that was different because it was basically an act of public service (one you love providing). Because that's what you do. You throw him off, make him sigh like you're exhausting and adorable at the same time, watching his ears flush pink when he pretends he's not affected.
But the words never come, instead, your brain hands you a far worse visual. Aaron, like this, but worse. His face pale, head pressed against a pillow, forehead creased with discomfort he wouldn't acknowledge. You can see it clearly, the way he'd insist he's fine, the way he'd make it through a workday half-dead before even considering rest.
And suddenly nothing is funny.
Your fingers clutch at his shirt without thinking, like holding onto him will somehow fix the terrible, awful, no-good mental image you just had.
You're frowning, and you don't even realize it, not until Aaron does, his thumb pressing lightly against the center of your forehead, like he can smooth it away.
"I don't want you to get sick."
"My sweet girl," he murmurs, fingers threading through your hair once before he stands. "I can handle a cold. What I can't handle is you being miserable and dehydrated. Be good and let me take care of you."
Aaron disappears before you can argue and by the time he returns, a glass of water in hand, you've barely had a chance to process how much you missed him in those few seconds.
You watch as he puts it down on the nightstand beside you.
"There. Now drink."
"Yes, sir," you mumble, taking a few small sips just to prove that you're listening.
But if he really wanted you hydrated, he should've just kissed you again.
Aaron's eyes narrow, shooting you a pointed look.
You sigh, loud and put-upon, then take another sip, longer, just to appease him. You make a show out of it, before immediately reaching out, patting the empty space beside you with undeniable urgency.
Aaron snorts. "Didn't last long, did you?"
"I'm sick. I need warmth and love."
He exhales so dramatically, shaking his head. "If that's what my poor, suffering girl needs, then I suppose I have no choice."
Alright, theatre kid.
You bite your tongue, not because you're wrong, but because self-preservation is a skill, and you'd like to see another sunrise. And, fine. If he wanted to pretend like sitting still for five minutes was his own personal crucifixion, then who were you to deny him. It wasn't your fault, he ran himself into the ground, like he was trying to beat time himself, working to the bone until someone (you) had to physically drag him to bed.
You watch, maybe a little too intently, as he kicks off his shoes, undoes his belt, and swaps out his boring, stuffy work pants for the sweats. Your sweats. The ones you have a deeply personal attachment to.
You have history with those sweats.
"You know, you put those on and suddenly I start feeling a whole lot better." Call it divine intervention, maybe. "Do you think if you let me sit on your lap, I'd be at full strength again? Because I think we should at least try. For medical purposes."
Aaron settles in beside you, pressing one, two, three kisses to your lips, because he can, because he wants to. When he pulls back, he's smirking.
"Cheeky girl," he murmurs, thumb skimming your jaw. "And here I was, thinking you needed me to take care of you. Turns out you just wanted an excuse to climb all over me. How tragic. I've been completely fooled."
You brain-to-hand coordination is questionable at best, but that doesn't stop you from attempting to very subtly slip your fingers along the waistband of his sweats.
Aaron grabs your wrist instantly laughing—an actual, real, Hotchner laugh.
"Sweetheart," he muses, so damn amused, his thumb tripping over the pulse point of your wrist. "You can barely hold your head up, and you're trying to start something?"
"With a boyfriend like you, I'm like, legally required to start something."
Aaron lets out the longest, most suffering sigh known to man.
Like you said—theatre kid.
"Don't I know it. You're insatiable."
You open your mouth, fully prepared to launch into a passionate defense of you very reasonable levels of attraction to him, but a sneeze—tiny, weak, kind of embarrassing—ruins it.
Aaron's smirk evaporates. It happens fast, like a switch flipping, like he's just remembered, really remembered, that you're not at full strength, that beneath all your teasing, you're a little delicate, too easily worn down.
For a second, he just stares, jaw tight, brows furrowing ever so slightly, like the sight of you, flushed cheeks, fever-glazed eyes, pathetic sneezy, physically pains him.
And then you're moving, no he's moving, pulling you in, tucking you into his chest, as if you were something his hands were built to protect.
"And yet, here you are," he murmurs, kissing your temple, breathing against your hair, "disease-ridden and tragically adorable."
You sigh, shoving your face as close as humanly possibly, like some kind of human limpet. His heartbeat is strong beneath your ear, soothing, a constant thump thump thump that makes your eyelids droop.
"I really missed you today."
Aaron's arms tighten around you, but then you sniffle. Not the same pathetic little sound from earlier. This one's different. This one is softer, wetter.
He tenses just enough for you to feel it, enough to make you regret it, because now he knows.
You blink rapidly, tilting your face down, trying to breathe past the sudden, stupid sting behind your eyes, willing it go away before he—
Too late.
His arms loosen just enough to tilt his head down, scanning your face like he's already trying to figure out how to make it better.
You turn, burying your face in his chest. "I'm fine."
A lie. A bad one at that. So laughably transparent that even you wince a little.
Aaron doesn't call you on it, however, just pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your cheek, catching the tear before it falls.
