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Blood Stained Glass- @cringeiknow
Written by my dearest friend! I’m so proud of her!
Aaron Hotchner
Spencer Reid
Emily Prentiss
Elle Greenaway
David Rossi
Derek Morgan
Penelope Garcia
Jennifer Jareau
Criminal Minds OCs
Criminal Minds Universe
Mal's Birthday Bash 2025
In Progress
Writer Recs
An ever growing list of my favorite writers!! 💜💜
pairing | neighbor! aaron hotchner x camgirl!fem reader [no use of y/n]
warnings | EXPLICIT CONTENT! smuuuuuutttt, there is not much of a plot really. his pov, everything being a cam girl entails, exhibitionism?!, masturbation on both ends, PERVY HOTCH ALERT, he has sooo many unethical sexual thoughts,,, like breeding kink and whatnot, very much in denial and uses sociology to cope? (me), he's kind of a creep ngl... reader uses a dildo, mentions of outfits but no physical descriptions, no mentions of past relationship or family, but he hasn’t been in the game for a while iykwim, trad!vanilla!hotch makes an appearance but not for loooong<3 he... all over himself... EXTREMELY BAD USERNAMES !! it's actually very funny how bad they are
word count | 3.8k [not proofread]
authors note | my loviessss<333 been wanting to write camgirl x hotch for MONTHS, and yesterday i got the urge so here it is?? don't tell me if it's bad i am my own number one hater and you can't replace me.
It had started off innocently. At one point that was all it was—he had watched you out of innocent curiosity—but he could not help it when it grew into something bigger. Something more... dangerous, with teeth and claws.
Aaron Hotchner had turned into a monster. That was how he now saw himself.
He defined himself solely based on his unethical and utterly inappropriate thoughts and desires—those very thoughts that should have stayed in his head, and not lead to actions. He should look away, close his blinds and go to sleep. That was what he should do, should have done the first time, should do now.
Yet, he could not drag his gaze from the window, not for more than right down to the laptop in front of him. To the screen displaying every inch of you. Live.
The first time he had caught the sight of you... doing... things to yourself, when he had spotted the camera propped up on a tripod—he had simply assumed you were making videos for your boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Partner, or whatever. He was not one to judge the sexuality of a stranger, despite how much he had seen of said stranger.
However, as it continued, as the LED-lights turned to blue every other night, and he saw more of you than he had seen of a woman in a long time—he put two and two together.
Aaron actually spent the following evening after coming to that very conclusion, searching and scrolling through models on various websites. Although through half-closed eyes, like it would make it ethically acceptable as long as he did not fully see.
He knew it was stupid to think of it like that. He was aware that the majority of people on those websites chose to do so themselves, that there were people who even enjoyed displaying themselves in such manners. Though, he was a simple man with old fashioned ideals, and he struggled with it anyway.
Sex belonged in the privacy of your bedroom—he would have said 'shared home' and 'only between lovers', but he had dabbled in one night stands himself and had grown to understand the appeal. Aaron was one to believe that true love required nothing more than normal sex, simple penetrative actions—and yet, the more time he spent on those websites, the more he could entertain the ideas of not-normal sex.
Despite it, his evolving into something... closer to modern societal sex lives standards, he still had trouble with accepting the filming part.
That was, until he finally stumbled upon PrincessSkyBlue and spent the rest of his night off watching every video that was not behind a paywall.
Until his next night off, a week later, when he watched every video behind that very paywall.
Aaron had created an account some time during that week, at midnight, after work, and after a third glass of very expensive Scotch. It had stood beside his laptop on a coaster—because the wood stain on his desk was not to be scratched or ruined by condensation—as he joined your membership club.
The fee had not been much, and if he were to be completely honest, he thought you were underselling. It made the guilt worse.
His too-small-desk had been placed under the window for optimal lighting at the time of furnishing his apartment, and had for months debated on moving it to a different room entirely, but had not gotten to it. Now, as he glanced between his dimmed screen and the window across the small courtyard—to the apartment on the opposite side of his floor—he no longer had any intentions of following through with his plan.
There was no surprise you could afford the other penthouse, he made note to himself as he scrolled through your prices. It made sense though, and it was a smart business choice, to have your membership so cheap but the private shows and different prizes, expensive.
Not that he really knew what could be considered expensive fees in that line of work, he had not exactly collected data from other models and creators.
A flicker of light drew his attention to your bedroom window, and Aaron smiled to himself as your room turned blue.
He had been sitting at his desk for an hour already, half to watch you rummage around in his peripheral, half to distract himself from the anticipation of what was to come. Ever since he found your page, became a member and watched your livestreams every other day, he found himself thinking of you even outside his home. At work. In the car. He thought of you everywhere—which, due to the unfortunate arousing association he had of you—he was practically hard everywhere.
Aaron had started looking forward to coming home, to sit by his desk and watch you. He had not brought folders and case files with him for a week now, which meant he was actually spending his free time doing something other than work. It was unheard of for him. Freeing, though it simultaneously felt like another cage.
You had spent the past 20 minutes setting things up for what had quickly become his favorite part of the day. He wondered what music you were listening to as you danced in the not-so-private privacy of your bedroom, if you had a favorite artist he knew about. Did you have a favorite decade or just a genre? Vinyls or streaming? Were you the type of person to sing to yourself, hum along, or the type to enjoy in silence as he was?
Then, punctual as ever, the notification dinged in his inbox.
SKY [PrincessSkyBlue] IS LIVE! Click here to watch.
Aaron waited for an entire minute, even counting the seconds, before clicking the flashing button. It would seem desperate if he was the first one to join—and desperate was not something he would ever admit to being—at least that was what he consoled himself by thinking as he logged in to unlock the chat function.
He had never used it, though he had paid for a private message once. The adrenaline that rushed through him when you replied, had the tips of his ears burn red that entire week.
The automated message greeted him in the chat, and his pulse picked up as he wondered if you were starting to recognize his username.
Hello, my love [GraySuit42] <3 Enjoy my show!
Make it even more special by sending me gifts, tokens and private messages!! Thank you for being here <3
─── Automated message from SKY
The feed was loading and his shoulders tensed. The spinning circle was a taunting thing, every round it completed added to the growing guilt of the inappropriate act he was committing.
You did not know he was watching, not the live, and certainly not in real life. And despite the twitch in his pants, the surge of excitement he got from considering the very immorality in the composing argument—which he would not allow himself to admit to feeling—it was wrong. As stated, numerous times. Wrong. Bad. Unlawful, unethical, unlikable, un-everything.
Aaron Hotchner was a stickler for rules. He had been a prosecutor for fuck's sake. He knew the law, he passed the bar, he knew the system. He knew what kind of people put themselves in those social arenas, knew what formed them. Aaron could map out their lives, socio-economic status, habitus—he could even theorize using front-stage, back-stage and apply it in these kinds of situations—and yet, he could not help himself.
He could not stop. He did not want to stop.
Aaron could explain every single part of your childhood just by analyzing your life choices, form a treatment plan for traumas you had not even realized were traumas. All aspects of your life that lead to you choosing that career path—and he could spell out the arguments of why no one should indulge in...
"I was thinking," your soft and sweet melodic voice flowed from the speakers of his laptop, interrupting the making of his own downfall. His eyes focused on where your finger tapped on your lower lip as you thought, "maybe you guys could decide what fantasy I'll play out today."
You loved fantasies. It had become your thing, you had said during one of the first lives he watched. Usually, you would have a plan made before you went live. Sometimes even costumes or props to add to it. Your dedication, if he were to judge by comments and numbers alone, was unmatched. Though, again, he had not watched anyone else and did not have significant findings in the non-existent research to support his statement.
He had come to learn your favorite look was the cat. With the white ears and blue collar you had custom ordered and gotten engraved. The gold star tag had been etched with 'Sky', and that was your most worn accessory. It was not your real name—he knew your real name from your mailbox—but it seemed just as much you.
Aaron's favorite look on you was what you were currently wearing. Light blue and white patterned shorts, with ruffles—gingham, he remembered from the website. The tight tank top was in the same white, but with a blue star in the center, right between your pretty tits. It was a set. One of two sets, in fact, that he had gotten you anonymously.
He had not realized he had pulled down his pajama pants—navy and black, because light blue and white was not him—until he groaned with a hand around himself. You were so close to the camera, chewing on your lip as you read the chat. He could see every freckle and mole on your face, every shade and sparkle in your eyes.
It was almost like he could smell your sweet perfume—one he had scented as you passed him the other day, downstairs—after he had frantically pushed the parcel into your mailbox. And fuck, you smelled so good.
You were still reading the chat, searching for the answer to your question. Right, which fantasy you were playing out.
[VikingGod7] Be a good kitten for daddy
[ANONGUY1983] would love to see you do princess again
[ANONGUY1983] or angel
── LilPapaWithBigP33N sent 40 tokens for SHOW TITS
[LilPapaWithBigP33N] Your a student touching yourself in your professors office
[VikingGod7] Fuck baby u so hot
── VikingGod7 sent 15 tokens for SUCK FINGERS
"Guys," you licked your lips with a smile, both hands trailing up your sides, "give me something more exciting."
Aaron swallowed a groan as you pulled the top down, your tits spilling out. His grip on his cock tightened, forcing his movements to halt entirely. He would climax too fast if he continued, he had done so numerous times the past few weeks. Too quickly.
He wanted to enjoy your show for longer—and he wanted to get his release at the same time as you did.
Then, he got an idea. An idea so unlike him, he had to finish the glass of Scotch in front of him, pour another one, and finish that one as well.
[GraySuit42] Your neighbor watches you as you touch yourself in front of the window.
He sighed, shakily, regretting it the moment he hit Enter. He must have been drunk, he concluded as he reread the sentence over and over again. It was badly formulated, and the fact that he actually sent it...
"Give me a second," you had said, though he did not know if it had been after you read his message or not. Not until he saw you walk up to the window in his peripheral to scan your surroundings. His hands moved to the desk, both visible just in case—although, if you would have been able to see his hand around his cock, you would obviously be able to see that very cock against his lower stomach.
Aaron knew his desk went to the floor, he knew the window frame was the same height as the desktop, and still. It was like his mind stopped working. He kept his head down, in case you would think the absurd thought that he was watching you. It would not work in his favor if you did.
You had turned around again, leaving the window, but he could not figure out what you had decided upon. His screen lit up with the movement as you jumped back to your bed, smiling at the camera, "I mean, I would love to do it in front of the window, but there's this really hot guy working across from me, and—" you paused, chewing on your bottom lip as you read the chat again.
[ANONGUY1983] do it baby no neighbor would not like watching you
[LilPapaWithBigP33N] I wish you were my neighbor I would fuck you so good;)
[Badd1eWithTatts] maybe he would like it
[ANONGUY1983] we would def like it
"I, uh—" the smirk that grew on your face took his breath away, and he exhaled shakily as you cupped your tits, "what if he sees me?" Aaron had gotten so distracted by the way you pinched and played with your breasts that it had not even occurred to him—the only 'guy' across from you, was him.
He stiffened, sat entirely frozen in his chair as he stared at his screen. You were talking about him, you had called him hot, and now he did not know what to do with himself. Did that mean he had a real chance with you? If it did, he should probably turn off the stream. It would be awkward to have that conversation—though, he knew about it already, so it really should not be… His thoughts were going a million miles an hour.
Was it something you had said for engagement purposes? To play into the fantasy? Perhaps you had already decided on it, and that was just a part of it.
However, despite the countless questions and the wave of panic flooding his brain, what he did not expect was a private message from you.
Honestly, he did not even think it was possible for you to send messages like that—he assumed the paywall for the feature went both ways for some reason—it sounded stupid the more he thought about it.
[PrincessSkyBlue] what do you say?
[PrincessSkyBlue] should i go with your suggestion even if i might be watched?
