The Incident™ - A.H
a/n: first time writing smut (fluff if you’re crazy), kinda nervous :/ enjoy! xoxo
wc: 4.2k (…)
cw/tags: 18+ MDNI, Hotch x reader, alcohol consumption, swearing, oral (f! receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it up.), Garcia being an angel, Hotch being a dilf, use of y/n, reader being lowk messy (we love it, really.), angst, happy ending (i think)
The last time Garcia invited you to join her for drinks with the team, you and Aaron Hotchner were having disgustingly loud, hot, steamy sex on your bedroom floor. (It would’ve been the bed if you didn’t have so many clothes piled on it, and Aaron wasn’t exactly in the mood for being patient).
So when she invited you out tonight, you were a little hesitant.
Despite being a tech analyst alongside Garcia, you never really involved yourself with the team. You were there to do your job, get paid horrifically low amounts of money, go home. Not to trauma bond, and make friends. Though the one good friend you did have was Penelope Garcia.
“Come on, Y/N,” She pleaded, her infectious smile spreading across her face like a rash, “You had fun the last time, right?” She pointed out.
That you did.
“I don’t know, Pen,” You said in thought, your stomach flipping at the thought of being in the same proximity as Aaron Hotchner, the devastatingly handsome, emotionally constipated, tie wearing freak.
You and Aaron hadn’t spoke. Not since The Incident™. The one that left you digging your nails so deep into Aaron’s back, you were half concerned you were drawing blood. The same incident that had him covering your mouth as he went so hard, so fast you were convinced you would fall through the ceiling. You get it. The incident.
Penelope looked at you, her eyes pleading, “Fine.” You relented, “But I’m not getting crazy drunk, okay?” You said, pointing your finger like that would convince yourself.
“Yay! Okay, I’ll let the team know.”
You nodded, but you couldn’t shake that horrid feeling brewing at the pit of your stomach. It was nauseating. You knew no one knew, and you know that if anyone did, Aaron being cold and even more distant wouldn’t help the rejection, but knowing that no one knew about yours and Aaron’s dirty little secret, and he couldn’t even be decent enough to hold a civil conversation with you? Fucking terrible. Was he that ashamed?
Nighttime was kind enough to take forever to settle, but as the sky got darker and the streets busier, you knew that sooner you’d be in the same vicinity as Aaron Hotchner, not later. Vom. Penelope was on the phone with you as you got ready, praying talking to her would alleviate the pure anxiety you felt. Going out was intimidating enough, hence why you didn’t, but seeing him too? Yikes.
“Sugar, just put a dress on! You’ll look beautiful!” Garcia’s cheerful voice crackled through your phone’s speaker.
“Ugh-“ You groaned, “I don’t have any decent ones, P! They’re all shit, or slutty!”
“What’s wrong with slutty?” You just knew Penelope was smirking like a Cheshire cat.
“Nothing,” You said, “But I’m not familiar with these people,” Liar, “I don’t want to indirectly tell them, ‘oh, by the way, I’m a part time whore’!”
You reasoned, but you did kinda sleep with your boss, so who’s really judging…?
“Fine. Whatever.” Garcia sighed, “What about your denim skirt and jumper? The outfit you wore to work a few weeks ago. Some boots, and you’ll be finger lickin good, angel.”
You snorted. Was it Penelope’s obscene way of being a hype girl or the irony? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know.
“Fine. Okay.” You hung up and raided your wardrobe, finding the outfit. You looked amazing, some would argue spectacular. It wasn’t too much, but hopefully just enough for Aaron to nod at you. That would be nice.
You arrive at the bar, thanking everything holy you only live a five minute walk from there. You discreetly psyched yourself up, because what self respecting adult psychs themselves up before a social outing? None of them. You fucking loser.
You walked in, your eyes scanning the bar and you saw Garcia waving you over. You gave the team a tight lipped smile, and they welcomed you graciously. But not Hotch. He gave you a stiff nod. A nod so stiff you found yourself wondering ‘would his head fall off if he moved it any more.’
“See? Not so bad, is it, Pumpkin?” Penelope said with a wide smile. You wanted to die.
“Y/L/N, how come we never see you?” The lady with striking eyes and dark hair you’d come to know as Emily Prentiss asked.