"Oh baby," he breathes, voice a little rough, like he wants to pull the sadness out of you and keep it for himself.
He presses another kiss to your temple, then another, then another, like he needs to fix something unfixable, his fingers curling around the nape of your neck.
"You're killing me here."
You sniffle. Again.
"M'sorry," you mumble. "This is probably like... super unattractive."
Aaron shifts again, tilting your chin up as his thumb brushes against your cheek.
"Still the prettiest girl I've ever seen," he murmurs, but his jaw is tight, his fingers flexing against your skin. "I should've come home sooner."
"You wouldn't have lasted," you mumble, voice slowing, words dragging just a little.
Aaron raises an eyebrow. "And why's that?"
"Because you'd stress yourself out." You hum sleepily, tracing absent circles against his shirt. "You'd take my temperature every hour. Make me drink disgusting tea. Then, once you ran out of things to fuss over, you'd start deep-cleaning the grout just to feel useful."
He snorts, shaking his head. "You make me sound unbearable."
"You are unbearable," you murmur, but your grip tightens around him, contradicting yourself entirely. "But in a very sexy, very productive way."
He laughs and presses a kiss to your temple.
"You know what would make me feel better?"
Aaron's chest rises with a deep inhale, like he already knows. His arm tenses around you. "Sweetheart—,"
You grin against his shirt, weakly.
"A very hands on wellness check."
Aaron chokes out a laugh, tightening the blankets around you. "Christ."
He presses one last kiss to your forehead and you think you hear him mumble should've seen that one coming under his breath.
You hum in agreement, mentally ranking all the times he should've seen something coming.
This moment, obviously.
The time he let you fall asleep on him once and then acted surprised when it became a permanent thing.
The time he told you to be serious and then immediately realized that was the worst possible way to get you to stop joking.
The time he tried to fight it, tried to keep you at arm's length, tried to act like this thing between you wasn't inevitable.
You should tell him. You should. But then he tucks you closer, breath hot against your temple. And before you can launch into your incredibly important findings, you're already too far gone.
💌 masterlist
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hi ! i have a request for you if you would like !?
so r is asleep and is having a crazy wet dream and it gets so intense that they end up waking up and are grinding on hotchs thigh sleepily and hotch has been awake for some time, looking down at r amused because their whimpering and moaning woke him up a while ago and then he decides to fuck them right then and there because aaaaaa !!! their shorts are riding up and they look so needy and cute and sleepy and desperate !!!
im totally not writing this just after waking up and this is totally not based on the dream i just had 👀 i feel like you would do such an amazing job of writing it if you wanted to !!!
Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader | Smut | WC: 1.4k | A/N: ngl, I zoned out so many times while trying to write this, because I kept self inserting myself into the fic and thinking about Hotch being the little smug shit that he is.
Also I had no idea what to do for the graphics for this fic, so I'm leaving it naked for now.
You stir awake slowly, syrupy slow. Everything feels hazy in your mind, as if you are buried underneath a thick and heavy blanket.
Fragments of your dream cling to the insides of your skull, refusing to let go, to let you wake completely—Hotch’s strong hands gripping your hips. Palms sliding up your bare skin. His deep, aroused voice murmuring pure filth in your ears until you trembled under him.
Your limbs feel leaden, skin flushed and oversensitive to even the air around you, and the persistent, throbbing ache between your legs that refuses to fade even as consciousness creeps in.
It takes several, disoriented seconds for the sensations to sharpen and clarify into something recognizable in your head; the slick, wet drag of fabric against your pussy, the amazing pressure—so firm, so warm—and the slow instinctive roll of your hips chasing more friction.
You let out a soft, yet mortified sound—half gasp, half whine—as reality crashes over you.
You’re grinding against Hotch’s thigh.
Your shorts have bunched and ridden up completely during the night, twisted high on your hips, only leaving the thin, damp cotton of your panties, pushed crookedly to the side.
There’s nothing separating your slick and swollen folds from the muscle of Hotch’s thigh. You can feel the heat of his skin, the slight prickle of hair as every tiny shift of your hips sends sparks through your over-sensitized nerves.
You go perfectly still, face burning and heart pounding so loudly in your chest that you’re sure he can hear it.
At this point, Hotch has been awake for a while. You know it instantly, from the way his eyes are fixed on your face, one brow arched and the barest hint of a smirk curving at the corner of his mouth.
“Good morning,” he chuckles, his voice still rough with sleep and laced with amusement. Smug. “Or should I say... good dream?”
You whimper a little pitifully, cheeks burning hotter than the sun, and try to pull away from him, but his hand tightens, keeping you pinned flush against him.
“Aaron...”
“You’ve been making the sweetest little sounds for the past twenty minutes,” he murmurs, his thumb starting a slow, deliberate stroke along the curve of your hipbone that makes you shiver. “Soft, breathy whimpers of my name. Little gasps every time you roll your hips just right. Grinding on me like you can’t bear to wait another second for relief.” His smirk widens as your breath catches sharply in your throat—betrayal from your own body. “Woke me up, actually. I don’t have the heart to stop you. I am enjoying the show far too much.”
