Parinig: Aaron Hotchner x Curvy Reader
Warning: This story contains adult themes, including guilt and sexual content, specifically penetrative intercourse.
Summary: The reader has a thing for her boss, but things are complicated because she doesn't want to ruin what she has.
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Stolen Hours
The hotel room door clicks shut behind you, and the sound echoes like a gunshot in the silence. Your heart hammers against your ribs as Aaron turns the deadbolt, his broad shoulders tense beneath his white dress shirt. He's already loosened his tie—something he never does, not even after the longest cases—and the sight of that small rebellion makes your stomach flip.
"We shouldn't be here," you whisper, but you don't move toward the door. You never do.
Aaron turns to face you, and the look in his dark eyes steals whatever breath you have left. He's still wearing his suit pants, his FBI credentials clipped to his belt, a reminder of everything that makes this wrong. Your boss. Your unit chief. Twenty years your senior and holding your career in his capable hands.
"No," he agrees, his voice that low rumble that you feel in your bones. "We shouldn't."
But he crosses the room anyway, eating up the distance between you in three long strides. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheek with a tenderness that contradicts the hunger in his gaze. You're acutely aware of how small you feel next to him, how his six-foot-two frame towers over your much shorter stature. It should make you feel vulnerable. Instead, it makes you feel wanted.
"Tell me to leave," Aaron says, but his other hand has already found your waist, fingers pressing into the soft curve of your hip through your blouse. "Tell me this is the last time."
You've had this conversation before. In a hotel in Seattle. In his office after everyone else had gone home. In the back of the SUV on a stakeout that neither of you can quite justify in your reports. Each time, you both promise it's over. Each time, you're lying.
"Aaron—" His name comes out breathless, and you hate how desperate you sound. How desperate you are.
"Say it," he commands, and there's the Unit Chief voice, the one that makes hardened criminals confess and makes your knees weak. His hand tightens on your hip, pulling you closer until you can feel the heat of him through your clothes. "Tell me you don't want this."
But you can't. God help you, you can't.
Instead, you grab his tie and pull him down to you, and the kiss is nothing like tender. It's six weeks of stolen glances across the bullpen, of his hand lingering too long on your shoulder during briefings, of excusing yourself to the bathroom because watching him interrogate a suspect in that commanding tone made you ache. It's every moment you've had to pretend you don't know what he tastes like, what he sounds like when he loses control.
Aaron groans against your mouth, and the sound vibrates through your entire body. His hands are everywhere now—tangling in your hair, sliding down your back, gripping the fullness of your hips like he's afraid you'll disappear. You've spent so much of your life trying to take up less space, to shrink yourself, but Aaron touches you like he wants more. Like he can't get enough.
"Do you know what you do to me?" he murmurs against your lips, then your jaw, then the sensitive spot below your ear that makes you gasp. "Sitting across from me in those meetings, biting your lip when you're thinking. I can barely concentrate."
His confession sends a thrill through you. Aaron Hotchner, always controlled, always composed, distracted by you.
"You're one to talk," you manage, though it's difficult when his mouth is doing sinful things to your neck. "You and those suits. It's not fair."
You feel him smile against your skin. "What's not fair?"
"How good you look. How everyone respects you." Your hands find the buttons of his shirt, and you're gratified when your fingers only shake a little. "How I have to sit there and pretend I'm not thinking about this."
"What are you thinking about?" His hands slide under your blouse, palms warm against the soft skin of your waist. "Tell me."
The command in his voice makes you shiver. This is the dance you do—Aaron's natural dominance meeting your need to surrender, at least here, at least with him. In the field, you're equals. You've proven yourself a dozen times over, earned your place on the team through skill and dedication. But here, in these stolen moments, you can let go. You can let him take control.
"I think about your hands," you admit, working the last button free and pushing his shirt off his shoulders. He's solid beneath your palms, all lean muscle and warm skin. "How they'd feel on me. In me."
Aaron's breath hitches, and you feel a surge of power knowing you can affect him this way. He catches your wrists, holding them gently but firmly.
"Keep talking," he says, walking you backward until your legs hit the bed. "I want to hear everything."
You sit on the edge of the mattress, looking up at him, and the position makes you feel deliciously vulnerable. Aaron's still mostly dressed, still commanding, while you're disheveled and wanting. His hands release your wrists to frame your face, thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks.