He stared at the message, then glanced up to the window, to where you sat on your bed. His lips parting as he watched you spread your legs, a hand dipping into your shorts. You threw your head back with a moan—which he heard through the speakers of his laptop—and he was certain he would come undone if you kept going. Just knowing you were thinking of him, doing this for him, in more ways than you knew of.
[GraySuit42] I think your neighbor would enjoy the show if anything.
Aaron closed his eyes as he hit send, intent to reduce his cognitive association with the unethical act. To really make sure the alibi was solid, he only cracked half an eye to close the chat and go back to the livestream.
"I'm going to have to move the camera," your grin filled his screen as you got up from your bed, followed by the view of your tits still hanging out of your top—the top he got you. And the shorts he got you. It made him dizzy to think of, that just a week ago he had held those very garments. He would have to get you more, and maybe even some of those props you adored so much.
Aaron did not move as you fixed your new setup, as you put the camera up to the window and turned it to the side, so you could lean against the window frame. It was smart, he thought to himself, although a bit begrudgingly, to not press yourself against the glass for the entire world to see. Still, you livestreamed it, so he supposed it was for the world to see anyway.
Your moan got his attention, and he looked down to the screen to find you moving the shorts to the side—not taking them off, which only added to the painful erection Aaron now gripped—your fingers slipping inside. You had moved a chair to sit on, lowered the camera to an angle allowing the viewers to see your fingers plunging into your dripping cunt. "Fuck," you threw your head back, the free hand on your chest, pinching your nipple as you fingered yourself in a pace Aaron tried to match, "it feels so good. Fuck, I hope he's watching me."
Another curse spilled from your lips as you circled your clit, "m–hope he knows I'm wishing it was him instead."
He wished that too. Your fingers were nothing like his cock, did not hit as deep as he could, fuck you as hard as he could. Aaron wanted to do that—a part of him even thought about walking down the hall to knock on your door—to give you exactly what you both were wishing for.
He remained in his chair, in his bedroom, in his apartment. It was for the best, he thought to himself. The desires he had for you were not to be acted upon, that would certainly be unacceptable, predatory, behavior. You would be horrified, utterly terrified, if you found out he was watching you—even secretly getting you things and putting them in your mailbox—you would probably move out because of it. As you should, when in the presence of someone like that.
The world was full of monsters, and he had sworn to not become one. Yet, spending most of his time with those monsters, learning to think the way they do, even if only to catch them… it was natural to adopt the patterns of surrounding minds, to internalize it subconsciously.
That was his greatest fear, and even still, he could not find it in him to care when you were moaning for him. Aaron would do anything for those moans, to hear you whining in his ear, to feel you clench around him as you came. He would do anything to fill you up and hold you close, until you fell asleep in his arms with his cum leaking out.
You would be so good for him, take him so well, he was sure of it.
Aaron cursed himself for thinking of you like that. Hated himself for it.
"Oh my—" you whimpered, lowering yourself down on the light blue dildo suctioned to the chair, "fuck, yes—oh." His worries disappeared as you bounced on the chair, the shorts moving with you at a pace he would exceed if he had been the one inside you. Aaron did not think he would be able to fuck you slowly, not in those shorts. He was not one for clothed sex, nor patterns, colors, ruffles—but those shorts… Fuck, he loved those shorts.
"Feels so good, s-sir," you mumbled, almost more to yourself than anyone else, your eyes squeezed shut. Aaron moaned, muttering a curse as he eased his grip on himself. He had to wait for you, but hearing you say 'sir' had his hips stutter with the too-fast approaching orgasm. No one would be able to refer to him that way anymore, without the image of you replaying in his mind.
You were rambling as you circled your clit with one hand, the other on your tits. Murmuring about how good it felt, how much you wished it was him pounding into you—how you would be such a good girl for him if he let you. You were chasing your own orgasm, resting your head against the window, and he knew you were looking over but he did not dare raise his gaze. Not when he saw your reaction on his screen, the way you moaned even louder, your thighs clenched together, your pace faltering before picking up again.
Aaron leaned back in his chair, eyes unmoving from his screen, and matched your pace. He knew you had noticed his movement, just as he knew you could not see him stroking himself—you had whimpered but showed no other reaction.
"Think he'd let me cum?" you whispered, breathing heavily as you slowed the moves of your hips. He debated on answering, and he debated on not doing it, but your eyes had glazed over and your cheeks were pink—and he wanted to give you the answer. Aaron wanted to encourage you enough to orgasm, if only so he could do it as well. God, he wanted to hear you.
[GraySuit42] If you ask nicely, yes. You have been a good girl.
"Please, please Aa—" you whimpered, eyes going wide as you realized his name almost slipped from your lips. He noticed, yet he still managed to convince himself it was not the case. It was not his name you almost moaned, it was not actually him you were begging to let you cum, it was a fantasy.
"Can I please cum, sir?" the second attempt won, the chat blew up with replies—though you made no move to pick up the pace again. Aaron allowed himself one more chat, one more message, knowing how insane it was to think you were looking for his reply.
[GraySuit42] Yes, sweetheart. Come on, let me hear you.
And then you did. You smiled to the camera and rolled your hips, rubbing yourself as you chased the pleasure. His strokes matched yours, when you lowered yourself, his hand gripped the base. When you almost pulled out, his thumb rubbed the tip. Your moans flowed from the speaker and mixed with his groans.
Together, you came.
"Maybe I'll ask him out next time I see him," you huffed a laugh, looking up to the camera. Still panting, you waved your goodbyes and turned off the stream.
Aaron stared at the screen as it went from light to dark—and into resting mode. His cock in his grip, lips parted, cum on his pants. He did not move, did not dare to acknowledge the meaning behind your words.
He was not even sure you had actually said them, that it was not something of his own imagination. However, as his gaze flickered to your window, you had lingered. A dazed smile on your face as you pulled the tank top over your tits again—then your eyes had met his, and you blushed the deepest shade of red, closing your blinds completely in panic.
Aaron would do anything to cause that blush again.
Aaron Hotchner groans. Despite what some may think, I just know he would not, and could not, be silent. No, not while your hands are scraping his back, or when he’s buried deep inside you. Not when your mouth opens for him and he slots in so easily. And certainly not when he can feel you clenching around him, on the edge of orgasm.
I wouldn’t necessarily categorise him as a loud lover, but I just know, that the professional mask he wears as Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner is neatly packed away once he has you all to himself, along with his tailored suits.
He hisses through his teeth when he slides into you for the first time.
Grunts when he’s got you on all fours, a hand gripping your hair firmly. Especially after a rough case, and he is lucky enough to have you to relieve him of all that built up tension.
Moans lowly when you’re on top, taking what you need from him.
“Come on, sweetheart, you begged to ride me. Where did all that energy go? You need me to help you, hm?” He breathes down your ear once your legs grow tired, before holding you up and slamming you up and down on his cock.
I’m convinced if I looked up “bi panic” in the dictionary… there wouldn’t be a definition. There’d just be a picture of Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss smirking up at me… why explain it when I can feel it?
the fire alarm ruins your orgasm, for the third time this week. thankfully, your neighbor offers to help you after you snap at him in the parking lot, and in return, he wants cookies. you would give him anything if it meant he would ruin you...
pairing | aaron hotchner x neighbor!fem reader
disclaimer | don't read this if it makes you uncomfortable. what you consume is your own responsibility <3 MDNI
warnings | PORN WITHOUT PLOT, PERV!hotch, also dark and cocky!hotch, he is sooooo confident and fulllll of himself, reader is very sexually frustrated and angry like that's the entire plot, a lot of cursing, italics, mentions of outfit, no body descriptions, no use of y/n, hotch lives alone!!!, sex of convenience (is that even a trope?), basically a week of edging up until this point, rough sex and gentle touches!!, crying, oral (both), protected p in v (be proud of me), multiple orgasms, dubcon undertones but in a sexy way, slight choking, almost loss of consciousness?, reader says no but he keeps going and it all works out<3, forehead kisses, slight exhibitionism kink? ..... this is PURE FILTH. #ovulating
word count | 4.3k we're all going to hell together <3
It had to have something against you, that was the only explanation.
Perhaps you had done something to anger it, to provoke the monster inside to unleash its wrath and direct it at you. Maybe it was karma for that time you finished check-out at your local grocery shop, and didn't give the change to the homeless man outside.
In your defense, you were in a rush, and the few dollars had been pushed into the depths of your back pockets in a hurry.
But you should have given him the change, you would have given him all of your money if that cleansed your karma.
The fire alarm had blasted its deafening howls at the wonderful hour of two in the fucking morning—and you suppressed the urge to cry with it as you kicked off the sheets of your bed and stomped to the door. Angrily.
Three times in one week.
Three times had the fire alarm gone off—three fucking times had you not gotten off. It sent your nerves into overdrive. Every fiber in your body was tense, buzzing with frustration. Your mind no longer worked properly, there was not a single thought in your head that could even resemble sanity.
You were spent, uptight. Fired up. Deeply and infuriatingly.
The past week had been Hell. Capital H. Like the place they send your soul to suffer for eternity. Someone should call the Devil and tell him if his Underworld was ever at capacity, they could send the rest to live in your apartment complex. There was no difference.
Maybe this was the Underworld, and the Devil was the one causing you to suffer.
You wondered if the Devil fucked good.
Probably. Most likely. Unfortunately.
Half of the week had left you exhausted. Passed out the moment your head hit the pillow. Every other day you worked at the Office of Worst Kinds of People (a staff of only business men), and you had repeatedly run out of patience and will to live.
When you had not been swamped with work, you found yourself alone, in the solitude of your own apartment.
The quiet was driving you insane.
Every single one of your friends had been busy, whether with their own jobs or vacations. You didn't have a boyfriend, despite how much you found yourself needing one right about now. You were lonely.
It was you and your steadily growing collection of adult toys—except, you didn't get to be with them either.
How was it even possible that every moment you had to yourself, to get the release that would hopefully lift your shitty mood, the fire alarm protested by screaming its discontent.
Its pleasure was your displeasure, you were sure of that.
Oh, how you wished you could have gotten your shit together and downloaded the dating app your friends had begged you to get. Or even gone to a club, a bar—even a fucking strip club—just to get laid.
Fuck, you needed to get someone inside of you. Soon. Hard and fast.
"Aren't you cold?" Aaron, your next door neighbor, asked from your immediate left. Your head whipped to the side, to glare at him while you mentally sewed your mouth shut. It took everything in you to not snap in his stupidly handsome face.
Apparently, by the looks of him, he had better instincts when it came to urgent situations. You know the questions that are like 'what three things would you grab if there was a fire'? Yeah, Aaron seemed like he had his things figured out.
First of all, he was actually wearing clothes—and not a cropped tee and frilly, ruffled shorts that made your ass look amazing—mostly because it didn't cover anything.
Second of all, he had a bag slung over his shoulder. Which you guessed was actually useful stuff, and not the initial image that popped into your head of sex toys and bondage equipment.
Third of all, he didn't seem to mind being hauled out of the comfort of his apartment in the ass crack of—not even dawn.
Of-fucking-course you were cold. It was two in the fucking morning and your shit had been scared out of you by the infuriating fire alarm—which, also, most definitely, had it out for you.
And not 'out for you' in a good way, like it had whipped out its boner just for you. Because if that was the case, you wouldn't have been as cranky and frustrated as you were.
You would have climbed it, that was how desperate you were.
Pride was long lost and it would be a fool's mission to search for it.
"It's fine," you lied, lifting and dropping a shoulder to really sell the act of indifference. The urge to cross your arms over your chest and rub some warmth into your skin was increasingly hard to resist. You wished someone else would rub warmth into your skin instead.
Maybe the cold would seep into your bones and extinguish the burning between your legs. Hopefully.
"You're in a bad mood tonight," he clicked his tongue and chuckled, almost more to himself than you, "here, take this."
The world seemed to slow as you watched him reach for the zipper of his jacket. One inch was all it took, it slid down one inch to reveal the column of his throat and panic struck you.
"Stop," you gasped but it sounded more like a whine, an open palm stretched out to shield the sliver of skin from your vision—from the wrath of the demon in between your legs, "if you undress any more, I'm going to fucking jump. God."