You bury your face against his chest with a strangled sound, hiding in the fabric of his t-shirt, inhaling the warm, familiar scent of him—but the instinctive shift only drags your clit harder against his thigh. It sends a fresh jolt of pleasure through you. A helpless, needy noise slips out before you can stop it.
Your body is still coiled tight from the dream, every nerve alight, aching, shamelessly desperate for the friction you’d been chasing in your sleep.
“Please,” you mumble against his shirt, voice small and a little shaky, barely above a whisper. “I’m... God, I’m so embarrassed.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours. “Embarrassed?” His hand slides lower, fingers brushing the sensitive skin just above where you’re dripping onto him. “You’re dripping down my leg, sweetheart. Soaked through and trembling, still rocking against me even when you’re awake. You’re not embarrassed.” His voice drops, husky and knowing. “You’re desperate.”
You whine again, the sound climbing higher, thinner, edged with desperation as your hips give another involuntary twitch against his thigh.
The slick drag sends a sharp spark of pleasure through you, making your breath stutter. That pathetic little noise seems to snap something in him, pupils blown wide as he drinks in every detail: the deep flush staining your cheeks, the wild tangle of your bedhead spilling across the pillow, the tremor running through your body as you shake against him.
“Look at you,” he says, voice dropping lower, into a register that always unravels you completely, the one he knows makes your stomach flip, and your core clench. “So needy you couldn’t even stay asleep without trying to get off on me. Shorts all twisted and bunched up around your hips, pretty little pussy so wet for me, humping my thigh like a sweet, desperate little slut who can’t help herself.”
You’re far too gone to muster even a token of protest at his words; instead, your hips roll again on pure instinct, chasing that maddening pressure, a soft, broken moan catching in your throat as your clit glides over his skin.
“Please...” The plea comes out breathless, barely above a whisper.
And in one fluid and effortless motion, he flips you onto your back, the world tilting as your shoulders hit the mattress.
His weight settles over you instantly, one large hand capturing both your wrists and pinning them above your head. His other hand moves with impatient efficiency as his fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and panties, dragging them down your thighs all at once in a single rough tug.
He pauses, holding himself above you, and takes a long moment to look. His gaze raking over every inch.
“Christ,” he mutters, like the sight has punched the air from his lungs. “You’re fucking adorable when you’re this desperate.”
Then he’s on you, claiming your mouth in a hard, devouring kiss that steals your breath and swallows every whimper.
You feel the scrape of his morning stubble against your skin as he angles deeper. While you’re still reeling, he shifts his hips, guiding himself toward your entrance, and pushes in with one slow, deliberate thrust that stretches and fills you perfectly.
You have no idea or awareness of when he pulled his boxers off; all you know is that the sudden fullness rips a cry from your throat into his mouth; your back arches off the bed, legs wrapping tightly around his waist, and your heels digging into the small of his back to pull him closer.
He doesn’t give you even a second to adjust to his size—he knows you can take it—just pulls back and snaps his hips forward again, setting a brutal pace that has the headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall.
Each thrust drives the air from your lungs in soft, broken gasps. His free hand slides under the fabric of your shirt, palm rough and warm as it cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple before pinching just hard enough to make you sob his name.
“That’s it,” he growls against your neck, teeth grazing the tendon there. It sends shivers racing down your spine. “Take what you were so desperate for in your sleep. You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted me to fuck you awake, fill you up exactly like this?”
You nod frantically, nails digging into your palms before flexing your fingers, wanting to grab him. You’re utterly lost in the thick drag of his cock inside you, the way he’s hitting every spot, the way he’s making your vision blur.
You’re still half-drowsy, mind hazy from sleep and overwhelming pleasure, and it sharpens every sensation until it feels almost too much.
He shifts his angle just slightly, driving deeper, and it makes stars burst behind your eyelids.
“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, breath hot against your ear. “Let me feel you fall apart. You’ve been teasing me all morning with those pretty little sounds... now be good and come on my cock like the needy girl you are.”
And with those words, pleasure slams through you hard and sudden, your body clenching tight around him in pulsing waves as you come, crying out his name, toes curling, vision whiting out.
He follows moments later, hips stuttering, burying himself as deep as he can with a low, guttural groan, forehead dropping to yours as he cums inside you.
For a moment, you both just breathe: sweaty, tangled limbs, hearts hammering against each other’s chests.
Then he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, that familiar smug little smirk curving his lips again.
“Next time you have a dream like that,” he says, voice still husky, brushing a surprisingly gentle kiss to your swollen lips, “wake me up sooner.”
You laugh breathlessly, weak and shaky, and hide your burning face in the curve of his shoulder.