"I think about you bending me over your desk," you confess, emboldened by the darkening of his eyes. "About you pulling me into an empty conference room. About you making me be quiet while you—"
He kisses you again, swallowing the rest of your words. "You have no idea how many times I've almost done exactly that," he says roughly. "How many times I've had to stop myself from following you into the file room, from keeping you late with the door locked."
His hands find the hem of your blouse, and he pauses, asking silent permission. You nod, and he pulls it over your head with careful deliberation. You fight the instinct to cover yourself, to hide the soft stomach and full breasts that don't match the women you imagine he usually wants. But Aaron's looking at you like you're something precious, something he's been denied too long.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and the reverence in his voice makes your eyes sting. "You're so damn beautiful."
His hands map your body with the same methodical attention he brings to everything—learning, memorizing. He traces the curve of your waist, the fullness of your hips, the soft skin of your thighs. When he reaches behind you to unhook your bra, his movements are confident, practiced, and you try not to think about the wife he lost, the life he had before.
"Where did you go?" Aaron asks, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. He sees too much, always has. It's what makes him brilliant at his job and dangerous to your heart.
"Just thinking," you say.
"Don't." He lowers you back onto the bed, following you down, his weight a delicious pressure. "Don't think about tomorrow, or the team, or what this means. Just be here. With me."
It's the closest he's come to acknowledging that this is more than physical, that the complication isn't just professional. You nod, pulling him down for another kiss, and this one is slower, deeper. His hand slides up your ribcage to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple until you arch into his touch.
"Aaron, please—"
"I know," he soothes, his free hand working at the button of your pants. "I've got you."
And he does. He always does. That's the problem.
You lift your hips so he can slide your pants down, taking your underwear with them, and then you're bare beneath him while he's still wearing his suit pants. The contrast makes you feel exposed and desired all at once. Aaron sits back on his heels, just looking at you, and you have to resist the urge to cover yourself.
"Don't hide from me," he says, catching your hands when you move to do exactly that. He brings them to his lips, kissing your knuckles. "You're perfect. Every inch of you."
He proves it with his mouth, kissing a path down your body that makes you tremble. He pays attention to every curve, every soft place, murmuring praise against your skin. When he settles between your thighs, his shoulders spreading you wide, you thread your fingers through his dark hair.
"We don't have much time," you remind him breathlessly. The team is expecting you both back for dinner, and you've already been gone too long.
Aaron looks up at you, and the intensity in his eyes makes your breath catch. "Then I'll have to make it count."
He does. God, he does. His mouth is as skilled and thorough as everything else about him, and he doesn't stop until you're biting your fist to keep from crying out, until you're shaking apart under his hands and tongue. He works you through it with gentle persistence, only pulling back when you tug weakly at his hair.
"Too much," you gasp, and he presses a kiss to your inner thigh before crawling back up your body.
"You okay?" he asks, and the tenderness in his voice nearly undoes you more than the orgasm did.
"More than okay." You reach for his belt, but he catches your hands again.
"We don't have to—"
"Aaron." You meet his eyes, letting him see how much you want this. Want him. "Please."
Something in his expression shifts, the last of his restraint crumbling. He makes quick work of his remaining clothes, and then he's settling between your thighs, the weight and heat of him making you gasp. He braces himself on one forearm, his other hand cupping your face.
"Look at me," he commands softly, and you do. You hold his gaze as he pushes inside, slow and careful, giving you time to adjust. You're grateful for his patience because he's not a small man, and it's been too long since the last time you managed to steal these moments together.
"Okay?" he asks again when he's fully seated, and you can hear the strain in his voice, the effort it's taking him to hold still.
"Yes," you breathe, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Move. Please move."
He does, setting a rhythm that's both tender and demanding. One hand grips your hip, holding you steady, while the other remains gentle on your face, thumb stroking your cheek. The contrast is so perfectly Aaron—commanding and careful, dominant and devoted.
"You feel incredible," he murmurs against your ear, and the praise makes you clench around him. He groans, hips stuttering. "God, when you do that—"
You do it again deliberately, and he retaliates by shifting the angle, hitting a spot that makes you see stars. You bite down on his shoulder to muffle your moan, and he makes a rough sound of approval.
"That's it," he encourages, his pace increasing. "Take what you need."
The permission, the command, sends you spiraling. You cling to him, nails digging into his back, as he drives you higher. His hand slides from your hip to where you're joined, and the added stimulation is almost too much.