"Fuck," your voice lowered to a whisper, to direct your words to yourself, as you dragged a hand down your face, "I need to get it together." This was getting out of hand. You had to get your shit together before anyone in the sea of people around you ended up the a danger zone.
"Three fucking times this week," you closed your eyes and sighed, "I just—need to get laid."
Aaron stilled as you continued muttering to yourself. He just stood there, unsure how to react, close enough that the warmth of his body caressed your skin in a way that drew goosebumps—far away enough that he wasn't in immediate danger of getting pounced on. Yet.
You met his unreadable gaze with an apologetic wince, "sorry."
Shit, you must have come across as an insane and desperate whore. Which might have been true, but that was not the subject of panicked discussion here. Aaron was nice, he always offered to help carry your stuff if you were struggling. Was always helpful if you had trouble with your car.
And he always appreciated your baking. If he wasn't home whenever you had made a batch of cookies or muffins or whatever, you'd shoot him a text and he'd knock on your door as soon as he got back.
Aaron watched out for you. He didn't deserve your shitty attitude.
He chuckled, a dark sound, rough and raspy. Like his throat had yet to fully wake up from slumber. Your thighs pressed together without your consent—and you knew he noticed. Apparently, your brain and your body no longer conversed before decisions were made. What a team, right?
"Can you wait until they let us back inside, or?" he purred, a playful smirk toying on his lips. As if the idea of it was amusing and not an actual fucking issue. But the urge to wipe that infuriatingly sexy look off his face vanished, as soon as his words sunk in.
Did he think you were joking?
The sticky mess practically dripping down your thighs was not funny, at all. It was embarrassing and annoying, and extremely frustrating. The idea of being this... aroused in the parking lot with every single resident of the complex present—it honestly kind of turned you on even more.
"It's not funny," you grumbled under your breath, arms folded over your chest to try to keep from shaking. Whimpering. Somewhere in between glaring at the asphalt under your shoes and picturing a giant orgy in the parking lot, Aaron had slipped his jacket off.
"Didn't say it was," he bit back a grin as he hung the jacket around your shoulders, "but only if you bake those cookies again." The scent of him waved around you, the heat of his body lingering inside the fabric now seeped into your skin.
"Are you making demands for sex?" you huffed a laugh, both unbelieving and intrigued, as you clutched the jacket tighter, "we'll fuck if I make you cookies?" Was it sad that you really hoped he meant it?
Maybe, but you did not give a single shit. Dick was dick—and he was absolutely not the ugliest person to be dicked down by—nor was the request anything but it's own win.
He was fucking gorgeous, in a dark and mysterious way. Like you'd never know if he was plotting your assassination or fantasizing about his cock deep in your throat—which was all the more attractive.
Not to mention, he liked your baking so much, he was trading sex for a batch of cookies.
This is what capitalism could have been.
Aaron chuckled, shrugging with a wicked gleam in his dark eyes, "give and take, right?" Oh, he was absolutely onto something, that man. And, soon, he could be onto you—if the firemen could just get their fingers out of their asses and let you back inside.
"How could I ever refuse such an offer?" you licked your lips and smirked, reflecting the smug expression forming on his face.
The stairwell door stood directly across from your apartment, pushed against one end of the hallway. On the middle wall was Aaron's door. His apartment was the biggest on your floor, save from the exact mirrored layout on the opposite end.
It was longer than yours, stretching further out than most of the other apartments.
You halted at the familiar crossroad, tilting your head as you studied the two doors with feigned indecisiveness, "mine or yours?" It didn't matter, you did not care at all. Not even a little bit. All you wanted was to get pounded so hard, you wouldn't be able to get out of bed for a week. And then some.
"Mine," he stated, decided, keys jingling in his hand as he unlocked the door. He held it open for you to enter, then closed it shut behind you.
Aaron kicked off his shoes and dropped his keys onto the console table, before turning back to look at you with a devilish smirk on his face, "can I get you anything?"
"Yeah, a dick and a bed, please and thank you," you mumbled as you hung up his jacket on the hooks, then snorted, "actually, the bed is optional." Anywhere would be acceptable, you thought to yourself as you sat down on the floor to untie your shoes.
Why the hell did you decide on converse? An even better question, how the hell did you manage to put them on while rushing out of the building?
"Well, I was thinking a glass of water or something," he mused, taking a step closer to where you knelt on the floor, "but, since you asked so nicely..."
"I'm going to scream if you don't touch me now." you glared up at him after pushing your shoes out of the way, barely restraining yourself from sinking your teeth into his thighs like a fucking vampire. They were right in front of you.
He seemed to really enjoy your snappy words and lack of composure, or perhaps he was the Devil himself come to prolong your suffering—might as well been as he didn't move an inch. Aaron just tilted his head down, filling your vision with his tall body and satisfied, smug expression.
However, you were a woman of your word. So, you took a breath, intent to actually scream your frustrations out—but the moment your lips parted, his cock hit the back of your throat.
You hadn't even noticed his pants coming undone, or his cock being whipped out—not until he was pushing past your lips with a groan and his hand tangled in your hair to keep you in place. He was careful, despite his grip on your head, his pace was slow and easy.
But slow and easy was not your style. Slow and easy would not do fucking shit to the volcano of horny you had transformed into.
Grazing your teeth lightly, in warning, a reminder of who really had the power, then you relaxed your jaw entirely. Offering the space of your mouth for him to use freely. Roughly, hopefully.
Aaron did. He fucked your throat until tears were streaming down your face. Until you had snaked a hand down your shorts and fingered yourself—until you had gotten so close you trembled—and that was when he pulled out.
Seconds before release could wash over you.
You tried your best to not sob as he lifted you up to your feet, a smile on his lips, his hands on either side of your face. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his thumbs brushing away the tears that stained your cheeks, "how many times, sweetheart?"
"What?" you shook your head in attempt to focus on the question he had asked. The gesture was so gentle, you almost passed out from the shift in energy. But the fire in your veins burned with threat and promise of eruption. Every cell in your body was tense, every fiber was screaming for the release you had been denied way too many times now.
"How many times do you want to cum for me, sweetheart?" Aaron repeated casually, like it was the most common question. His hands traveled down your sides, to your waist, under your shirt. His touch was like gasoline, fuel to what was brewing in your lower stomach. You shivered as his thumb grazed your peaked nipple, moaned as he pinched it between his fingers.
"Three?" he suggested in the absence of your answer, his hands cupping both your breasts firmly, "or more?" The smile on his lips seemed even more devilish as he tilted his head to the side, studying your dazed expression. A predator watching his prey. Fuck, it was hot.
"Three," you managed finally, nodding absentmindedly at your own confirmation, "fast, please. I'm going to explode if I can't—"
"I know, come on," Aaron relented with a chuckle, dragging you through the living room, to his bedroom.
The moment your feet crossed the threshold, his lips were on yours. Hungry and claiming. His tongue darted into your mouth with a force that stole your breath away, that had you wishing to never need air again. There was nothing slow and easy about him anymore.
He was all fire. Consumed by a demon of his own.
His mouth traveled across your jaw, biting the soft skin down your neck. As if he was teasing himself, refraining from devouring you entirely. If vampires were real, you would gladly offer your own neck if it felt like this.
Your hands tangled in his hair, clawed at his neck—anywhere you could reach, you scratched. Every thought in your brain evaporated as he groped your ass. Harshly. Everything about him was demanding, every touch on your body was an act of claim, every bite on your neck was a mark.
Then, he stepped back, out of your grasp, to rake his gaze down your body. He was appreciating the sight, drinking in the state of you. His cock was pressed against his lower stomach, the tip glistening with precum and the remnant of your spit.
You clenched around nothing at the thought of him inside you, how big he was in your mouth and how deep he fucked himself down your throat. How good he'd stretch you out. How you had promised him three orgasms.
Aaron clicked his tongue and tilted his head, "as much as I would love to fuck you in those shorts," he purred lowly, almost growling, "if you want to keep them in one piece, I suggest you take them off. Now."
You did not need to be told twice—not when the look on his face alone had you shivering with anticipation—the sound of his voice echoed through your bones, vibrating your body with the melody. His eyes darkened with something you could only assume was a warning sign, as his own clothes decorated the floor alongside yours.
The moment your shirt was off, he threw you on the bed, his hands gripping your hips to pull you to the edge as he positioned himself between them. His cock twitched against your thigh as he leaned down, face hovering inches above yours with a predatory look in his eyes.
"Sweetheart," he purred, in a way so condescending, you couldn't help but squeez your thighs around him, "how would you like your first one?"
Fuck. In the dim light of his bedroom, with the gleam in his eyes, he looked every part of the Devil you had imagined.
"Don't care," you breathed, grinding you hips against him, "would jus' like it right now." The ache was consuming you, the desperation was at an all time high. You could practically feel your head emptying, and filling up again with images of him. No thoughts, it was all a burning need for Aaron.
"Guess it's my choice, then." he mused, a satisfied smile on his lips.
Then he was gone again, rummaging in the closet on the opposite side of the bedroom, returning with a blue—tie? You shuddered, breath hitching with a small whimper as he stalked for you. Slowly.
With a nod of his head, you pushed yourself backwards until you hit the headboard. Without exchanging a single word, you lifted your arms and he tied them together, securing you to his bed. You were at his mercy—and, God, did it turn you on.
Aaron was everywhere. His hands spread your thighs, his mouth devouring your breasts. Then his hands snaked up to replace his mouth, and his head lowered between your legs. He blew, air fanning across your folds—before he settled.
You moaned as his tongue danced around, plunged into you, pushing every button that ensured you would explode in no time. He rolled your nipple in between his thumb and pointer finger, the other hand moving down to your lower stomach, to press you into the mattress.
Your hips bucked, or tried to, against his hold. Tried to both push yourself into the feeling of his mouth on you, as well as away from it. It was dizzying and breathtaking, too much and yet not enough. The tie around your wrist dug into the skin, to keep you restrained as you pulled.
His groans were muffled by your thighs, vibrating around your clit. The sounds of him consuming you like it was everything he'd ever wanted, it sent you barrelling for the edge. Tumbling rapidly for the pleasure you had been denied for a week, as if it could be ripped out of your grasp any moment, and this was the only chance.
Your thighs shook with the intensity of your approaching orgasm, your whimpers turned into breathy moans, then small screams—until his fingers plunged into your mouth, and you unfolded. Drowned in darkness, the abyss of bliss.
It hurt so fucking good.
The sound of a wrapper ripping open did not register in your dazed state. You didn't register much at all before his cock slammed into you. In one movement.
Aaron wasn't giving you the moment to catch your breath, or to adjust to the size of him. No, he was a man of his own word, and he was intent to collect the debt you owed him. In his own pace, hard and fast, unrelenting.
It didn't take long for the sensitivity to melt back into desire. For the pain to reshape into a mind-numbing pleasure.
"Fuck," you gasped, eyes rolling as he hit the deepest spot inside of you over and over again. Both of his hands gripped your hips to hold use you as his anchor—and you hoped there would be bruises. Prints of his fingers, marks of his claims. Tattoos of the memories.
Aaron looked like a god above you. A disheveled, sexy god. His hair stuck to his forehead, slick with sweat as he pounded his cock deeper. Rougher. His eyes were wild, like he was in a crazed state and the urges had taken over. As if he had been possessed. He fucked like it, too.
"Wan' touch you," you managed to breathe, back arching off the bed with another forceful thrust. Your jaw was slack with the intent of forming another sound, yet none came out. Nothing but gasps could be heard. Gasps and skin slapping—and his deep rumbles that almost sounded like praise—but you couldn't make it out over the buzzing in your body.
The pressure lessened around your wrist and you pulled them free, grabbing his shoulders instead. Raking your nails down his back as he leaned over you, fucking you harder into the mattress.