Literally can’t add more than 10 pics to a post without adding more in a rb but ugh finking abt this look today 🥺 it’s my fave fr he looks so cosy and cute. Ik it’s literally summer but idc brown quarterzip Aaron is always on my mind🥺🥺💖
AARON HOTCHNER + SIDE PROFILE -> HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY ALEX @arsonhotchner <333333333
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LIGHT OF MY LIFE!!!! You truly are one of the most talented, sweetest, kindest and amazing human beings i have ever met and you deserve the world. I hope this day brings you all the joy and love you deserve, baby! I LOVE YOU TO THE MOON AND BACK ALWAYS AND FOREVER! <3 (also happy anniversary to THE MOST iconic twitter interaction of all time!)
i adore your fics and wanted to request something with aaron hotchner, where hotch put himself in danger at work and reader is upset and giving him the cold shoulder and its before bed so then before she gets into bed she tells him to come to bed so they can still sleep in each other’s arms or something like that… little bit of drama and some fluff!!
thank you for requesting <3 fem, 1.3k
He is the world's most infuriating man, your Aaron. Generous, and yet disarmingly selfish. He’s given you everything you ever asked of him and he treats his life as though it’s disposable, like you’d ever manage without him now you have him.
You’re angry hours after the blowout, where you’d done a lot of shouting and he’d snapped back until he saw something in your face that made him stop. You’d scrubbed at angry tears and he’d made the mistake of trying to comfort you. Fuck, you could’ve really shoved him. You hadn’t, maybe because he’d sensed that, too, and knew how conflicted you’d feel if you did. You just couldn’t have him touching you.
You wish he’d come back and comfort you now.
You can’t hear the TV in the living room, or the radio in the kitchen. He’s sitting in one of those rooms nursing a half glass of scotch and feeling guilty, you’d wager, but he hasn’t come to say sorry again. He tried an hour ago, but you’d ignored him and then felt like a child, which hadn’t helped the anger.
You’re as angry as you are because you love him. Your hands are restless as you shake out the sheets and pull them back, almost nervous, ‘cos you know you’ve gotta go downstairs and offer him an olive branch. You don’t want to sleep without him; you want to go to bed and know that he’ll be holding you when you wake up.
The stairs creak and groan as you shuffle down them, drained. You’ve put on one of his t-shirts (maybe as a guilt trip? or maybe because you miss him?) and a pair of slinky pants, washed your face and scrubbed the traces of the day away.
Your eyes were puffy as you moisturised, but how you look hasn’t ever been an issue with Aaron. He’d beg to kiss you in a potato sack. He’s seen you at your ugliest and still kissed you, fucked you, plain stared at you like he adored you, because Aaron doesn’t ever think you’re ugly. You know that. He worships you and you ache whenever he’s not there.
He’s holding a glass of scotch on his knee, not drinking it. His head’s turned your way already, like he’s waiting for you to fix his misery, and you will, sort of.
“Gonna come up to bed?” you ask.
Aaron frowns, which could mean anything. “I thought I’d be sleeping down here,” he says.
“I still want you to hold me,” you say, suddenly avoiding his gaze. “I’m mad at you and you know that, but I think,” —your voice goes tenuous, like stretched webbing— “you should come to bed.”
Aaron immediately places his glass on the coffee table and stands. He’s steady as he approaches, not like you’re a frightened animal in need of stillness, your back isn’t up, but it’s intrinsic to him to be careful with you. Not with himself.
“Come here,” he says, half a question as he pulls you into his front.
He doesn’t begrudge the second it takes you to wrap your arms around him in turn, he might not have noticed; Aaron’s too busy pressing his nose to the softest bits of hair at your temple, crushing you to him, really, to think about your slow hand at the small of his back.
“Oh,” he says into himself, more a sigh than a word.
Your lip trembles and you’re angry all over again. How can he act like he missed you this severely? Doesn’t he get the irony?
“I’m sorry,” he says, quiet and weak.
He has to know how hard you panicked when you’d seen it on the news. Brave FBI agent risks life to save man from deadly fire. A serial killer in Montana got ahead of himself and Aaron had to save the day, but he was a hair’s width from death. He’d sprung from the lower window with a limp body over his shoulder and a second later the sill had collapsed. He singed off his arm hair. Fuck, you could kill him yourself.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re angry, and I’m– I’m not undeserving of it. I’m sorry.”
“Can you just take me to bed?” you ask quietly.
Aaron nods into your skin.
You climb the stairs with his hand on the small of your back. He touches you from landing to bedside, fingers stretching over the sheets as you slide across his side into your own. He’s still in his slacks and he gets into bed regardless.
“Put your pajamas on,” you murmur.
“I need to hold you.”
“I’ll still let you.”
He shakes his head. You lift up to let him slip his arm under your shoulders, facing him as he gathers you into his embrace, dark eyes sincerely ashamed as you meet his gaze, as he raises his thumb to pet your eyelashes, forcing your eye closed in a wink.
“You smell nice,” he says, though ‘nice’ comes out with more weight than it calls for. He could’ve said perfect, for all the idolatry.
“Squeeze me.”
He squeezes you to him. Deep pressure, too much until it’s okay again. “Okay?”
“Little more.”