"Aaron, I can't—I'm going to—"
"Let go," he orders, and you do, falling apart around him with his name on your lips. He follows moments later, burying his face in your neck as he shudders through his release.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, matching the frantic rhythm of your own. His weight should be crushing, but instead it feels like safety, like home, and that terrifies you more than anything.
Eventually, Aaron lifts his head, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. "Okay?" he asks for the third time, and you almost laugh.
"I'm fine," you assure him. "Better than fine."
He pulls out carefully, and you both wince at the loss. He disappears into the bathroom, returning with a warm washcloth that he uses to clean you with the same gentle attention he brought to everything else. It's intimate in a way that feels more dangerous than the sex, this tender aftercare from a man who's supposed to be nothing more than your boss.
"We need to get back," you say reluctantly, sitting up. Your clothes are scattered across the floor, a trail of evidence of your weakness.
"I know." Aaron's already pulling on his boxer briefs, ever practical. But he pauses to cup your face again, tilting it up for one more kiss. "Are you okay? Really?"
You know he's not just asking about the physical. He's asking about all of it—the secrecy, the guilt, the impossible situation you've created.
"I don't know," you admit, because you've never been able to lie to him. "Are you?"
Aaron's quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "No," he finally says. "But I can't seem to stop."
"Me neither."
It's the most honest you've been with each other outside of bed, this acknowledgment that you're both in too deep, that this has become something neither of you can control. It should scare you. It does scare you. But not enough to walk away.
You dress in silence, both of you transforming back into your professional selves. Aaron reknots his tie with practiced efficiency, and you smooth down your blouse, checking your reflection in the mirror. Your lips are swollen, your cheeks flushed, but otherwise you look presentable. No one would know that ten minutes ago you were falling apart in your boss's arms.
"You go first," Aaron says, checking his watch. "I'll follow in fifteen minutes."
It's the routine you've established, the careful choreography of your affair. Never arrive together, never leave together, never give anyone reason to suspect. You're good at it now, after months of practice. Too good.
You nod, grabbing your bag. At the door, you pause, looking back at him. He's standing by the window, hands in his pockets, looking every inch the composed Unit Chief. But you can see the tension in his shoulders, the conflict in his eyes.
"Aaron—"
"Don't," he says quietly. "Don't say it."
Because you both know what comes next. The same thing that always comes next. You'll go back to the team, sit through dinner making careful small talk, pretend that your heart doesn't race every time he looks at you. You'll fly home tomorrow and return to your separate lives, to the careful distance you maintain in the office. And you'll both pretend that this was the last time, that you're strong enough to end it.
Until the next case, the next hotel, the next moment of weakness.
You leave without another word, letting the door close softly behind you. In the elevator, you catch your reflection in the polished doors. You look the same as you did an hour ago, but you feel fundamentally changed. Every time with Aaron chips away at your resolve, at the walls you've built around your heart.
You know how this story ends. You've seen it play out in a dozen different ways—in the cautionary tales whispered around the Bureau, in the careers destroyed by inappropriate relationships, in the hearts broken by loving someone you can't have. There's no version of this where you both get what you want. Either you end it and lose him, or you continue and risk everything you've worked for.
But as you step out into the hotel lobby, smoothing your hair one final time, you know the truth. You're not strong enough to walk away. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
And upstairs, in that hotel room, Aaron Hotchner is thinking the exact same thing.
The team is waiting at the restaurant when you arrive, and you slide into the booth next to JJ with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, got caught up with a phone call."
"Everything okay?" Morgan asks, and you nod, grateful that your voice is steady when you respond.
"Just my mom. You know how it is."
The lie comes easily now. They all do.
Fifteen minutes later, Aaron arrives, and no one questions it. He's the Unit Chief; he's always busy, always handling something. He takes the seat at the head of the table, and his eyes meet yours for just a fraction of a second. In that brief glance, you see everything—the desire, the guilt, the resignation that this isn't over.
Not by a long shot.
Reid is talking about statistics, and Rossi is arguing good-naturedly about the best Italian restaurant in D.C., and everything is normal. Perfectly, painfully normal. You laugh at Morgan's jokes and discuss the case with Emily, and you don't look at Aaron more than is professionally appropriate.
But under the table, your phone buzzes with a text.
Tomorrow night. My place. Please.
You shouldn't respond. You should delete it, should tell him this has to stop. Instead, your fingers move across the screen almost of their own accord.
Okay.