Aaron bent your leg, your knee pressing against his chest to allow him deeper. His hand moving to your throat. It was a light hold, but firm enough to restrict the airways. You were shaking again, moaning pathetically as you clenched around him. The pressure around your throat was dizzying in the best ways. Intoxicating.
"Give it to me, sweetheart." his lips brushed your ear, his tone so demanding—you obeyed even before his words registered.
Everything was on fire. A delicious flame threatening to consume you as your body went numb with the force of your second orgasm. Skin buzzing with electricity, legs shaking around him as it swallowed you whole. A scream stuck in your throat, hindered by his tightening grip.
The world started to fade, the edges of your vision darkening. The abyss stretching endlessly— "Don't you dare," Aaron muttered somewhere far away, followed by a small sting on your cheek.
You gasped at the pain, the haze clearing up again to find his dark eyes staring down—at you.
He clicked his tongue, in what sounded like disapproval.
"I'm not done with you yet," he stated, a fake sweet smile growing on his lips, as if that would make it easier for you, "we had a deal. I'll fuck you until you give me—" he halted his words to move his hips, dragging himself out and pushing himself all the way back in, "—how many?"
"No, m' can't." you whimpered as tears rolled down your cheeks, his thumb swiping them away gently. Every slow thrust of his cock rubbed against your walls, you shuddered as he bottomed out, whined as he rolled his hips.
Aaron cooed, condescendingly, and pressed a kiss to your forehead, "but I know you can."
His pace picked up, slowly increasing to give you a chance to follow, until he was pounding into you again. Hammering while kissing away the tears on your cheeks, fucking you like his life depended on it, while gently stroking your hair. The contrast of his actions confused you enough, distracted your mind enough that your body melted into him. To give him what he wanted.
"Good girl," Aaron purred in your ear, snaking a hand around your thigh—"look at you," he hummed with appreciation, continuing his distractions to keep you focused on his voice, as his thumb started rubbing circles on your clit, "always knew you'd be good for me."
You mumbled incoherent noises, shuddered as new waves of pleasure jolted through your sensitive cunt, cried as he hit that very spot again. He was getting close now. His breath turned ragged and his hips were faltering, snapping with desperation for his own release. But he wasn't going to let himself, not until you gave him your last.
With a sob, your third orgasm washed over you, and Aaron followed with a groan of your name. A string of curses, along with coos of praise, as he came.
By the time you had reentered your body, regained a sliver of composure in the comfort of his arms, the sun had started to rise.
His curtains were open and you were curled up against him and admiring the view. The sky turning pastel, pink melting into a light purple, over to blue.
"You can see straight into my bedroom from here," you mused, a soft smile spreading on your tired face at the revelation. The bed was perfectly in line of sight with your bed, you could even see your sheets on the floor… You snapped your head around, gasping, "how much—"
Apparently Aaron had followed your train of thought, he understood instantly. "Only when you don't close your blinds," he grinned, not bothering to hide his amusement as he watched it sink in, "speaking of, maybe you should close them more often."
"Aaron," you raised a hand to cover your mouth, a panicked giggle escaping from your lips, "I never close my blinds." Yet, despite the horror of knowing you had been watched in the not-so-private privacy of your bedroom—which was absolutely your own fault—it also sent a shiver of excitement down your spine. Pooling right between your legs.
He had watched you.
And you didn't hate it. At all.
"Do you have anywhere to be today?" he whispered into your hair, his breath fanning the shell of your ear. You shook your head, biting your lip as his nose brushed down your throat, to your shoulder, "no, why?"
Aaron lifted his head and smiled sheepishly, "you still owe me cookies."
warnings | strangers to...?, hotch is in nyc for a case, reader owns a bakery, no names used, one night stand, unprotected p in v, riding, pet names/nicknames (reader is called 'Spice' and calls hotch 'handsome'), size kink undertones, alcohol consumption, mentions of religion and spirituality (reader doesn't necessarily believe or not believe), spice cake <33, hotch has folding clothes compulsions, leaves without saying goodbye, but he leaves a note so it's all good! no physical description, no use of y/n
word count | 3k. [not proofread]
The shift at the bakery had been a slow one, but you were enjoying the serene atmosphere of the late hours, more so than reminiscing the absence of chaos. New York City could be a lot—it was a lot sometimes—but you wouldn't have it any other way.
He had been sitting at the counter for the past hour, the mystery man. By himself, a cup of coffee nestled in between his large hands—the third one since he had walked in. Which was insane, considering the day had come to an end, but you weren't one to judge.
The city was bustling with insanity, it was practically the standard.
A handful of customers had come by the small shop during the hour he had occupied the stool. Some to pick up their orders of mini cakes, some to simply offer their greetings; to bid you goodnight, or to have a nice weekend. It was a Friday ritual. You'd chatted with them when they did, a smile bright on your face, despite the exhaustion weighing on you.
It was your favorite part about the city, the people. The close community, the support and appreciation. The air was filled with love. It made every fight for your dream worth it.
"When do you close?" The handsome stranger asked, a gleam in his eyes to accompany the small smile on his lips. You had been eyeing each other in silence for a good while, simply existing in the same presence. Enjoying the calm.
Neither of you had bothered the other. He had savored his nth serving of coffee while you had cleaned the counter, while you had written down the orders for the following day.
Without satisfying him with an answer just yet, you reached under the counter to grab a bottle of whiskey—from the 'mini bar' you had made one night—when all of you and your friends had been hanging out in the bakery after closing for the day. It was nice to have somewhere to be, to drink and have fun, that wasn't any of your crammed, overprized apartments.
The upstairs neighbors didn't mind, because the upstairs neighbors were you and Hazel, your trusted second in 'cakery-command', as she had called it.
You poured the amber liquid into one of the handful crystal glasses your bakery now had stacked beside the bottles of alcohol, and placed it in the open space between his folded hands.
Your friend had thrifted them after he had decided your bakery-slash-apparently-now-also-bar needed something of the actual variant to serve alcohol in, and not just coffee cups. You didn't care enough to argue.
Then, with a glance to the clock on the wall, you decided you had tortured the man long enough.
"We closed ten minutes ago," a soft laugh spilled from your lips as you poured yourself a glass of the same drink. It hadn't exactly been your intention to not kick him out, it had just happened. His presence was comforting, somehow. Alluring, even.
The man stiffened slightly, as if he was uncomfortable with the idea of keeping you from closing your bakery. Keeping you from going home. You weren't, you would've told him as much if you had been.
He seemed to realize that, as his shoulders relaxed, dropping from where they had been by his ears, with a small sigh. A breath of relief, or content, or discontent—you weren't entirely certain.
Then, the sigh turned into a chuckle. He eyed the crystal in his hands, swirling the liquid around, his brows furrowed but the amused tilt on his lips reappeared, "a bakery and a bar is—different."
You met his gaze with a laugh, your expression reflecting that of his, "this is New York City, handsome, anything is possible." With that, you raised your glass in cheers, and downed the content. The stranger you had just called handsome, watched you, for the entirety of a heartbeat, before he mirrored your movements.
A comfortable silence stretched as you refilled the drinks.
"So, what brings you here?" you supported your chin with the palm of your hand, studying the mystery man with curiosity. Appreciation. The man wasn't from the city, that was blatantly obvious. He carried a certain kind of authority that you didn't see much, at least not inside of your cozy, little shop.
If you would guess, you'd say he was from the capital, or somewhere of the similar sort.
"To New York, or to your bakery-bar?" he tilted his head to the side, studying you with the same intensity, curiosity as you did with him.
You shrugged, lifting the nearly empty drink to your lips, "both."
There was an easy flow to your conversation, as if he matched your tempo. As if his mind went the same direction as yours, the same pattern of waves, without knowing.
Almost a spiritual connection. You wondered what he would think of that, being spiritually connected to you. If he would go off about pseudo-science, or if he would leave it. Not care about your beliefs or not-beliefs.
You weren't exactly spiritual, or religious for that matter, but you could enjoy a little tarot reading. Offer up a prayer in hard times. It was natural. Human. Everyone believes in some things, and not in others.
The man in front of you seemed like the type to let you figure it out for yourself, not indulge in subjective debates that didn't really matter outside of one self. That was a sexy character trait.
Almost as sexy as altruism.
"Work," he answered, simply, "we leave in the morning." There was a hint of disappointment fluttering somewhere in your stomach, at the thought of not seeing this man you had never met before, again. Ironic. You drowned the feeling with the rest of your drink, not entertaining it for longer than necessary. Which was nothing, it wasn't a necessary feeling at all.
You hummed, nodding with understanding as you reached for the bottle again, "shouldn't drink too much then, should you, handsome?" Despite your own words, the warning laced underneath them, you filled both of your glasses.
"No," he agreed, a twitch on his lips, "probably not." Still, despite his own words, he raised the crystal once again, and clinked it against yours.
"What's your name?" the handsome stranger asked quietly, being polite more so than anything.
Names. Such a powerful thing to give a stranger—a thing to ensure you became more than strangers.
A dangerous thing, in a city like New York. In general. Especially when time wasn't on your side, when there was nothing more than this moment to share.
You found yourself trusting the man, at least to an extent. After all, you were drinking with him, alone, in your still-not-closed-and-locked bakery. And he had yet to reveal himself as a serial killer.
So, you offered him a piece of your life, in some way more intimate than simply your name, and filled his glass for the fourth time. He thanked you with a small smile.
"They call me Spice," you bit back a grin, leaning forward on your elbows, "guess why." His hands, folded around his drink, were inches from yours on the wooden counter. So close, you could feel the warmth rolling off his fingers in waves.
The man hummed, lifting his drink to his upturned lips and met your gaze over the rim, an amused twinkle gleaming in his dark, rich eyes, "your uncanny resemblance to one of the Spice Girls?"
You laughed, wholeheartedly, honestly, "yeah, which one?"
The stranger had no idea what any of the Spice Girls looked like, you would bet on it. It was blatantly obvious, just by looking at him.
Pressed suit, tailored, hugging all the right places of his tall frame. Straight tie, perfectly centered. Nothing was amiss, unaligned, disheveled. He was the personification of uniform.
It made you wonder what it took to mess him up, just a little. If he would freak out if you lifted your hand and ran it through his short, dark hair, ruffling it. How he would react if you untied his tie.
"Got me there," he scratched the nape of his neck and chuckled, airy and deep, before folding his hands in front of him again, "why do they call you Spice, Spice?"
His low voice sent shivers down your spine, in a good way. The words echoed in your mind with a reminder of what you had planned to do a drink ago, but forgotten to.
The man didn't look like one to have a sweet tooth, but the bakery was closed anyway—and the leftovers wouldn't be sold tomorrow. So, you decided there was no harm in it.
Turning your back to him, despite how little you wanted to drag your gaze from his handsome face, you grabbed a mini cake from the display case. Then, a small dessert fork from the drawer underneath, a blue napkin from its holder on the counter, and placed it all in front of him.
"They say my spice cake is something else," you tilted your head to the side and licked your lips, watching the man scan what was in front of him, "the New York Times called it 'a must have; a wonderful bite of love that leave you wanting more', if I recall correctly."
You did recall correctly, it was the best day of your life—the article was printed and framed by the door. He didn't seem to have noticed it on his way in, which gave you all the more room to talk about it. Humbly, of course.
He only hummed in response, hesitantly picking up the utensil to try a bite. The fork looked tiny in his hands—through the state of your hazy mind, you found the sight delightful.
However, the silence that followed had you on edge. Gripping the wooden counter. It was like standing in front of a jury, only more intimidating. The jury could be persuaded with a fancy garnish, or a swirl of buttercream, he didn't seem so—easy to please.
You usually didn't really care if people liked your cakes or not, but suddenly, you couldn't quite grasp why, you found yourself hoping he did.
His unrevealing expression caused you to bounce on your feet, growing desperate for his verdict.
Finally, he met your waiting wide eyes, a satisfactory smirk on his lips, "they were right."