He squeezes again, his nose to your nose.
“I really am sorry. I’m not repeating it so you’ll say you forgive me. I keep thinking about the way I made you feel… I promised I wouldn’t scare you like that and I broke my promise, and you deserve more than that.”
That makes it easier to digest. It doesn’t erase the anger, but offers some relief, like a pressure valve.
“I always forgive you for everything,” you say, pausing at the breath he lets out against your chin, “stuff from before, and the promises you won’t keep, it’s not about that. I just love you, and I’m selfish, and you owe me your– your safety. You owe it to me to be careful, but I want you to be mine forever. I don't care if it means you're miserable, or wracked with guilt, I don’t care if you regret things after, so long as you’re still here. That’s why I’m angry.”
“I’m selfish, too,” he says. “I want to take risks and I want you to let me. I know it’s awful.”
You nod emphatically. It is awful, and he’s awful, but so are you. You’re both selfish people, but not in any evil way. It’s just wanting things.
“S’just life,” you mumble. “Squeeze me again?”
Aaron squeezes you and eases you onto his stomach simultaneously, taking your weight, though your legs and hips stay skewed on the mattress. You drape your arms over him, face pressed to his neck.
“Can’t fall asleep without you.”
“I can’t, either,” he says, “not easily. I didn’t think I’d be getting any tonight.”
You kiss under his jaw, weirdly happy in the midst of your annoyance. Like, fine. Fine, he’s a dick and you’re pissed and he’s strong underneath you. He’s holding you exactly like you wanted him too.
“I love you.”
He laughs. Actually laughs.
“Honey,” he says, high but quiet, “I love you, too.”
“I really do. I was so worried.”
“I know, I know–”
“I thought I was gonna pass out, Aaron–”
“Baby, I know. I’m okay.” He rubs his nose into your cheek. “I’m fine.”
You shudder into his touch. “For now,” you mutter, laugh stringy.
He kisses your cheek, your eyelid, and your nose, careful presses of his lips. “Don’t kill me, honey. Please?”
You cuddle into his neck, the idea of killing him immediately absurd. You couldn’t.
Here for baby blurbs!! How about Hotch pulling reader into his lap and laying kisses over her forehead, either just because or because he’s had a long day and that makes him fully unwind 🥹🫶🏼
fem, 0.8k
It’s not that Aaron isn’t a cuddler, but he usually waits to be in bed. The moment you're climbing into the sheets beside him, his body will shift toward you and his arm curls over your front, tugging you backwards, broad front behind your and his face sharing your pillow.
On the couch, he tends to allow for more space. Your Aaron, the tentative. You never would’ve thought he’d be careful in love, but he is. Always waiting for your say so, before he kisses too deeply or touches ardently. He never pinches you. Never bites unless you ask. And it’s kind of how you like things, like, you’re too precious to roughen up, even in heated moments, but it also means that most hugs in the daylight are ones you initiate, like he might hurt you in the wrap of his arms.
But tonight, he doesn’t wait for your outstretched hand. You’re sitting in the corner seat with a share bag of chips you have, perhaps greedily, decimated in less than half an hour. You did ask Aaron if he wanted any, but he said his usual, “I would’ve got my own bag, honey, don’t worry.” He’s old school. Your money is your money and his money is also your money. Your chips are your chips, etc. You wipe your fingers on a tissue from the coffee table after a while, and take a couple of sips of Aaron’s drink without asking because he loves you and never cares, but you’re wondering if that’s true still when he apprehends you, dragging you to his side.
“Woah!” you laugh. “What!”
“Come here, you.”
“I could’ve gotten here myself,” you say, giggling as he lays you out across his lap, your head on the armrest and your back to his thighs. You wriggle. He shifts you around until you’re comfortably settled.
“I didn’t mind helping,” he says. You laugh again.
From this angle, he’s different. Not any less handsome, but soft. His hair is dark and his eyes are stern. Five minutes in his lap can make you ache: there is something about Aaron that keeps drawing you in, even now. He will always be kind, generous, but it’s this strange bit of authority that will always linger and that toys with you. You think he’s the hottest guy ever, so what? He pulled you into his lap, after all.
“What’s up?” you ask.
“I saw you drinking my soda and couldn’t resist you,” he says, teasing and honest at once.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I figured we use the same toothbrush–”
“Once, accidentally–”
“–and share bodily fluids enough for you to not mind.”
“I will never mind.” He cups your cheek. His hand is so, so big, rough palm, callouses aligned with a leather grip, but soft enough as he cradles your face, a warm thumb sliding over your lips and under your nose and back again, uncaring of the slight distension it makes of your mouth. “You are an uncouth girl,” he murmurs, wrinkling his nose.
“Shut up, I am not,” you murmur back, cheeks hot under his touch.
He smiles. It makes you think of all the times he’s smiled before, on top of each other; in a shower too small for you both, suds on his chest; across a supermarket aisle choosing porridge oats with the heaviest basket in the world lying in his elbow; just ten minutes ago, when you’d whined about your legs hurting and declined his massage, citing his unlikely sordid reasoning, just to make him laugh.