Because you're weak, and he's your weakness, and some part of you has stopped caring about the consequences. Some part of you has started to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there's a way to make this work. It's a dangerous thought, a foolish one, but it takes root anyway.
Across the table, Aaron's phone lights up with your response. He doesn't check it, doesn't react, but you see the slight relaxation in his shoulders, the ghost of relief in his eyes.
You're both in too deep now. The affair isn't just physical anymore—it hasn't been for a while, if you're honest with yourself. It's the way he brings you coffee in the morning, remembering exactly how you take it. It's the way you cover for him when the memories of Haley get too heavy. It's the way he looks at you when he thinks no one else is watching, like you're something precious he's afraid to break.
It's love, or something dangerously close to it, and that's the most forbidden thing of all.
The dinner continues, and you play your part perfectly. But inside, you're already counting down the hours until tomorrow night, until you can stop pretending, until you can be honest about what you want.
I feel like Aaron is def a boobs man, could u maybe do something where Aaron shows reader just how obsessed he is with her tits 💋
Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader | Smut | WC: 0.6k | A/N: I'm a firm believer that Hotch is an ass man, but the thought of Hotch playing with your tits is very: 🥴🥵🤤
You stood at the stove in nothing but one of Hotch’s old button-downs that he had discarded from his work rotation due to the fabric thinning. You had the sleeves rolled to your elbows, careful not to get a red tomato sauce stain on the white fabric as you stirred the pot.
You were completely lost in thought as you worked on the meal and didn’t hear him enter the kitchen until a strong pair of arms slid around your waist from behind.
Hotch pressed himself flush against your back, resting his chin on your shoulder, and peeked over to take a look at what you were cooking. He let out a low hum of contentment that vibrated through his chest and into your body.
“Smells incredible,” he murmured, turned his head slightly, and brushed his lips against the shell of your ear.
You smiled, tilting your head to give him better access. Hotch pressed a few kisses down the column of your neck. “It’s just pasta sauce for later. Nothing fancy.”
As you kept stirring the sauce, careful not to burn the bottom, Hotch’s hands started wandering.
They drifted upward, slowly, until his palms made contact with your breasts and cupped them through the thin cotton. He squeezed them gently, no hesitation, thumbs circling over your nipples until they poked hard against the fabric. They were sensitive and aching almost instantly under his touch.
“Baby…” Your voice caught in your throat, half laugh, half moan at the stimulation.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he turned you around in his arms until your back met the counter. sHotch turned the stove off and pushed the sauce to one of the cold hobs. He then dipped his head down and kissed along the swell of your breast, right above the open neckline of the shirt. His tongue traced the curve, then dipped lower until he met the edge of the shirt. With a frustrated growl, he unbuttoned the shirt further, nudging the fabric aside, freeing your breasts until he could close his lips around one nipple, while his hand came up and rolled your other between the pads of his fingers.
A soft moan slipped out of you, and Hotch groaned in response. Like the sound of your pleasure was enough for him to cum right then and there.
“God, I love these,” he rasped against your skin, voice rough with want, with need. “So soft.” He sucked harder, tongue flicking over your nipple. “Every time I see you like this, in my shirt, without a bra on, I can’t think straight. Just want to touch you. To taste you. To bury my face here and stay forever.”
You arched into him, fingers threading through his hair, and giggled. “At this point, it sounds like you’re obsessed.”
“Completely.” He switched sides, giving the other breast the same slow, devoted attention: kissing, licking, and sucking until you were trembling against the counter. “I dream about them. About how they fit in my hands. How they bounce when you ride me. How they look when I fuck you.” Another flick of his tongue. “They’ve ruined me for anything else.”
Heat started pooling between your legs.
Hotch finally lifted his head, eyes dark and glassy, pupils dilated, lips swollen and wet. “You can finish the sauce in five minutes.”
“Only five?” You laughed breathlessly, knowing exactly where he was going.
“Maybe ten. I’m very thorough.” He smirked, already walking you backward toward the hallway, hands never leaving your chest.
And he was. Very devoted, very reverent, and utterly obsessed, just the way you loved him.
co-written by @ssaic-jareau
links: masterlist | posting schedule | ao3
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word count: 1.8k
content warning(s): canon typical discussions of injury, rehashing foyet, soft and fluffy aaron content
“it has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' i do not agree. the wounds remain. in time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. but it is never gone.”
rose fitzgerald kennedy
november 20th, 2011
+++
The room is still.