“I- I’m usually the first one to leave.” You admitted sheepishly.
“She’s a major homebody.” Garcia interrupted, saving you from explaining how and why you’re socially inept. You nodded, thanking her.
-
The night went on, and you started feeling more ‘relaxed’, more apart of the group. But you still felt sick knowing you were sat just across from Aaron. Every time his head was turned, you stole yourself the opportunity to look at him. His jaw, the one you were kissing lazily as he thrusted into you without mercy. His eyes, his gaze unwavering, calculated. His loosened tie, funnily enough, the same tie he used to restrain your wrists with three weeks ago.
You snapped back into reality, realising you were not only ogling your boss, but actively thinking about the filthy, shameful way he made you feel.
Now, you were horrified and aroused. God, you are a mess.
You were at the bar, ordering yourself something light, trying to hold up to your promise of not getting crazy drunk when someone sat down next to you. No fucking way. Hotch!
He was looking at you, your attire, and you were suddenly feeling smaller than you were. Thinking maybe you’re a bit too over dressed. Hotch was good at that. Making people second guess their every decision by saying nothing, yet looking at you in discontent. Part of you wanted to kill him for his judgemental stares, the other, desperately in need of re-wiring, part of you found it hot. Like you wanted to give him something to stare at.
He leaned down slightly, making sure you could hear him over the clinking glasses, pool cues being shot, music and laughter,
“You clean up nice.” He said casually, like he were commenting on the weather. You blinked, holding your glass tighter, as if it were going to disappear,
“Thanks. You too.” You nodded, pressing your lips into a thin line awkwardly.
He hummed, a low sound, a simple sound, but you knew that if you had to get rid of one of your kidneys to hear that again, you’d have one kidney left. Pathetic really, but that was your truth.
You were fumbling for something to keep the conversation going with, your brain going at 1000mph.
“You’ve been distant.” Was what you settled on. Wow.
I hope you’re embarrassed.
Hotch looked at you, his gaze settling intently, “I’m your boss. Distance is appropriate.” He replied, now eyeing his glass of whiskey.
“But we-“ You tried to argue.
“Y/N. This is not the time nor the place for this conversation. Am I clear?” He cut you off with.
Your mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. Because what the fuck do you say to that? You downed your drink, just to keep your hands occupied, because you didn’t trust yourself not to hit him. Really hit him. Give him something to make him think twice before being a Class A asshole. He gave your seething expression a once over before rejoining the team.
You watch his back retreat to the table, his broad shoulders perfectly squared like nothing had just happened, like he hadn’t just rendered you speechless. Your jaw clenches so tight it aches.
Garcia notices immediately when you return, plopping down next to her with the force of a small earthquake.
“What’s wrong, sugarplum? You look like someone stole your sparkle,” she whispers, squeezing your knee under the table.
“I’m fine,” you lie, shoving your phone into your bag like it owes you money.
Across the table, Hotch is laughing (well, his version of laughing, which is just an amused huff) at something Morgan said. The sound feels like a slap. You hate how easily he compartmentalizes, how easily he can look right through you in public when three weeks ago he couldn’t keep his hands off you.
You sip at your drink, feeling it burn all the way down. It was pathetic how badly you want to leave and how badly you wanted him to follow you out.
The night drags on painfully slow, but eventually, you get your chance:
“I’m calling it,” you say, grabbing your coat. Garcia pouts but lets you go, and you make your way toward the exit, heart pounding.
You’re halfway down the street, the cool night air biting your skin, when you hear heavy footsteps behind you.
“Y/N.”
You don’t turn around.
“Go home, Hotch.”
“I’m walking you,” he says simply, as if it’s non-negotiable.
You spin around, glare sharp enough to cut steel.
“Don’t bother playing protective now, Aaron. You’ve been distant enough to make Antarctica look warm.”
His jaw ticks, his pace never slowing as he catches up to you.
“I told you, this isn’t—”
“Not the time or place, yeah, I heard you,” you snap, crossing your arms. “But if not now, then when? Or were you just hoping I’d shut up and forget it ever happened?”
“Y/N,” Hotch sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “Listen—”
You scoffed, your voice cracking with disbelief. “No, you listen. You don’t get to just—do that—do me—and act like nothing ever happened!”