“I’m not a girl, and I’m polite,” you say.
Aaron leans down to kiss you between the brows. “I know.”
His kisses move and multiply. He places one at the arch of your right eyebrow, into your temple, and across your crown. His lips falter at the edge of your hairline and he ducks his head, rubbing his nose there as he so often does in bed, during sex and any other closeness, the weight of something unspoken laid in his touch. He slowly, softly, presses another kiss there. You’re surprised you aren’t silken there from the friction of his adoring. It is his favourite place to kiss you, besides your mouth (and the insides of your thighs).
“You don’t understand how much I needed that,” he says.
“What, to kiss me?” you ask, genuinely curious.
“Mm-hm. I feel better now. You fixed me up, honey, because you always do.”
“I’m just laying here,” you say, a touch shy and a greater touch longing for him to kiss you again.
Your Aaron can read minds. He dips down and begins kissing again, traversing across your forehead and down to your ear, then just below it, his content hum going straight to your eardrum.
“You don’t have to do more than that to fix me,” he promises.
You stroke a hand through his hair lovingly. He can cover you in kisses all night if it makes him happy.
you come home tense, visibly rattled by a suspicious neighbor, and hotch does what any fake husband would do... kisses you breathless on the front lawn.
pairing: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader
warnings: fem!reader, fake marriage, age gap, dbf!hotch, kissing!!! (yipee)
prompt: here
wc: 1.2k
Hotch sees your face first. He always does. Faces tell the truth long before mouths do.
And you have a good face. Pretty, soft in a way that suggests trust rather than effort, still flushed from whatever wholesome, well-intention routine you’ve added to your evenings since going undercover.
Your skin is warm with leftover sun, your hair pulled back too fast, flyaways escaping in rebellion.
Ordinarily, the sight would be enough to ease him. Ordinarily, it is.
Except today. There’s a wince there you try to disguise, alarm smoothed over with a polite smile that arrives a second too late.
Hotch stands in the yard, tie askew, briefcase dangling from one hand, the image of a man freshly returned from a long day’s labor. It’s a visual storybook suburbanites eat up without question: husband, professional, provider.
It’s impressive, really, how well he wears the lie. How natural the half-hour “commute” feels now. The black coffee. The unreadable folders. A daily ritual of half-truths performed for the benefit of curtain-twitching neighbors and covert surveillance teams who take notes in cars with tinted windows.
He tells himself it’s part of the job. That he’s good at compartmentalizing. That if he puts the right look on his face and keeps the jacket buttoned at the right angle, no one will notice that half of what he says isn’t true.
But the jacket keeps catching in the wind like it’s trying to say otherwise.
“Hi, baby.” It still sounds tentative.
Not unnatural, exactly, just new. Like something you’ve tried out a few times and haven’t quite decided how it feels on your tongue.
He doesn’t fault you for it. The whole thing is absurdity on its face. This house, this cover, this domestic farce that requires you to smile like a newlywed and call him name he’s never earned. “Baby” especially.
When you say it to him, it drips irony. A sharp, gleaming hook wrapped in honey. He can’t take it in without tasting blood.
You shouldn’t have to play this part, in fact he argued adamantly against it. Not with him. Not with a man who feels the age gap carved into every fucking syllable.
However, the show must go on.
“There’s my girl.” His hand comes to rest at your hip. The angle narrows between your bodies until he can feel the shape of your breath against his shirt. He bends just slightly, his lips pressing to your forehead before dipping to your ear. “What’s wrong?”
You let out a breathy laugh.
“Nothing, just —” your eyes flick toward the neighbor’s porch, then back to him, “ — think I overdid it on the walk. That woman with the visor kept pace like she was training for a triathlon.”
The women in question is across the street, half-shadowed by the old oak that splits her lawn at a jagged diagonal. The brim of her visor hides most of her face, but Hotch doesn’t need facial cues. He needs orientation, posture, and timing.
And right now, all three tell him everything he needs to know.
She’s facing them, her body angled just off-center, her stance wide like she’s finishing up a jog or settling a stretch. One arm crosses her chest in an exaggerated pull, the other braced at her hip.
But she hasn’t switched sides, hasn’t moved for the last forty-five seconds. Her stretch is frozen, maintained just enough to sell the illusion of disinterest.
Hotch sets his briefcase down by his feet with a soft thud and loosens his tie before crowding into your space just enough to hide your body from view. His hand rises to the back of your neck, still warm from your walk, but there’s a different kind of heat under his palm now.
“She’s been following you?” he murmurs, low enough that the breeze might steal the words if you weren’t listening for them.
You nod. “Her husband. He’s the one who keeps asking stuff — if we’ve lived here long, where we met, if you travel a lot. Just weird things.”
Hotch knows immediately who you’re referring to.
The guy was unforgettable in the way only truly unpleasant people manage to be. Bigger guy. Bigger voice. Reeks of gin by noon and entitlement by nine. Hotch remembers the handshake — too firm. One of those calculated power plays that always come from men who feel powerless.