Your legs are tangled under the sheet, warm and bare and resting comfortably against his. The lamp on the nightstand is turned low—enough light to see him by, but not enough to startle—and the quiet hum of the street through the window is the only sound between you for a while.
He’s lying on his back, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting lightly on your hip.
And you’re watching him.
Or more specifically—studying him.
Your fingertips trace the scar that bisects his side. The deep one, the worst of the internal damage, but a smoother healing process than some of the others. He flinches—barely—but not from pain. From habit. You pause. Then trace it again, gentler this time.
He exhales. “What are you doing?”
“I just need to know they’ve healed,” you say, your thumb brushing the edge of a raised scar. Your voice doesn’t shake, not anymore.
He blinks, opens his eyes. You don’t look up yet. You’re focused.
“I need to know that you’re okay.” Your voice drops to a very honest whisper. “That you made it.”
He goes very still beneath you.
And maybe it should surprise him, how easily you say it. How calmly. But it doesn’t. Not really.
He watches your face instead. The way your fingers move with care, not fear. Like he’s not made of something broken. Like he’s not fragile. Like he’s worth touching, worth learning by hand.
Your fingers stop at the one just under his collarbone—the worst of them, aesthetically speaking.
It’s jagged and more raised than the rest, an angry, twisted line that still hasn’t calmed after all these years. The scar is gnarled, extending far deeper than you can see.
“This one,” you whisper, “was the one they were worried about long-term.”
He nods. “The most nerve damage. I couldn’t feel anything around it for weeks. There are still numb spots.”
You don’t flinch. You press your palm flat over it. Like you’re grounding it. Like you’re taking it into yourself.
He watches you in silence.
You move lower, shifting the blanket to trace another.
“I’ve never seen this one,” you murmur, fingers ghosting over the thin, raised scar between his ribs on the right side.
“Slotted right through,” he says. “Didn’t hit anything vital. Barely.”
You lean in and press a kiss to it.
Your hands move again, lower, reverent. The one just under his ribs makes you pause. You run your fingers over it, feeling the knotted scar tissue underneath.
From where Foyet dug.
You can feel the anger, the hatred for the man who met his righteous end at Aaron’s hand.
He sees it on your face and answers before you can ask.
“That one was from the second hit. I was already down.”
Your throat tightens, but you say nothing.
Not yet.
There’s another, just to the left of his belly button. Smaller. Cleaner. But still angry. Still personal.
“That one was from the smaller knife,” he says, almost too softly. “It wasn’t serrated. Easier to heal.”
Your hand shakes. You steady it. He’s never talked about this with you, never talked about the attack, not really.
You look at him. “Thank you for telling me.”
His eyes are wet. “You don’t need to know all this.”
You shake your head. “I do. Because I was there. Maybe not in the room. But I was there.”
He reaches up, cups your cheek.
“You were,” he says. “I remember your voice. In the hospital. It was the first thing I really registered.”
You blink fast. Press your lips to the center of his chest—over his heart. The one that’s still bruised, still vulnerable. Still fighting.
“You let me take care of you,” you whisper. “And then you shut the door.”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“I know,” you say, voice steady. “But I didn’t need protection. I needed you.”
He closes his eyes, breath catching.
“I want to know all of it,” you add. “Not because it’s easy. But because it’s you.”
There’s something unbearable in his face when he opens his eyes again. Not grief. Not shame. But something almost like awe.
“You’re not afraid,” he says.
“I am,” you reply. “But not of you.”
He draws you down to him—carefully, gently—and you settle over his chest, still tracing every mark. Every piece of him that once broke open and healed under his own relentless will.
You glance up at him. “Do they still hurt?”
“Sometimes,” he admits. “Not sharp. Just… stiff. Tight.”
Your palm shifts slightly, following the curve beneath his ribs.
“Is there… permanent nerve damage?” you ask. “Are you still on medication? For your heart?”
His gaze sharpens—not defensive, just startled. He nods, once. “Beta-blocker. Low dose. And yeah. There’s numbness. Some phantom pain. Mostly in my ribs, but there are other parts I still can’t feel at all.”
“Where?”
He takes your hand and presses it to his side, under his arm, where his vest velcros together. “Here. I can’t feel this at all.” His hand guides yours to tap, to prod. You spread your fingers over his skin, the pads of your fingers bridging the scar tracing the curve of his ribs.
“The scar tissue is beyond saving,” he says, pulling your hand to another healed wound under his sternum. “I can’t feel any of it beyond the psychosomatic itch.”