Before you could spiral any further, Aaron closed the distance between you in two quick steps, his hand curling around your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to make you stumble closer.
He yanked you into the shadow of a narrow alley, his broad frame crowding you against the brick wall.
“Will you shut your mouth?” he hissed, voice low but razor sharp. “Keep your voice down.”
You stared him down, chest heaving. “Why?” you shot back, eyes burning into his.
“What’s the matter, Aaron? Afraid someone might hear? Afraid someone might see?” You let out a sharp laugh, bitter and humorless. “God, grow up.”
His jaw flexed, a muscle ticking in that stoic face of his, but he didn’t answer. Not a word.
You exhaled sharply, yanking your wrist out of his grip. “Fuck this,” you muttered, spinning on your heel and storming out of the alley. You didn’t look back. You didn’t want to know if he was following.
The next three minutes of you walking, well, stomping, home were a blur. All you could focus on was the pulsing heat of anger under your skin, the sheer urge to kill someone. Preferably the prick you knew as Aaron Hotchner.
But then, because you’re you, guilt wormed its way in. He’s a dad, for Christ’s sake. You psycho.
By the time you reached your building, your jaw ached from clenching it so hard. You jammed your key into the lock, fumbled once, cursed under your breath, and finally shoved the door open. Inside, you slammed it shut behind you, the sound echoing in your too-quiet apartment.
Boots off. Jacket tossed carelessly over a chair. You stalked to the kitchen, flicking on the light, your fingers drumming against the countertop as if the movement could bleed out your frustration. You grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and downed it in one go, as if that could settle the ache crawling up your throat.
You leant up against the counter, thinking of all the possible ways you could calm down, for you were still fucking livid. You paced around your apartment, the joys of living alone, muttering to yourself.
“I’m gonna fucking kill him.”
“Oh when I catch him.”
“He’s gonna be sorry-“
Knock Knock Knock Knock.
Four raps. Not a timid two, not a casual three, a desperate four. You and I both know who it is, but for the plots sake, you storm over to the door, opening it.
You yanked the door open, looking at Hotch with nothing more than a scowl. His shoulders were rising and falling like he had sprinted there. You couldn’t even say “What.” In an unimpressed manner because he had pushed his way past you into your apartment.
You raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the door after shutting it with a little more force than necessary. “Wow. Charming,” you muttered, glaring at him.
Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling slowly. He looked like he was wrestling with himself, and that almost annoyed you more than anything—like he was trying to decide if you were even worth explaining himself to.
“Do you have any idea how hard this has been?” he finally said, his voice low, sharp.
You laughed bitterly, throwing your hands up. “For you? Oh, I’m sorry, Aaron. Is it hard, being cold and dismissive and acting like I don’t exist?”
He stepped closer, that unreadable expression locked in place, but his eyes—his eyes betrayed him. “You think I wanted that?”
“Sure as hell seemed like it,” you shot back.
“Because I have to.” His voice rose, just slightly, breaking that carefully cultivated control. “Because if I didn’t, Y/N—” he stopped himself abruptly, clenching his jaw.
You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. “If you didn’t… what?” you pressed, stepping toward him now, daring him to finish.
His gaze flicked to your mouth for the briefest second, and you felt your stomach twist.
“Don’t,” he warned, voice rougher now.
You tilted your head, defiant. “Don’t what? Make you admit you want me?”
Something in him snapped.
He closed the distance between you in two steps, his hand cupping the back of your neck as he pressed his forehead to yours, breathing raggedly.
His hand was lightly tangled in your hair, and you fought back a moan at the touch. It was almost perverse how your eyes lit up, when he was pressed against you, pulling your hair, seeing him fight against everything telling him not too.
“Go on.” You whispered, challenging him. You were doing it on purpose. You just wanted to see his restraint, his composure falter. The feeling was that of the purest ecstasy. Watching him slowly lose everything that keeps Hotch ‘Hotch’.
His grip tightened in your hair, just enough to make your breath hitch, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth but not quite kissing you. You could feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.
“Y/N,” he ground out, your name sounding like a warning and a plea all at once.
You tilted your head, letting your lips ghost his jaw, your voice taunting and low. “What’s the matter, Hotchner?”
A sharp exhale left him, his hand on your hip now, fingers digging in. He pushed you back until your spine hit the wall, caging you in with his body.