He places both hands on either side of your face now, thumbs barely grazing your cheekbones.
“We’re going to give them a show.”
You blink rapidly. “Like…like a kiss show?”
His lips twitch. “Like a marriage.”
You suck in a breath, nod, then ramble, “Right, right, yes, PDA. Discomfort. Emotional terrorism. Love on display. I’m ready.” Your hand lands awkwardly on his chest like you’ve never touched a man before. “...okay, wait, I’m not ready, but I am consenting.”
He hates the way his heart drops to his shoes.
“Just —” he starts, then corrects, “Just follow my lead.”
You open your mouth, of course you do. He can practically hear the words forming, feel it gathering momentum behind your teeth. A disclaimer. A joke. An apology for existing.
He doesn’t let it happen.
The kiss is immediate. Consuming. Less introduction than collision.
Your lips part under his with a soft, surprised sound that punches straight through his chest, and suddenly the world narrows to contact points: mouth, breath, the warm give of you beneath his hands.
He meant to pace this. Meant to let it read as affection, not hunger.
But you’re intoxicating from the first touch.
Your body fits too easily against his, like something his muscles remember without permission.
His pulse kicks hard, reckless, expanding through his veins like a system overload, too much input, too fast, nowhere to reroute it. Blood surges hot and loud, drowning out reason, suffocating every inch of him until there’s no space left for anything else.
He should not be enjoying this.
Under no circumstances should he be enjoying this.
But his mouth deepens the kiss anyway, because his body has already decided the answer and it is unequivocally, catastrophically yes.
The kiss shifts as your body relaxes, molding to his with startling ease.
Your hands drift upward, fingers threading through the hair at the back of his neck, and then you tug.
Jesus Christ.
His thoughts stutter. Logic splinters. Where did you learn that? Who taught you how to do that? He hates the question immediately, hates that it burns through his mind like jealousy has any business being here.
This is performance.
It’s pretend.
Except it doesn’t feel that way anymore. Your mouth is too honest. Your hands too needy. And he’s answering every single cue without thinking, deeper now, messier.
He breaks the kiss with a sudden inhale, sharp and overdue, like surfacing from too deep underwater.
His chest lifts against yours in a heavy drag of air, and only then does he realize just how starved his lungs had been.
Oxygen. Right. He used to be good at remembering that.
“Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “Okay. Jesus.”
You blink up at him, dazed.
He swears he can still feel your kiss in his molars.
“Was that too much?” you whisper.
His eyes flick to the porch. The woman’s posture is rigid now, arms crossed, lips pursed like she’s chewing on judgment.
“No, uh — no. You were perfect.”
“Good,” you mumble, already crouching to grab his briefcase. “That’s good. I’ll go inside now. I’ll just — yes. Food. Stove. You like carrots, right?”
You’re gone before he can reply, your footsteps fading down the hall like retreat fire.
Hotch breathes once, twice, then lifts a hand toward the neighbor with a pleasant little nod.
If it’s a performance, he thinks, it’s the only one he’s ever wanted to last forever.
hotch almost admits feelings; your father’s call interrupts.
pairing: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader
warnings: age gap, dbf!hotch, father-child strained relationship, mutual pining, insect bites (squito), excessive porch creaking (@ me fr)
prompt: here!
wc: 0.9K
You’re curled into a patio chair, compact mirror teetering on your knee, retracing the faded freckle above your lip with careful little dots of brown eyeliner. It's a losing battle against the sun's callous affection, leaving you in an endless game of cosmetic hide-and-seek. It’s an absurd devotion, performed for an audience of nobody, but perhaps the moths orbiting the porchlight can appreciate your diligent dishonesty.
You don’t hear him until the boards creak, aged wood sighing to adjust to unexpected weight. His footsteps possess that careful quality of someone attempting stealth, though you suspect it's more consideration than genuine sneaking.
He must not be wearing shoes, you decide, though the image clashes with what you know of him. Hotch doesn't seem like the type to do barefoot, he does backup plans, double-knotted laces, contingencies stacked like cards in his pocket.
He possessed the kind of perpetual preparedness that would naturally extend to protecting himself from something as mundane as a splinter. And yet, here he is, barefoot or close to it, walking toward you anyway.
“You know there’s bug spray by the back door.”
The eyeliner drifts from your grasp, your fingers going lax as your attentions pulls sharply downward. He's not looking at your face anymore. He's looking at you.
Your knees, specifically, an entire topography of red, angry bites crowned with their own inflamed halos.
They weren't a problem until he said something, but now they itch with accusations. Your hands flutter over the mess, helpless, mortified, trying not to scratch.
“They always go for me,” you say, “I must have that sweet blood they keep talking about.”
He takes the chair opposite you — no fuss, just thud — forearms braced on his thighs.
“Could be,” he finally agrees. “Sweet blood would certainly explain some things.”