“How much is internal?” Your fingers trace the scar, this one preternaturally smooth, no ridges or imperfections at all on its surface.
He shrugs. “They’re not sure. They checked it on ultrasounds on my last follow up to clear me for Pakistan but they’d really need a contrast MRI for all of it.”
You hum. Understanding.
“I’m okay,” he says.
Physically, you believe him.
Your fingers return to his collarbone, remembering the internal stitches. There’s a companion on the other side of his chest, a relatively shallow slice on his pec. That one has healed pale and smooth.
His shoulder has a thin, aged line bisecting the curve of it, interrupting the canvas of lean muscle. You look up with a question.
“Coat hanger. I was twelve.”
That doesn’t really answer your question. You keep your eyes on him.
“My father was…” He pauses, his jaw working. “He had a temper.“
You take a breath, passing over the scars, the new and the old, with your thumb.
You’re not cataloging weaknesses. You’re asking about his life. The one you share. The one he’s lucky enough to live.
You press a soft kiss to the scar beneath his sternum. Not to soothe. To see him.
“Okay,” you murmur, laying your cheek just over the spot you kissed. You can feel the steady thump beneath your skin. “I just wanted to know.”
His fingers brush your temple, his thumb tracing under your eye, slow and grateful. “You already do.”
But he realizes—he hadn’t thought about it like this before.
About the way you carry it. That night. That aftermath.
You weren’t there. But you felt it all. You watched him stagger back from the brink. And you never looked away.
So when you shift—when you rise up slowly onto your elbows and then your knees, straddling him with quiet reverence—he watches you like he’s seeing something holy.
You’re not rushing. Not trying to fix anything.
You just want to be close.
You curl your fingers into the shirt you wear—his, one he loaned you ages ago that somehow stayed yours—and push it up over your chest, then higher, over your head. And when you lean in, you press your lips to each wound, one by one, deliberate, your skin against his.
He shudders.
Not because it hurts.
Because it doesn’t.
Because there is nothing clinical about your touch. Because you’re not reducing him to the pain. You’re honoring it. Reframing it. Offering something back.
When you finally look up, your voice is almost a whisper. “Let me take care of you.”
He’s already breathless. He nods.
Not because he needs it.
Because he wants it.
Because your offer doesn’t feel like pity.
It feels like truth.
You kiss him again—this time at the hollow of his throat—and his breath catches.
There’s nothing hurried about it. No frantic need, no sharp edges. Only presence. Only the warm, quiet urgency of here, now, still. Your mouth brushes the underside of his jaw, and his hand slides from your hip to your waist, grounding himself in the feel of you.
“You’re so gentle with me,” he murmurs, like it’s the strangest miracle in the world.
You look at him, half-smiling. “Of course I am.”
You stay like that for a while, skin to skin. Still wrapped around each other, but the intimate heat between you has cooled into something quieter. Not less intense—never that—but steadier. Like embers instead of flames. Like something that lasts.
Your cheek rests against his shoulder, and his arm curls around your back. His breathing has slowed. So has yours.
Neither of you speak.
It’s not silence. Not really. It’s something softer. Like the space between words when you already understand each other.
His hand strokes slowly up and down your spine, not for your benefit or his—just because. Because you’re here. Because he is. Because the world went on turning, and you both made it back.
Eventually, you lift your head.
Not far. Just enough to look at him. His hair is a little messy. His lips have a little color. There’s a furrow between his brows that hasn’t smoothed entirely, like he’s still afraid this might vanish if he looks too closely.
You touch his face. Thumb across his cheek. Feather-light.
“You okay?” you ask, quiet.
He blinks. Nods. “I’m—” He stops. Tries again. “Yeah. I am.”
You raise an eyebrow. He sighs.
“I don’t always know how to believe that this is real,” he says. “That you’re here. That we’re allowed to be like this. After everything.”
“You don’t have to believe it,” you murmur. “You just have to feel it.”
He closes his eyes. Presses his forehead to yours.
“I do,” he says. “More than I ever thought I could.”
Your fingers curl in the space just above his heart. His hand covers yours.
His voice is rough. “You were the only part of it that ever made sense.”
You don’t answer. You just lean in and kiss him—soft, lingering. Nothing more than the press of lips, the exhale between two people who understand each other down to the bone.
When you pull back, you’re smiling. So is he.
You both shift—still tangled up, but comfortable now. Content.