“Shut up,” he rasped, his forehead still pressed against yours.
“Make me,” you whispered, smirking.
That did it.
His mouth was on yours in an instant—rough, consuming, nothing like the slow, patient Hotch you’d imagined might show up at your door. This was raw, pent-up, weeks of denial burning out in a single kiss. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, and your hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him impossibly closer.
“God, you drive me insane,” he muttered against your mouth.
“Good,” you breathed, smirking against him.
“Mm.” He hummed lowly, his hands fumbling to remove your jumper as you unbuttoned his shirt.
His lips made their way down your neck, just under your ear, lightly grazing the sensitive skin there with his teeth, making you sigh.
“You like that?” He smirked against your skin, his breath fanning over you.
You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you nodded, managing a choked “Uh huh.”
He chuckled before picking you up and taking you to the bedroom. He swiftly threw the clothes off your bed and laid you on it, crawling up the bed to be eye level with you.
“Hi.” You chuckled, trying to ignore how he was right in the middle of your legs.
You were undeniably soaked.
“Hey.” Hotch murmured as he leant down to capture your lips in another molten kiss.
His one arm propping him up, the other finding its way to your underwear. The underwear which was now doing nothing to stop Hotch knowing just how fucking badly you wanted him. Needed him. You internally thanked Garcia for suggesting you wear a skirt.
“Eager.” Hotch mused dryly, planting wet, sloppy, needy kisses on your collarbone.
“Shut up.” You muttered, tilting your head so Hotch had more access to your neck and chest.
Your hands trailed down his chest, but you couldn’t not notice how he was threatening to burst out of his pants.
Hotch toyed with the hem of your underwear before using both hands to remove that and your skirt. He stood at the end of your bed, marvelling at you.
Each hand of his grabbed your legs and pulled you to the end of the bed. Hotch bent down to plant a desperate kiss on your lips before going to his knees, gently spreading your legs apart.
The arousal in his eyes made your knees weak. As of that moment, you were his. There was a lot of uncertainty about you and Aaron Hotchner, but what you did know was that right now, you needed him and he needed you.
His hands gripped your thighs firmly, thumbs stroking absent circles against your skin like he was trying to ground himself, though you weren’t sure if it was for your sake or his.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, low and rough, his breath hot against your inner thigh before he kissed it. Then again. Then higher. You whined, hips jerking ever so slightly, and he smirked.
“Aaron,” you gasped out, your voice shaking with want and frustration.
He looked up at you from between your legs, those dark, unreadable eyes pinning you in place. “Say it again.”
The sound of his name on your lips had clearly broken something in him earlier, because now he seemed to crave it, like it was the one thing keeping him tethered.
“Aaron,” you repeated, breathless, tugging at his hair.
That was all it took. He groaned, deep and unrestrained, and then he was on you.
His mouth was hot and merciless, tongue sliding against you in a way that made you arch and pull at his hair. He looked up at you like you were the one that hung the moon. His hands held your hips down, pinning you to the bed, and he didn’t stop—not even when your thighs trembled against his shoulders, if anything he grew sickeningly quick with it.
When you came, it was sharp and unexpected, a moan ripping out of you that would’ve embarrassed you if you were able to think straight. He didn’t give you time to recover, climbing back up your body, kissing you deep and dirty like he wanted you to taste yourself.
“God, you’re a mess,” he rasped against your mouth, lining himself up and pushing into you in one fluid thrust that stole every ounce of air from your lungs. His forehead dropped to yours, jaw clenched, breath ragged.
“Fuck,” you gasped, nails digging into his back.
“This what you wanted?” he ground out, snapping his hips harder, deeper. “Hm?”
“Yes—Aaron—”
His hand tangled in your hair again, tugging your head back just enough so you’d look at him.
“Good,” he said, low and dark, before kissing you again like he was trying to consume you entirely.
His thrusts were initially slow, letting you grow accustomed to the feeling of him being in you. Filling you up. But he grew tortourous with it. Speeding up, your legs wrapped around his waist as your back involvuntarily arched, pushing yourself onto him deeper. He was, for lack of a better word, fucking you dumb.
“Oh fuck- Aaron.” You whined whilst he was panting, groaning softly in your ear.