Relief washed over you, for reasons yet unbeknownst, and you smiled, "good." It was good, both the cake and the fact that he liked it. You found it comical, that you had somehow became infatuated with the man sharing the counter. All it took was lingering glances, a few drinks and hearing his deep chuckle, you wanted more.
But the day was over, the man was leaving in the morning, and you had to close up the bakery sooner rather than later.
Though, you let the handsome stranger finish eating first. With you watching, intently, mesmerized by every lift of the fork. Every swallow that had his throat bobbing. It must have been the whiskey, or perhaps you had grown delirious with exhaustion, but you swore his eyes had darkened under your stare. His grip had tightened, his shoulders stiffened slightly.
"Can I take you home?" he had asked the moment you turned back to him, after cleaning up the last bit of evidence there had been someone here. You met his questioning gaze—he looked almost hesitant to ask, as if he understood the implications, the dangers, of a stranger walking a woman home.
You didn't care about the implications. Any moment with him, any more of them, would be worth the potential risk. The man was leaving, you'd never see him again, so what harm would it do to prolong your time in his presence?
"It's a short walk, unfortunately," you gave him a half-smile as you passed him to lock the door from the inside. Flipping the sign to 'closed', you reached over to switch the main lights off, before you made your way back towards him.
"But yes," you stepped in between his spread legs, reaching behind him for the keys you had dropped on the counter, meeting his gaze, "you can walk me upstairs."
A hand around his wrist, you dragged him behind you through the kitchen. Out the door leading into the small, crammed hallway. Your keys jingled as you locked it, slightly shaking with anticipation, or nerves—you weren't entirely certain. Checking it a second time, a habit you had after forgetting to lock it that one time. Despite nothing happening, you wanted to be on the safe side. Especially with the insurance you had.
You glanced over your shoulder, hiding a smile as you licked your lips, and made it for the stairs.
The door to your apartment barely opened enough to let the two of you inside before it was slammed shut, your back pressed against it, his lips on yours.
It was all heat, a shared impatience and desire. His warm tongue tasted of whiskey and your spice cake, a wonderful combination of flavors. It made you lightheaded, dizzy. You resisted the urge to pull away from him to write it down, to study the taste of his mouth, to figure out how to replicate it.
You didn't care if it would sell as cakes, you wanted to have the opportunity to feel this again.
But the kiss was too good, too burning, to cut short. You didn't want to waste the time you had with him, like this, on indulging in the menial tasks you did every other day. This was special, a once-in-a-lifetime. Never before had you brought a stranger up to your apartment, never before had you wanted to the way you did now.
Hands tangled in his hair, his on your hips, your waist, under your shirt. Any sliver of skin he could touch, his hands were. Calloused fingertips, rough on the soft flesh of your ribs. His thumbs caressing the band of your bra before slipping under.
He groaned lowly in appreciation—you swallowed the sound and answered with your own.
You smiled as you pulled on his tie, laughed as he winced at the rough movement. It came undone, hung around his shoulders as you worked on his button-up. Fingers ran down his chest, appreciating the lovely sight of him, as he shook the fabric off.
He was about to fold his shirt, likely roll his tie with it, but time wasn't on your side and he seemed to agree—every moment was passing too quickly.
His pace turned as impatient as yours. Clothes were on the floor, even despite his compulsion. You were more important, more dire to indulge in. His hands reflected the revelation, pulling off every piece of fabric obstructing his view of you, hindering the feeling of your skin against his.
Bodies flush against each other as you stumbled for the bed. Hands everywhere, lips everywhere. Heavy breathing as the temperature rose. You pushed him down, to sit with his back against the headboard, to straddle him.
Knees on either side of his thighs, he pumped himself once before you sank down on him. No words exchanged, only sounds of appreciation, of approval. Skin slapping and sloppy kisses. Desperately trying to feel everything all at once.
You rode him until your legs grew tired — then he took over. Without a word needed. His grip on your hips tightening to lift you up, to slam you down. He stretched you out wonderfully. Setting your skin on fire. Every nerve in your body burned for him in that moment.
"Not much of a talker are you, handsome?" your hands tangled in his hair, tugging his head closer so you could press your lips against his. His hands held firmly on your hips, aiding the pace you had wordlessly agreed to.
"I like to appreciate art," he purred against your lips, a groan erupting from the depth of his chest as you rolled your hips again, "—much rather take my time to feel it, not talk about it."
You nodded in understanding and threw your head back, your hands on his shoulders to anchor as you bounced harder. Faster. Less controlled as you chased the pleasure coiling in your stomach.
"I appreciate the feeling, as well," you managed a smile in between heavy breaths. The indication wasn't lost on him. He returned your amused expression at your own joke, smiling sheepishly, boyish. Drunk on the feeling of you—as you were of him.
There was nothing else, nothing outside of the two of you. Only you and him, your skin against his, tightly clenched around him. His hold on your waist unrelenting, lifting you and slamming you down onto him as your noises increased in volume. As your pleas became a choir of bliss, together.
You pressed your lips against his as you shook around him, as your orgasm tilted the world and took you with it.
He cursed, for the first time that evening, when he came inside of you.
And then, there was silence.
Small smiles, tiny kisses. His fingers in your hair, your head on his chest. Lazy strokes of affection, mindlessly caressing touches.
You fell asleep within minutes.
The stranger was gone before the sun rose. No sign of him, no evidence of your late night activities—except for the pile of folded clothes on your dresser. Along with a small piece of paper, folded in half on top.
A business card with a written note on the back, and a hundred dollar bill.
For the whiskey and your time.
A.H.
P.S. Those cakes really are something else. I like the Spice. Next time in NYC?
You bit your lip to suppress a smile and flipped the card over—your jaw fell to the floor.
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION
SSA AARON HOTCHNER
"Oh." you flushed a bright red. It's not every day you accidentally sleep with an FBI agent.
Mal's Note: Two fics in one night!?! I'm spoiling you guys. I adore this for whatever reason. Please show it love <3 it has my whole heart.
Love,
Mal <3
Warnings: Alcohol use, slight emotional neglect, flufffffff.
Word Count: 2.3k
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“You smell like a florist.” JJ muttered, shooting you a confused glance as you plopped down next to her at the round table. “What is that? Roses?”
“Yes…” You growled, huffing out a sigh, “unfortunately it is.”
“What’s wrong with roses?” Morgan asked, drawn in by your surly tone and the way your jaw was clenched just a little too tight.
“Nothing… except that I hate them.” Your smile was saccharine, as your eyes narrowed in disdain. “I find the smell cloyingly sweet, it’s overwhelming and it makes me nauseous. Even anxious if I’m already stressed.”
“I’ve always found roses very subtle.” Rossi mused, shrugging his shoulders as he watched you from across the table.
Everyone had just settled into their seats and Hotch seemed occupied by a message on his phone so you felt you had time to explain.
“Naturally, roses are subtly scented, yes.” You agreed, then tugged at your hair and scowled. “But the artificial rose fragrance in this shampoo and conditioner is the exact opposite!”
“If you hate rose so much, why are you wearing it?” Spencer asked, his brows drawn, mouth pinched, and nose snarled in that way of his that said he thought you’d made a very dumb decision.
“I wasn't home.” You grumbled, avoiding eye contact—with Morgan especially—and hoping they’d drop the subject.
“Oooo somebody was with Jeff last night…” Morgan crooned, rubbing his hands together like he was trying to put warmth into them in that annoying way of his. “How’d it go?? Pretty good I’m guessing since you never made it home…”
You groaned, dropped you head to the table, pounding it thrice, before sitting back up and slumping in your chair.
“Would I be awful if I just never spoke to him again?” You asked the room at large.
“No.” Hotch muttered without ever glancing up from his phone, drawing side eyes from everyone else, but you appreciated the validation. It was unlike him to pitch in on matters of the heart, but his single syllable answer was very much in character.
“Wait, I thought you’ve been seeing this guy for a month now?” Prentiss queried, “Don’t you like him?”
“I did.” You confirmed, short and succinct.
“But???” Garcia prompted, not at all happy with that answer on its own.
“But, Jed,” you emphasized his name to tease Morgan, “is a lot. He’s loud, and he’s boisterous, and he talks so much that he doesn’t ever listen…”
“Oh…” the response was collectively female, while the men—sans Hotch—seemed a little confused.
“He means well, he does, and I do appreciate the effort he puts in, but after a month he hasn’t learned a thing about me at all.” You sighed, dropping your shoulders even farther and looking up at the ceiling. “Last night, he planned this huge date, all by himself and I was excited because what guy does that? Ya know? They don’t usually take that initiative. So we go out, and the restaurant he chose is nice… but its Thai , and I don’t particularly enjoy Thai cuisine. I’m sure it’s lovely to some, but I just don’t have the pallet for it. Which I told him, on our first date, when he suggested that same restaurant.”
“He just ignored that?” Rossi asked, immediately joining the girls in their disgust because good food was important to Rossi.
“Yep.” You sighed, then told them what else he’d done. “Then he ordered this bottle of Sauvignon Blanc…”
“And you don’t like white wines…” Emily grimaced, a fellow red girlie herself.
“I don’t.” You agreed. “But I choked it down with a smile and said thank you because it was $300.”
“Honey you've gotta speak up about these things…” JJ murmured, patting your shoulder.
“I have Jayj.” You whined, dropping your head to the table again. “I'm telling you, he doesn’t listen. He hears that I’m speaking but he doesn’t absorb the information. For example, I’ve told him at least seven times that my favorite color is purple. Last night he showed up with a set of jewelry. Pink cubic zirconia. They were pretty and it’s not about the price, I couldn’t care less about the money! But he said, ‘I saw these and I thought of you, I know how much you love pink,’ and I realized he’d thought of me, but not about me. I could care less for pink, it’s not even in my top twenty.”
“So how did you wind up smelling like roses?” Derek asked, a little more serious now, like he was sad for you.
“Oh God…” You chuckled, blushing a little. “We went back to his apartment… and he had the bedroom all decorated. Which was sweet, but again there was white wine, and on the bed he’d left a bouquet of pink long stemmed roses. At first I was just glad they weren’t red roses because that would’ve sent me over the edge, there’s not an ounce of effort in long stemmed roses in general… but red roses? They’re not personal! They are generic, I hate being given roses because that's not about me, that's about a man's ego. I prefer wildflower bouquets they’re colorful and they make me smile! I love ranunculus, larkspur, sweet pea, chamomile, daisies, baby’s breath, and even fucking wild roses because they are bright and have character! They don’t look like long stem roses at all! Which I’d told him, just last week.”
“Oh dude, come on!” Derek exclaimed, shaking his head. “He can’t even remember something you told him a week ago?”
“See…” You threw your hands out to the side, glad he was understanding now. “I felt bad though, because he’d spent a lot of money… and then…” you paused, your face flushing as you bit your bottom lip, “I stayed… and I needed a shower before bed and I didn’t have anything to clean up with… not even to get my make up off. So Jed offered to run down to the corner store… Every single thing he came back with was rose scented and you know what the smell of artificial rose does to me. I told him too, when I told him that I didn’t like roses, but I guess he didn’t remember that either. I smiled, said thank you, and then I cried in the shower.”
“Aw sugar…” Garcia cooed, reaching across the table to take your hand.
“I’m confused.” Spencer mumbled, drawing everyone’s—except Hotch’s—attention. “You’re upset with Jed because the date didn’t go well and he didn’t get anything right?”
“No— Well, sorta— but it’s more than that it’s—”
“She’s upset because she’s been dating this man for a month, telling him little things about herself everyday, remembering things about him, and yet she discovered that he doesn’t know a single basic thing about her.” Hotch explained to Reid without looking up, shocking everyone into silence. You hadn’t thought he was listening. “It’s not about the flowers themselves, it’s about how little thought he put into buying them. He didn’t care what kind of flowers she liked, it was just about the show of giving them to her. It’s not about the fact that she didn’t like the jewelry—she did—it’s about him saying her favorite color is pink when she’s repeatedly told him it’s purple. Anyone would be upset if they told someone that a certain smell made them anxious or sick to their stomach, and then that person expected them to bathe in that very scent. She’s not upset because of the date, it’s because on the date he made her feel invisible and unvalued.”