And later, when sleep begins to pull you under, you tuck your face against his neck and whisper, “You’re not alone anymore.”
summary: you're forced to share a hotel room with your boss, gasp! based on this request!
warnings: smut!!! unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), lots of sex jokes, at least 4k words of build up and sexual tension because i was #ovulating, strip poker, hotch almost jizzes in his pants at the sight of your boobs, this fic is baso me spreading the pathetic!hotch agenda, like he’s so desperate and touch starved in this it’s not even funnyyy, overstimulation, creampie, alcohol consumption, r has hair long enough to tug
wc: 8.7k
✰ masterlist
You taste metal before you realise you’ve bitten too far. A stinging telegram from skin you’ve been gnawing at since you got into the car. It’s a habit you never quite managed to break, surrendering crescents of yourself to restless teeth.
“Quit that,” Hotch says, cutting you a quick sideways glance. It’s meant to be a reprimand, but there’s no real bite in it, only the bite of your own teeth on your nails.
You drop your hands into your lap like a guilty child.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, making a turn onto the main road.
“You think I’m biting my nails because I’m hungry?”
“No. I know you only bite your nails when you’re overthinking. And I know you’re more inclined to talk when you’re not running on an empty stomach.”
You glance out the passenger window, taking notice of the rain that has thickened since you bolted to the car. The prison is already a smear in the rear-view mirror, tucked so far into nowhere it feels less like an institution and more like a secret earth is ashamed of. You imagine its architects deciding it should be placed where even guilt would have trouble finding it.
“There’s a diner about half an hour up the road,” he tries again. “Good coffee. Bad pie.”
You consider it, and on any other night you’d say yes without thinking, like you’ve done countless times before. But you remember that tonight, you’re not heading home. You’re heading back to the hotel room you’re sharing with your boss. The same four beige walls that felt far too small last night.
You hadn’t realised that sharing a bed would also mean sharing melatonin. Though clearly Hotch got the better end of the deal, sleeping like a man immune to proximity-induced panic while you lay still, every muscle tense, your heart hammering as if trying to pound thoughts into words you had no business thinking.
“Can’t we make the drive back home tonight?” you ask, shifting to look at him. “I can drive most of the way if you want to doze off.”
“I think given the weather and your driving skills, that wouldn’t be a wise choice.”
“What’s wrong with my driving skills?”
“You once reversed into a mailbox.”
You scoff. “You weren’t even in the car when that happened.”
“No,” he says, unbothered, “but I did have to file the vehicle incident report explaining why the Bureau SUV suddenly had a dent in the rear bumper.”
You glance out again and he’s right. Sheets of rain blur the road, the wipers swiping furiously just to keep a sliver of the world in view. You’d sooner chew down a mouthful of nails than attempt to drive in this, and considering Hotch handled the entire drive here and carried most of the interview, it hardly seems fair to pester him to slog through another four hours just so you can sleep in your own bed.
“You did well,” he offers obligingly, and you know he’s trying to patch up your bruised ego.
You hadn’t imagined your last few days with the BAU would involve revisiting what was meant to be a closed case. But new evidence had surfaced, linking back to one of your consults which, after this week, wouldn’t even be yours anymore. It would probably be passed on to JJ or Morgan, but you’d insisted on coming, unwilling to leave loose ends behind.
That insistence had landed you on a two-day trip with Hotch accompanied by a night in a cheap, overbooked hotel, one bed, a sleepless night yesterday, and the creeping dread of repeating it again tonight.
“You’re lying. I barely got him to talk.”
“You did more than you realise. We managed to get a name.”
We. You turn your head and catch the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “You managed to get a name,” you correct.
His shoulders lift in a slight shrug, eyes still on the road. “It was a team effort.”
“Well, I suppose it's not really going to be my problem anymore after this week.” You exhale, resting your temple against the cold glass.
“Do you need me to stop anywhere before the hotel?”
“Yes, actually.” You turn towards him with a half-smile, because if you’re going to be forced to share the covers with Hotch again, you’re not doing it sober. “Pretty sure there’s a gas station off the next exit, if you wouldn’t mind?”
He nods, and you go back to overthinking the bane of your existence until Hotch finally pulls into the saddest-looking gas station you’ve ever seen.
“Do you need anything?” you ask, unclipping your seatbelt and letting it snap back harder than necessary, purely because you know it irritates him.
His jaw tics. “You can take it off without assaulting the mechanism, you know.”
“So nothing, then?”