“Mhm?” He hummed.
“I’m close- I’m gonna-“ You cut yourself off with a moan. Fuck, he felt so good. He set off something primal in you.
He chuckled softly, like he wasn’t rutting into you at a horrifically punishing pace, “Use your words.”
Your nails clawed at his shoulders, leaving angry red trails in your wake, but he didn’t slow down. If anything, it spurred him on, each thrust deeper, harder, like he was determined to pull the orgasm from you himself.
“Aaron—” you gasped again, voice high and shaky, “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he rasped against your ear, his hand snaking between you to press firmly against your clit. Your entire body jolted, white heat licking up your spine.
“Say it,” he ordered, voice sharp, a low growl that sent you spiraling. “Tell me.”
“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come,” you choked out, your legs tightening around him, holding him impossibly close.
“That’s it,” he muttered, hips slamming into yours with devastating precision. “Come on, sweetheart. Let go.”
The words and the filthy tenderness in them undid you completely. Your orgasm tore through you, a violent, shuddering wave that had you clutching onto him like a lifeline. He groaned deep in his chest, feeling you tighten around him, and followed with a broken sound that was half your name, half an unrestrained curse, while he came with you.
When it was over, he didn’t pull away immediately. He stayed there, still inside you, forehead pressed to yours as he breathed hard, ragged. His fingers brushed down your cheek, and you felt the faintest tremble in his hand.
“You’re… unbelievable,” he whispered, like it wasn’t meant for you to hear.
You tilted your head, catching his gaze. His walls were down, just for that second, and it was dizzying, how badly you wanted to keep him like this.
“Stay,” you breathed, the single word slipping out before you could stop yourself.
He froze. His thumb traced your jaw, slow, thoughtful. And then, after a long, heavy silence..
“I shouldn’t,” he murmured.
“But you will,” you replied softly, sure of it.
His mouth met yours again, slower this time. No frenzy, no anger, just something devastatingly tender, like he was already giving in.
The room was silent except for the sound of your breathing—yours slowing, his still uneven, heavy like the weight of what just happened. Aaron sat at the edge of your bed, shirt hanging open, tie discarded somewhere on the floor, his head bowed as he rubbed a hand over his face.
You shifted onto your side, pulling the sheet up over you, watching him like you weren’t sure if this was a dream. He looked… undone. Not unkempt, not sloppy, but raw. His hair was mussed from your hands, his jaw clenched like he was holding back everything he didn’t want you to hear.
“You’re thinking too loud,” you murmured, voice still hoarse from moaning his name.
That earned you the smallest exhale of a laugh, but he didn’t look at you. Instead, he reached down, buttoning one, then two buttons on his shirt. Not enough to leave. Just enough to pretend he could.
“Aaron,” you said softly, sitting up a little.
He glanced over his shoulder, finally meeting your eyes. That same restrained distance flickered there, Hotch, the man who kept himself sealed off from the world. But underneath it? You saw the fracture lines.
“You should sleep,” he said gently, like he hadn’t just been inside you ten minutes ago, like he wasn’t still flushed from it.
“I don’t want to,” you replied. “Not if it means I wake up and you’re gone.”
His throat bobbed. He turned fully toward you now, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was steadying himself. The sight of Aaron Hotchner, FBI Unit Chief, stoic, untouchable, sitting on your bed half-dressed and hesitant was so absurdly intimate it hurt.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he admitted, voice low, raw around the edges. “This… it complicates things.”
You shifted closer, kneeling behind him, your hands ghosting up his back before resting on his shoulders. “You showed up at my door, Hotch,” you whispered into the space between his neck and ear. “Don’t tell me you don’t want this.”
His eyes fluttered shut, head tilting slightly back toward you at your touch. He stayed like that for a long, heavy beat before speaking again.
“I do,” he murmured. “God, I do.”
Your arms slid around his waist, cheek pressing against his back. “Then stay.”
He hesitated. You felt it in the way his chest rose and fell against your cheek, in the way his fingers flexed against his knees. Then, finally, he exhaled—defeated, resigned, but also something softer.
“…Okay,” he breathed.
You smiled against him, holding him tighter as he leaned back into you, the both of you sitting there in the quiet of your bedroom, tangled in something you didn’t have words for. But it was nice. Comforting.