Your fingers trace idle, uselessly patterns around a particularly vindictive welt, each rotation failing spectacularly to distract from the dangerous territory your thoughts have wandered to.
Projecting, you chide yourself with severity, absolutely projecting. This is Aaron Hotchner, president, treasurer, and lifelong sole member of the Never Flirts Ever club. He probably doesn't mean anything by it, didn't even hear the teasing in his words.
But your chest still feels too warm, too full, like your heart's pressing its ear to a wall that doesn't exist, listening for something that might not be there.
Moths, after all, never stop circling just because the flame isn't real.
“I’ve learned not to scratch it. Makes it worse.”
“Right,” he replies. “Doesn't exactly kill the urge though, does it?”
You glance up on contact, quick and surgical, something you could pretend was incidental if caught.
You're looking for a crack, a twitch in his mouth, maybe a little smirk that would give him away. A flicker in his eyes, some trace of the man who might enjoy watching you squirm.
The wine at dinner must've fried a few circuits — his, yours, maybe both — but not dice. He's clean. Flatline. The expressionless face of a man who could beat a polygraph while dreaming.
And now he's giving you that look, the one that says, You're smart enough to figure this out, so go ahead. Figure it out.
Unlucky for you, you’ve played this game before, and the house always wins. Usually by making you doubt you ever even had a hand.
“Well, it’s a good thing I’ve got decades of impulse control training ahead of me.”
“Impulse control is the only reason conversations like this can happen.”
Pocket aces. He just laid it on that table and you're sitting here with, what? A pair of twos? Game over.
You frown at his half-lit face. The moon carves out the serious parts of him and leaves nothing behind.
“Oh, so we’re doing the gracious host thing now. You’re welcome for the opportunity to resist your baser instincts.”
You try to inject sarcasm, but it lands lopsided, arms tightening around your knees as if that would help settle the weird, restless energy crawling off your spine.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You say a lot of things that don’t mean what they sound like.”
Surprisingly, he laughs. “Yeah.”
The weathered planks beneath his chair groan as he leans back, the sound a low, splintered sigh that feels obscenely well-timed. His arms migrate from thick thighs to fold over an even thicker chest.
You look away like it's for his sake, but it's mostly self-preservation. A girl can only take so much.
His eyes find yours and hold, stretches long enough that you begin to imagine an alternate universe where the evening chorus of frogs doesn’t provide convenient cover, where the charged space between your chairs might collapse under the stress of words he keeps imprisoned behind closed molars.
You've spent months. Months of trying not to listen for this. Not to want it.
Because things don't turn out for you. Because you don't believe in mercy, divine or otherwise.
And how right you are to do so because just as his lips tilt toward something irreversible, your phone erupts in vibration, the two sounds colliding in supremely awkward counterpoint.
You blow out this annoyed breath, hair fluttering against your forehead, reaching for your pocket.
Father blazes across the screen with characteristic persistence.
You hit decline before the third ring, as if speed might save you from the fallout.
Across from you, Hotch's gaze drops long enough to clock the name. His mouth tightens, not unkindly, but with the efficiency of someone snapping back into professional mode. Safe distance restored.
You resent the architectural speed with which he reconstructs those familiar barriers, and more acutely, how effortlessly you've just handed him the blueprints for their reconstruction.
“That a conversation for another night?” he asks.
“He only calls when he wants something. Usually advice he won’t take.”
A subtle lift of his chin, gentle agreement. “I remember.”
A silence follows, stretching taut and decidedly intimate until you can feel the regret creeping in. Not for being here, not for the wanting him, but for the inevitable consequences that follow.
You're standing at a boundary that couldn't be any clearer if it were painted in blood.
“I should —” you start.
“Yeah. Bed,” he says quickly.
Then you both stand, chairs moving in an unplanned choreography that deposits you both in direct proximity, closer than intended, close enough to count the stitching along his collar if you possessed such reckless inclinations. Four measly inches stand sentinel between good sense and beautiful catastrophe.
Your stomach performs an uncomfortable contortion as his attention makes its torturous descent to your lips. Lips that are undoubtedly crackled from sun exposure despite your liberal applications of Vaseline. And yet, his eyes darken, irises deepening to a shade rich and complex as aged whiskey, pupils expanding until they're swallowing up all that impulse control he preaches about.
You let a breath, only to reclaim it. How badly you wish this was simpler. How badly you wish he could kiss you without the labyrinthine of complications that would follow. Just a kiss — ordinary and sweet and magnificently human.
But complexity has always served as your shared vernacular, the language in which you both achieve perfect fluency.
“I think about it,” he says.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Me too.”
And there it is — the itch, surfacing with the persistence of a bruise you can't stop prodding to test its tenderness. You would think by know you'd know better. You'd think experience would prevent you from gravitating toward a flame that will undoubtedly leave you beautifully scarred.
Yet here you stand, jaw locked, knuckles bone-white against the denim of your shorts, forcing down every feeling that claws for liberation.
Maybe tomorrow you’ll finally master restraint, but tonight your entire self-control is dedicated to simply not scratching.