Suddenly, you were seeing Aaron Hotchner through very different eyes.
“Exactly…” You whispered, feeling completely perplexed, and yet… seen.
You broke up with Jed that night, he handled it well, but he didn’t understand why. Even though you tried your best to explain. It frustrated you so much that you took a break from dating entirely.
Three months later, on your birthday, you walked into the bullpen to find a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers sitting on your desk with a card that said, “Happy Birthday,” there was no signature from the sender.
Your smile could have been seen from the ISS in orbit, it was so bright and so big. Picking up the vase of ranunculus, larkspur, sweet pea, chamomile, daisies, baby’s breath, and wild roses; you turned to the rest of the team and demanded their attention.
“Okay you guys, who remembered?!” You nearly squealed, bouncing on your toes with pure joy, but no one claimed the credit. “Oh, come on guys! Fess up, this is the sweetest thing and I need to hug somebody!”
“I’ll always give you a hug, but it wasn’t me!” Garcia came toward you with her arms outstretched, and you accepted the hug but scanned the others over her shoulder.
“Em, Jayj?” You asked, and they both shook their heads. “Boys?”
Rossi, Reid and Morgan shook theirs at well… and that only left…
Hotch.
“It wasn’t us…” Derek shrugged, glancing over his shoulder toward Hotch’s office like he also knew exactly who was responsible. “We were planning on dinner and drinks after work though, on us. You in?”
“Of course, thank you.” You smiled, “Where are we going?”
“Well, Hotch said you like that Mexican place across from the supermarket on Main and Second. Apparently, you mentioned something about the salsa being better there than anywhere else in town, and that the margaritas were excellent.” Prentiss said nonchalantly, but there was a sparkle in her eye that told you it was anything but a casual statement.
You had said something about the Mexican restaurant, to Garcia, four weeks ago. What you’d said was that the margaritas were kick ass and the salsa was fire, but you couldn’t imagine Hotch repeating that casually… excellent, however, that was all him. He’d been in the room when you said, but you could’ve sworn he was on the phone someone.
“It’s my favorite.” You murmured, once again finding yourself baffled.
You stared at those flowers all day, unable to fight your smile, even if the person responsible had yet to admit to it and was the most mysterious person you thought you’d ever met. They were beautiful, bright, colorful, and the smell of them kept your work space pleasant all day. You couldn’t believe he’d remembered the exact arrangement of flowers you’d mentioned, it'd been three months, and on top of that you hadn’t realized that he knew your birthday.
You wondered what else he noticed in his silence, the things he heard, the things he saw, and you wondered… why?
That night at the restaurant, when everyone was more than a few margaritas in, you saw Hotch leave the table and head toward the counter to pay the bill. You knew the others would split it with him the next day, but tonight they were much too drunk to comprehend the math required, even though Reid was basically a human calculator and sober. Being a few margaritas in yourself, you felt like you had the courage to seek the answers you desired, so you followed him. You were stand a few feet behind him when he finished paying and turned around.
“Are you alright?” He asked, taking in your quizzical gaze and tilting his head to mirror yours.
“Thank you for the flowers, they’re beautiful.” You said, bluntly letting him know that you knew, just to see his reaction.
“How did you know?” He asked, a soft smile pulled at his lips as surprise lit his eyes.
“One of the others would’ve taken credit for it if they’d done it. You’re the only one who wouldn’t, because you’re secretly humble, and you hate attention. You’re also the only one who hasn’t verbally told me happy birthday today, because you did it anonymously before anyone else.” You explained, reading him like a book in some aspects, but there were other things that you still didn’t understand. “Why did you choose wildflowers?”
He was quiet for a moment, studying you, determining whether or not he was going to be honest. Then he smiled again, a little wider this time, and there was a softness to it that you’d never seen before.
“Because you hate roses.” He murmured, taking a small step toward you so that his words would be private. “You love ranunculus, larkspur, sweet pea, chamomile, daisies, baby’s breath, and even wild roses, but never long stemmed ones.”
“Why do you remember that?” You whispered, tearing up just a little at the gentleness in his voice, the light in his eyes… you knew… you just wouldn’t believe it until he said it.
“For the same reason I remember that your favorite color is purple, that you don’t enjoy Thai food, that you only drink cheap red wine because the expensive brands ‘taste like dirt,’ artificial rose fragrance makes you anxious, you don’t like it when the end of your ponytail brushes the back of your neck because it gives you the chills, and you hate the way Garcia clicks her nails on the keyboard because it sets your teeth on edge.” He confessed quietly, hesitantly reaching out to tuck your hair behind your ear. “I remember because I pay attention to you.”
“Why?” You breathed, because you weren’t sure you were capable of much else.
“Because you’re worth paying attention to.” He whispered, his thumb brushing over your cheek, light as a feather.
“I think I might kiss you…” You whispered back, leaning toward him without a second thought.
“I think I’m going to let you.” He mumbled, cupping the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair.
When your lips met, it didn’t feel like fireworks, it didn’t feel like the perfect happy ending, it didn’t even feel magical or mysterious. Instead it felt real, it felt like a quiet beginning, it felt like butterflies and wildflowers, but most of all…
Mal's Note: I hate how blurry my banner is but I don't care enough to fix it. I seem to have a thing for pink right now... This is... the horniest thing I've written in a while, but I seem to have been possessed. There probably won't be a part 2 to this, I have too much on my plate right now and I'm overwhelmed by everything in my drafts. Just use your imagination my loves, I know you've got them. Enjoy this so much, I'm still shaking in my boots.
Love,
Mal <3
Warnings: MDNI 18+, 20ish year age gap, reader has a good relationship with her father (if you don't just pretend ig, that's what I did to write it), alcohol use, vaginal fingering, biting, general fondling, hotch's mouth is filthy, reader cries a lil bit cause it's so good, female orgasm, light degradation, loads of praise, hotch makes her suck his fingers clean after she comes on them soooo, Morgan is ageist (sorry it was for the plot), I'm fairly certain that's everything, Have fun!
Word Count: 5.9k
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You truly didn’t know what your problem was.
Your father was very present in your life, in fact, he took you to dinner once a month. Just you and him at your favorite restaurant, he paid, and drove you home after. Walking you to your door and kissing your cheek with a “Sleep tight, darlin’. Call your mama in the morning, she’s missing you.” You had known the princess treatment since the day you were born, and had always thought you knew exactly what you wanted from a man because your father had shown you. Nothing less than the way he treated your mother was acceptable, and he’d have to dote on any future daughters the way your father doted on you. If your father knew the kinds of thoughts you were having… about a man closer to his age than your own…
He’d never be able to look at you the same way again.
Forty Seven.
Forty-fucking-seven.
That’s how old Aaron Hotchner was.
You knew because you’d asked. One day you just couldn’t contain yourself. He’d been driving you nuts for weeks already, plaguing your mind like a disease. So you thought that maybe—if you put a definitive number on it—knowing the age gap would help.
It did not.
The outcome had been so much worse.
“Hotch?” You’d asked, trying to seem busy with the file on the table in front of you.
“Hmm?” He’d hummed, not looking over from the cork board.
“How old are you?” You continued, trying to keep your voice as nonchalant as possible, eyes glued to the paper; the one you’d read ten times already.
He had paused and you could feel his eyes on you, but he only let out a soft chuckle, as though you had amused him.
“Forty seven.” He murmured, and went back to the cork board.
You’d nearly dropped the pen you’d been holding, your eyes snapping up to study his back in disbelief. Your father was fifty five, just eight years older. Swallowing hard, you went back to the file and found that, unfortunately, you still couldn’t focus on it. Instead, thinking of the way his sleeves were rolled up nearly to his elbows, and the way the muscle of his forearms might feel beneath your fingers… or teeth. The way his slacks hugged his ass, making it seem like he actually had one, and how they had a hard time hiding what he did have—
“Did it help?” He asked a few minutes later, and you realized, you had never given him a response, or a reason for your question…
“Huh?” You looked up at him, slightly stunned.
“Did it help?” He asked again, looking at you over his shoulder with that smirk; the one he often turned on unsubs if he saw right through them.
“I—” Your voice betrayed you, coming out broken instead of smooth, so you cleared your throat and tried again. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You don’t?” He purred, the smirk turning into a knowing grin.
“Not at all.” You lied, feeling your cheeks begin to heat under his gaze.
“Hmm.” His brows furrowed and you knew he didn’t believe you in the slightest as he turned back to the cork board.
That was the first time you’d realized that maybe you hadn’t been hiding your crush as well as you’d thought.
Several weeks later, on a case, you were in a heated debate with Morgan—having been the first two to make it back to the local police station—over a man who’s daughter was a victim. A man who’s current wife was only a little older than the daughter herself. All while Hotch looked on from the corner, not bothering to get involved.
“Either she’s taking advantage of his grief for financial stability, or he’s taking advantage of her naivety and financial instability to cope with his grief. Either way, he’s having a midlife crisis and she’s got daddy issues.” Morgan insisted, looking at you across the table like you were insane.
“That is not a fair assessment, Morgan, and you know it!” You shot back, “There are lots of reasons for age gap relationships, and most of the time they rarely have anything to do with money!”
“Name five.” He challenged, smirking at you because he either thought you couldn’t do it or were just playing devil’s advocate.
“Mutual attraction, being treated with respect, emotional maturity, the excitement of being with an older man or a younger woman and vice versa, and—” You stopped yourself short… You had the fifth one, but saying it felt awkward.
“And?” Morgan smirked, thinking you didn’t have a fifth.
You took a deep breath looked him in the eye and said, “Sexual experience.”
“Sexual experience, as in they’re in it for the experience?” He asked, furrowing his brows in confusion.
“No… I mean that older people—with the exception of those who abstain—are more experienced sexually than younger people.” You explained, and when he laughed you felt defensive. “Don’t laugh at me! That makes sense and you know it! Practice makes perfect or whatever the fuck the saying is! Older—sexually active—individuals have more practice, therefore more experience, and that—to me—says that they’d be better at sex!”
“What about stamina?” Morgan argued, “A fifty year old man is not gonna be able to keep up with a thirty year old woman!”
“That is not always true! It depends on the shape the man is in!” You threw your hands out to the side, and you almost found yourself using Hotch as an example—as your eyes flickered over to him—but caught yourself just in time, deciding to change the subject. “Besides, sex is not all there is to a fulfilling romantic relationship! There are all the other things I said too!”
“You can find all of those things with someone much closer to your own age.” Morgan reminded you, shaking his head, “An older guy could mean three or four years older! Why choose someone that’s twenty years older and has nothing in common with you, over someone who might and could keep up with you?”
“Curiosity?” You shrugged, and you couldn’t help the way your eyes flicked briefly to Hotch again, who was already watching you with an amused smile. “And no, I don’t think some women can find what they’re looking for in a man their own age. Which does not automatically mean daddy issues.”
“I disagree.” Morgan shook his head.
“Well you’re not a woman, so I don’t think you get to have an opinion on what we can and cannot want in a man.” You scowled, crossing your arms.
“Kid, you’re not even out of your twenties yet. You don’t know what you want in a man.” Morgan chuckled, clearly amused by your stance, for a totally different reason than Hotch.
“Some of us have it modeled for us from a young age and know what we want early.” You shrugged, keeping your eyes on Morgan and not daring to look over at Hotch again. “My dad is very present in my life, and we have a wonderful relationship, so I tell him everything. He comes and takes me out for dinner at least once a month, he calls me every single day, he reminds me to eat lunch, he makes sure I have good tires on my car, and he checks the latch on my door every single time he comes to my apartment; just to make sure it’s sturdy. He treats my mother like a goddamn queen, anything she wants she gets, and they are so in love it’s palpable, after nearly thirty years. He’s only five years older than her, but before you say that proves your point… Even though I know it works for them, I find myself disgusted by men my age. They’re crude, they’re rude, they don’t have any modicum of emotional maturity, they’re disrespectful, they’re boring—most only care about cars, video games, and money—and if you think a man in his mid twenties is in his prime… I beg you to look at pictures of Patrick Dempsey, Ryan Gosling, or Robert Downey Jr. in their twenties, versus their forties. The difference is night and day, and so much sexier.”
“What does that prove?” Morgan asked, unwilling to admit he was wrong just yet.
“That I don’t have daddy issues.” You insisted firmly, and out of the corner of your eye you saw Hotch bite his lip to keep from laughing. “I’d love to be treated the way my dad treats my mom, and any man I might see a future with would have to be one that I could see treating my future daughters the way I’ve been treated. However, I still find myself drawn to older men because men my age just don’t do it for me. Sometimes it really is just about attraction.”
“That’s all fine and good, I’m not gonna shame you for what you like, but in their case—” He circled back to the original topic of the victim’s father and step mother. “I don’t see what you’re seeing.”
With that, Morgan got up and left the conference room in search of coffee, leaving you alone under the discerning gaze of Aaron Hotchner.
“Who are you trying to convince?” Hotch chuckled from the corner once Morgan disappeared. “Morgan, or yourself?”
“What?” You breathed, finally looking over at him to find him studying you with laughter in his eyes.
“You sound less like you believe what you’re saying, and more like you desperately want it to be true.” He smirked, pinning you to the spot with those gorgeous fucking eyes… “I think you’ve recently realized you have a thing for older men, or more likely an older man, and you don’t know what to do with that information. So you’re struggling to make sense of it, and you thought arguing with Morgan—if you won—would help.”
You hated how close to the truth he was…
“Or…” You murmured, not trusting your voice to sound as strong as you wanted. “Maybe I do believe what I was saying, and I wanted Morgan to stop being so ageist about it because it was offensive.”
“Is that what you wanted?” He challenged, giving you that look again. The one that said he saw you… and knew how badly you wanted him.
“I think I would know what I do or do not want.” You shot back, with a little more attitude now that you thought you were being patronized.
“Do you?” He asked, undeterred by your snark, in fact, he seemed encouraged by it.
“Do I what, Hotch? You’re not making any sense!” You huffed, frustratedly.
“Do you know what you want?” He clarified, with a roguish smile on his face.
Suddenly, you didn’t think he was talking about Morgan and ageism anymore.
“Yes.” You whispered, hoping that was a safe answer either way.
“Are you sure?” He asked, and there was something else in his eyes this time. Something you’d never seen in them before… Something… Warmer.
“Are we still talking about Morgan’s ageism?” You asked, knowing that it had never been about Morgan… It had always been about him… and the way you felt about him.
“Are we?” He teased.
Before you could say anything Morgan came back, and you found yourself wondering how that conversation would’ve ended if he hadn’t interrupted it.
Over the following weeks, you caught Hotch watching you just as much as he caught you watching him, and you weren’t sure what to make of it. Truthfully, you thought he found your little infatuation to be entertaining. He would laugh when you panicked over prolonged eye contact. Watch you with glee as you blushed over a compliment or the tiniest hint of praise. He’d rest his hand on the back of your chair if he chose to sit next to you—and he always chose to sit next to you—making sure you were aware it was there, but never letting it touch you. He’d make comments that made your heart race at their ambiguous nature, uncertain if he was flirting or just making small talk. He was always winking at you if you glanced at him, but would make sure his face was perfectly neutral if you did a double take. Along with a hundred other things to let you know he knew and thought you were just a silly girl.
He was teasing you.
At first, you thought it was cruel of him to play so flippantly with your emotions, but you noticed he was never mean about it. In fact, he never used it to humiliate you, never said anything about it in the presence of the team either. It was like a secret game that only the two of you were aware of, and having something to share with him—even if he didn’t take it seriously—was exciting.
So you began to play too.
Instead of pretending he didn't effect you, you showed him how much he did… and how much you could effect him if you tried.
If he winked, you bit your lip and winked back. When he would rest his hand on your chair, you would slip your shoe off and toe at the hem of his pants under the table. Sometimes brushing his ankle, but most often you teased him with almost but not quite touches. Every time he said something that could've had a double meaning, you always replied to the meaning you were meant to ignore. You could tell that he was well aware of the change in your behavior, but he never did anything about it.
So you got bolder.
You’d meant it when you said you knew what you wanted.
Two months after your argument with Morgan, it was the hottest day of the summer—in Texas—and Hotch had taken you with him to interview a victim’s family. You were boiling because the family’s A/C had been out. They’d had all their windows open, but it hadn’t helped. The trailer they lived in was basically an oven.
By the time the two of you made it back to the car, you were both sweating and he’d started taking layers off before he ever got in the vehicle. Suit jacket? Back seat. Tie? Right alongside it. Buttons? Undone to his sternum. Sleeves? Rolled up to his elbows.
He had ran his fingers through his hair so many times to keep the sweat at bay that it was standing on end and pointing in every direction. Effortlessly sexy. You were sure yours was plastered to your forehead, so you shook it out, and—as he started the car—you leaned across the console and plucked a pen from his shirt pocket. He barely glanced at you, not seeming to mind at all, if he even noticed.
But you would make him notice.
Using the pen you secured your hair up into a twist to get it off your neck. Then you slowly began unbuttoning your own blouse, just as far as he had. So that if he glanced over at you he would catch a glimpse of flesh and pink lace. You didn’t say a word, and neither did he, he didn’t so much as blink… but his hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.
That wasn’t enough for you.
Fanning yourself, you slouched a little in your seat, letting your blouse fall open farther. Then you lifted your leg—slipping your foot out of your heel—and rested in on the dash as he drove. Letting your skirt ride up, you un-clipped your garter from your thigh high hose, rolled it down slowly, then tossed it into the back seat, and did the same with the other. When you put your second leg back down, you didn’t bother straightening your skirt, in fact, you let your legs splay a bit so that it would ride higher.
He cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly in his seat, then clutched the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white and the veins in his forearms stuck out.
Much better.
When you reached the field office, Hotch disappeared to the restroom for ten minutes.
The night that case wrapped up, you all decided to visit a club in Austin, waiting for the Jet to refuel and be ready to go.
Hotch looked delicious, wearing that black polo you were so fond of and a pair of jeans. You didn’t have much in the way of club attire but you made it work with your shortest pencil skirt—which you folded under and clipped to your garters to make shorter—and the vest that matched it, with nothing but a bra and panties underneath. You looked… Well, you’d never been one to brag.
When you walked into the hotel lobby—your heels clicking softly on the tile—the girls saw you first. JJ and Prentiss were the best hype women on the planet on nights like this.
“Goddamn, how do you manage to make that same outfit say, ‘respect my badge,’ in the daylight, but say, ‘fuck me sideways in the bathroom,’ at night?” Emily teased, giving you an appreciative round of applause, that subsequently got Hotch’s—and everyone else’s—attention.
His eyes locked onto your cleavage, and you focused on breathing into your upper chest to make your breasts rise with each inhale… He was mesmerized.
“Layers and choice of lipstick.” You joked, giving her a little spin that was not at all for her benefit, but for his.
When you faced them again, he was gone, but you caught sight of him… slinking into the men’s room.
Later at the club, you, Emily, and JJ hit the dance floor for long enough that you began to get thirsty, so you left them together in the crowd and made your way to the bar. You spotted him there, getting another round for himself, Rossi, and Morgan; though the other two were nowhere to be found.
You didn’t think it through, you just acted.
Slipping up behind him, you slid a hand over his ribs and up his chest, using it to put a little bit of space between him and the bar, but you didn’t look up at him as you stepped into that space.
“Hey, Hotch.” Was all you said to acknowledge his presence, before leaning over the bar and pressing your ass right against his crotch as you flagged down a bartender.
As you ordered, you made sure to wiggle around enough that he could feel every movement.
“She’s on my tab.” Hotch told the bartender after you’d both been handed your drinks.
The man nodded then walked away, so you turned around and leaned back on the bar—exposing your cleavage and throat—as your leg slipped between his and you made sure he felt it. You took a long sip of your drink, wrapping your red lips around the straw as you looked up at him from under thick lashes. Daring him with your eyes to make a move.
His own eyes were devouring you, and you thought he might break—might finally drop the act and do something about the way you’d been teasing him—but he took a deep breath instead.
“Thanks for the drink.” You smirked, and slipped back into the crowd as quickly as you’d appeared, but you watched once again as he excused himself after delivering Morgan and Rossi’s drinks. He found his way to the bathroom, and when he came back out you felt his eyes on you for the rest of the night.
Once everyone stumbled drunkenly onto the plane—yourself included—it didn’t take long for everyone else to fall asleep; except him, though you pretended not to notice. You wanted to get one last tease in before the long weekend, something he could ruminate on—obsess about—until he saw you again.
Standing from your seat, you pulled your go-bag out from beneath it—having planned this in advance—and pulled out a pair of sweats and an over sized tee. Your heels had long since been discarded so it was easy to slip the sweats on over your skirt, pulling it up to your waist once you were covered, and removing it over your sweats. Your garter belt following immediately after. You turned away from him, toward the wall where no one could see if they happened to wake, and unbuttoned your vest letting it slip off your shoulders. You contemplated removing your bra as well, but decided that with the others present… that was too far.
You took your time putting your shirt back on though, and you could feel his eyes on your back. When you turned around again, he didn’t even pretend not to have been staring. He watched as you sat down again, curling up into a ball and trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, content that he would be thinking about you incessantly.
“I know what you’re doing…” He murmured quietly, after several minutes had passed.
You didn’t respond, but you couldn’t keep a smile from tugging at the corner of your lips. Teasing him had become your new favorite pastime. Half an hour later, when he thought you’d fallen asleep, he slipped out of his seat and snuck to the restroom.
You could just barely hear the faint sound of his moans, each one resembled a broken utterance of your name.
Rossi invited the whole team to his house for dinner and drinks the very next night, and couldn’t help but see it as another opportunity to push your agenda. So upon receiving your invitation, you immediately texted the other girls saying, ‘let’s dress up and be cute, we can take pictures together!’ Penelope immediately jumped on the bandwagon, and with some gentle prodding—shameless begging—from her, the other two agreed as well. You knew exactly what you were going to wear.
When you arrived at Rossi’s that night, you were the very last one to show up. Partially on purpose, but also because you’d spent hours making sure you were irresistible. You’d been saving the little dress for an important occasion, maybe a first date or something, but breaking Aaron Hotchner’s will seemed like the perfect use for it. It was a black, satin, backless, halter top, minidress so short you couldn’t so much as bend slightly at the waist. Your hair was styled so that it wasn’t obstructing the view of your bare back, your makeup flawless. If he resisted you tonight…
You’d fucking give up.
As you walked into the dining room, Morgan let out a low, playfully teasing whistle—being the first to spot you—and that had everyone else looking your way. You blushed at the attention, playing up your innocence and biting back an ‘oh so timid’ smile. Hotch wasn’t buying it, you could tell by the way he was smirking at you that he knew exactly what you were doing.
“You look amazing!” Penelope gushed, wobbling over on her platform heels. “Do a twirl, lemme see the back!”
So you did a slow twirl… and when you faced them again, the smirk on his face was long gone. What remained was something between panic and desire.
“Do you like it?” You asked Penelope, smiling and looking down as if you were unsure of yourself. “I’ve had it for like two years, but never had a chance to wear it, and we were dressing up tonight so I thought… Why not?”
“Do I—? Do I Li—? Do I like it?!” Penelope blustered as if it was an absolutely ridiculous notion that she might not. “Sugar, I love it! You look like— Like— Like a dark seductress of the night or something!”
You tried not to laugh.
JJ and Emily did no such thing.
“Garcia, you just called her hooker!” Emily cackled, falling into JJ, already a few drinks in.
“I did not!” Penelope protested, absolutely aghast at the suggestion. “She looks much too sophisticated to be a hooker!”
“So a very expensive call girl then?” You teased her, joining in on the fun, even as you felt his eyes drinking you in.
“No— Well… now that you mention it— No! I’m kidding!” Penelope joked as well, laughing at your mock outrage.
Once the laughter faded, you all made your way to the table, and—as always—it seemed as though Hotch would sit next to you. This time however, he pulled out your chair for you, something he’d never gone so far as to do before. You could feel the heat of his hands, just inches from your skin, gripping the back of your seat as he pushed it up to the table, but as always… he didn’t touch you.
So you didn’t touch him either, instead ensuring that he could only feel the heat of you as you almost made contact all through out the meal. His hands twitched in your direction with a frequency you found encouraging, his eyes lingered on you when he thought you weren’t looking, his breath hitched each time you laughed, and you couldn’t help but smile because you had him at the end of his rope. Of that you were certain.
By the time dinner was over, the others were several bottles in collectively, and they’d decided to abscond to the patio for more. They were intoxicated enough that no one noticed when you slipped away.
No one but Hotch, of course. Exactly as you’d intended when you made eye contact with him as you disappeared inside.
At first, you weren’t sure if he would follow you, and you couldn’t hear anything but the soft clicking of your heels as you traipsed down the hallway. Looking for a dark corner to get cornered in.
Hearing the faintest scuff of a shoe behind you, you stopped, but you didn’t turn around. You knew it was him, you could feel his eyes on you and recognized their weight.
“Do you enjoy torturing me?” His low rumble of a question just barely reached your ears over the sound of the music the others were blaring outside.
“Is that what you think I’ve been doing?” You quipped, still not turning to face him as he took a few steps closer.
“Is it not?” He asked, his voice near enough that it almost startled you. “Is that not exactly what you’ve been doing for the last five days? Before this week it was just retaliatory and I deserved that, but you’ve been taunting me, Sweetheart. I don’t like being taunted.”
You laughed softly, even though you could hardly focus… How could you? Your pussy had it’s own goddamn pulse.
“The only person taunting you was you.” You shrugged.
“I beg to differ.” He chuckled, and you felt his breath disturbing your hair, tickling your ear, sending a thrill down your spine. “Do you know how hard it’s been to keep my hands to myself? While you’ve been taking your clothes off in front of me, or just not wearing enough of them to begin with… Do you know how many times I’ve had to sneak away and take care of the evidence of what you do to me?”
“Four, by my count.” You grinned, turning your head just enough to make sure he could see it. “My name sounds so good falling off your lips…”
“You’re a menace…” He groaned, and you knew if you looked at him his fists would be clenched at his sides.
“And you’re a masochist.” You let another laugh roll off your tongue, shaking your head. “All this self inflicted yearning, when you could’ve just taken the invitation I’ve been serving to you on a platter.”
“You’re not even thirty.” A weak attempt at reason, and you both knew it.
“And you’re old enough to be my father, but I don’t have daddy issues, and you’re too uptight to be having a midlife crisis…” You shrugged, a smile pulling at your lips. “Sometimes it’s just about attraction, and having the balls to take what you want. We both know what we want… So what the hell are you waiting for?”
The force of your chest hitting the closest wall nearly knocked the breath out of you, but the feeling of his hands—sliding up under the hem of your dress and forcing it up around your waist—was what had you gasping. You moaned so loudly, as he took a handful of your ass and squeezed, that you bit your lip to keep from being heard.
“Don’t be shy now,” he growled in your ear, biting it, “they can’t hear your filthy little mouth out there, the music is too loud.”
“Hotch!” You whined, as he licked and sucked his way down the side of your neck.
“Aaron.” He corrected, slipping his other hand into the top of your dress and kneading your breast as he kept gripping your ass. “I knew there was no way you were wearing a bra under this little thing, I half expected you to have forgone panties too. Did you, sweetheart? I can’t feel anything but skin…” He released your ass, only to reach around and cup your cunt possessively. “Ah, there they are… must be a thong. I think I’ll leave that on while I fuck you, I bet it’ll look so pretty.”
His teeth snagged the bow on the halter of your dress, and he pulled it loose with a jerk of his head; exposing your breasts to the cool air and causing you to gasp. Gripping your hips he flipped you around and pressed your back to the wall, trailing hot, sloppy, open mouthed kisses down your chest. Then sinking his teeth into the mound of your breast he—making you cry out—he slipped his hand inside the front of your panties. His fingers swiping through your folds, gathering wetness and dragging it back up to your clit.
“You’re so fucking wet already…” He groaned, then sucked a nipple into his mouth, drawing on it hard enough to make you whimper before dragging his mouth back up to your throat. “Are you always this wet for me, darling? Have I always made you this desperate, or is has it built up with the anticipation?”
His fingers were circling your clit so perfectly, you couldn’t have answered him if you wanted too, and you didn’t because the answer was too raw… it was humiliating. Then he stopped, wrapping his free hand around your throat, squeezing just enough to make a point, and make you dizzy with lust.
“Answer me.” He growled looking into your eyes, and holding your gaze so that you could see the fullness of his own desperation, his desire for you.
“Always.” You gasped, and the truth of it must have shown in your eyes because his softened.
“Fuck.” He nearly sighed, and then his lips crashed into yours, messy and frantic, all consuming.
His fingers grazed down from your clit to your entrance, and he kept the other hand around your throat as he slid one inside. You moaned into his mouth at the thickness of it, as he worked it in a come here motion against your g-spot.
“Aaron!” You cried, as he added a second digit, his thumb finding your clit as he moved the two fingers faster.
“I know baby, I know.” He cooed, and you felt him smile against your lips. “Let me have it baby, tell me how good it feels.”
“So good!” You panted, writhing against the wall and grinding down into his hand, desperate to have him deeper, to be fuller. “More please!”
“Such a good girl…” He chuckled, and the sound only nudged you closer to the edge, making your pussy clench around his fingers. “Begging for me already… You want another one baby? Need to feel fuller?”
“Yes!” You sobbed, the tension had built so quickly that it was beginning to throb painfully. “Please, please, please…”
“Pitiful.” He growled against your lips, biting the bottom one and dragging it through his teeth. “You sound pretty when you’re desperate.” You could feel his smile as he nipped and sucked his way up your jaw to your ear, his voice was a low rumble that made your whole body quiver when he said, “Ask me one more time, tell me exactly what you want, and make it sweet, darling.”
You couldn’t fucking breath, but you forced yourself to do it anyway.
“I need another one, please Aaron, I wanna feel so full of you it hurts! Please…” You pleaded, your body shaking with a mix of apprehension and pleasure as he huffed a condescending laugh against your skin.
“That’s my girl…” He murmured, and slid a third finger inside.
“Fuck!” Your voice broke, ragged and harsh as you panted through the stretch of it. “Oh, fuck!”
He busied himself with your neck, trailing kisses and finding sensitive skin with his tongue, fucking you into oblivion with his fingers all the while. You’d never been this overwhelmed by someone in your life, he was doing everything so perfectly as if he’d made you fall apart a thousand times before and knew exactly what you needed.
“Fuck, Aaron, I’m—” You choked out, barely able to speak at all as the pleasure mounted and you felt tears running from the corners of your eyes.
“I know you are, pretty girl… So fucking pretty.” He hummed, taking your lips with his again before pulling back to look at you, studying your trembling form and meeting your eyes with a fiercely possessive gaze. “Don’t look away from me, angel, I wanna see it in your eyes when you come.”
Then you were gone. It was like he’d broken something in your mind with that last command and completely shattered your last shred of self control. The sensation was white hot, and so powerful your knees buckled, but he kept you on your feet. Clapping a hand over your mouth as a scream ripped its way from your throat.
“Good girl, sweetheart, you’ve done so good…” He cooed, fucking you through it gently, and stroking your cheek with his thumb when your scream softened to short little whimpers. “Such a good girl, you came so hard, baby, I’m so proud of you.”
You whined when he pulled his fingers out of your cunt, and he stifled the sound by sticking them in your mouth instead. The taste of your release on his fingers was intoxicating.
“Clean up your mess for me, pretty girl.” He murmured, his tone somehow soothing and condescending at the same time. Then he chuckled when you moaned around him and began to suck without hesitation. “You’re my good girl, aren’t you?”
You nodded, as he wiped tears away from your cheeks, now that it seemed your legs functioned well enough to stand.
“Can you walk, baby?” He asked, stroking your hair away from face.
When you shook your head no, he laughed, pulled his fingers out of your mouth, then slipped his hands beneath your thighs and lifted you off the floor, wrapping your legs around his waist.
“Where are we going?” You murmured, as he began to carry you up the stairs.
“To find a bed.” He said, kissing his way back up your neck and somehow managing to stay on his feet. “I’m too old to fuck on the floor, and I want you on your knees.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” You sighed into his mouth as you captured his lips with yours, threading your hands through his hair like you’d been dying to do for months.
“When I get done with you…” he growled, biting your bottom lip, “you’ll be thankful for the bed too.”
Spin the wheel again. That’s who’s trying to protect you.
(If you have zero idea about a name you got, spin until you see someone you recognize.)
Are you safe?
Absolutely not. I'm dead. 100% dead.
I might stay alive, but it'll be a really close thing.
I'll take some hits, for certain, but I should be okay in the end.
A few attacks might get through, but nothing concerning.
The attacker might be able to get in one lucky hit. If that.
I am the opposite of worried. I'm 100% safe.
…Look. I've tried picturing this. But I honestly don't know how to answer.
Voting ended onJul 14
(I've run this poll twice before, expanding it significantly for the second run. With about a year passed since that second run, I thought it was time to add another couple hundred names to the list and have another go.)
I got leia organna trying to kill me. It wouldn’t matter who it was trying to protect me, I think I’d be toast. However, I got the cowardly lion from the wizard of oz… I’m not just toast. I’m burnt toast.
If I were Aaron Hotchner’s younger girlfriend, I’d be such a menace… I’d send him videos and pictures of himself looking ✨scrumptious✨with captions like “I bite.” Or “I’m gonna lick it.👅”
And if he asked what exactly I intended to lick—or bite—I would just go “hehehehe” and refuse to elaborate. But I would follow it up with “come find out. 😏” and if he did… I’d either give him the time of his whole goddamn life… or… lick his face and run away laughing like an idiot. I’d decide in the moment.
Aaron Hotchner was a gentleman. That was a fact, pure and simple. Until he wasn’t…
In public his hand never slid lower than the small of your back, simply guiding you wherever you needed to go. It was protective, instinctive, and it felt safe. His touch always made you feel safe…
But it also excited you.
Because you knew that as soon as the door to your apartment closed behind you, those same hands would go from protective to possessive. Sliding from your waist to your ass, squeezing firmly as he devoured your lips. Unable to keep his hands respectably to himself for a second longer.
His kisses were chaste in polite company; the back of your hand, your cheek, your forehead, and very briefly to your lips.
In private he was ravenous; leaving trails of love marks up and down your neck, your breasts, your thighs, and the lips he spent the most time on… they were not the ones on your face.
He always protected your dignity. Once at a formal event, upon noticing a wardrobe malfunction, he simply beckoned you over, positioned himself so that you weren’t visible to anyone else, and put his jacket around your shoulders.
“You’re having a bit of a mishap, honey.” He murmured, for your ears only, dropping his eyes to your cleavage, and when your face started to heat at the embarrassment of thinking someone might have seen the slight hint of pink that was peeking from your dress, he shook his head. “Don’t worry, no one saw but me. It just happened a moment ago, I’ve got you sweetheart.”
He kept watch while you fixed it, making it seem like you were simply having a conversation. However, when you went to step away, he grasped your upper arm gently and pulled you back to him, murmuring, “You look stunning darling, but I think that dress is going to look even better on my bedroom floor tonight, and I can’t wait to get it there.”
You hadn’t been able to sit still the rest of the night.
That was another thing. You could tease him all night long, but his control would never slip…
Not until he got you home.
Because he was a gentleman until he was not.