“Coffee. If they have it.”
“Sure.” You pause, then grin at him. “I’ll get you a drink.”
You’re out of the car before he can clarify that he meant just coffee. The cold air immediately slides under your coat, no matter how tightly you pull it around yourself. The rain’s turned into that annoying misty kind—so light it shouldn’t count, but somehow it still sticks to your hair and makes you feel damp and miserable. You jog the last few steps to the door.
Inside, it smells vaguely of lemon cleaning wipes, which is funny, because absolutely nothing in here looks like it’s been cleaned. You don’t bother searching for the coffee machine since technically, you’re not taking orders from your Unit Chief anymore.
You make a beeline for the back fridges instead.
Rows of cheap wine stare back at you—the kind that would give Rossi a heart attack. You pick the worst looking bottle out of pure spite, already planning on texting him a picture just to ruin his evening. Then, for insurance, you grab a few miniature bottles of whiskey. On your way to the till, you snatch a bag of popcorn. The sweet kind.
Once you’ve paid, you head back to the car. Hotch reaches across to push the door open for you, and you slide in. The bag clinks in your hands, immediately giving away your intentions—something he’s clearly clocked, judging by the look he gives you.
“Sorry. The coffee machine was broken, so I got wine instead. Or whisky. Whatever floats your boat on this fine night.”
“Please tell me there's at least water in there.”
You reach into the bag and pull out a bottle, dropping it into the cup holder between you. “Have a little faith.”
He shakes his head in that disappointed-dad way he’s perfected over the years and shifts the car back into drive. The wipers groan across the windshield, and you take the moment to pull the questionable wine out of the bag to send a picture to Rossi.
You get a reply just as Hotch is turning into the hotel’s car park.
Rossi: Is this a cry for help? Tell me that’s not going in your body. 💀🍷
You leave him on read, taking your clinking bottles with you as you follow Hotch out of the car and into the building. The two of you are quiet as you watch him fumble with the key to your room. Yes—key, not card, because it’s that ancient. Yet, for a man who can dismantle a Glock blindfolded, he still manages to miss the hole twice.
“Any time today would be nice.”
He exhales through his nose, slotting the key in on the third try. “You could always help.”
“Sure. Usually you just line it up and get it in the hole. Works for me most of the time.”
He goes still for half a second. Then, without looking at you, “You know there are moments I genuinely regret encouraging you to speak.”
The lock finally clicks and he pushes the door open for you.
“Would you look at that,” you say as you brush past him, “you can find the spot.”
The room is exactly as small as you remember, and somehow the freshly made bed almost makes it look worse. Hotch had made it this morning while you were brushing your teeth, tighter and straighter than housekeeping ever could. Pillows fluffed and aligned, corners tucked. True military craftsmanship from a meticulous dork.
A meticulous dork who is now taking off his jacket and folding it neatly over his go-bag and suddenly—though not suprisignlty—your eyes are glued to the way his white shirt pulls across his shoulders.
You rip your gaze away and begin unpacking your haul.
“You want the shower first?” he asks, and you glance at him, pretending it’s the first time you’ve looked at him since walking in.
“Nope. I want alcohol.”
He shakes his head, grabs his toiletry bag, and disappears into the tiny bathroom.
You’re about to enjoy the way this glorified paint thinner will probably strip your taste buds, when you realise there’s a slight problem. It’s a corked bottle and not a twist-off. You try using your nails to get it open, and then your sheer willpower.
Unfortunately it does not respond to either.
You give it one more useless tug before raising your voice.
“Hotch?”
Water is running. He does not answer.
You try again, louder. “Hotch!”
“What?” he calls through the door, voice muffled.
“Are you decent?”
There’s the faintest pause—long enough for you to smile to yourself because you can’t help but imagine him…not decent.
“Yes,” he says cautiously. “Why?”
“I need help.”
“With what?”
“Alcohol-related emergency.”
You hear him sigh, followed by the water shutting off. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opens and he steps out, with only his belt missing. Interesting. He’s a belt off first kind of guy.
He looks at the bottle, then at you. “You bought wine without a corkscrew.”
You hold it out to him. “Let me take this as a moment to remind you that I never handed paperwork in late, never took a sick day, never complained about overtime. I was, arguably, the model team member. This is the least you can do to show appreciation.”
He doesn’t argue. Just takes the bottle from your hands and sits on the edge of the bed with it.
Legs spread. Grey slacks pulling just slightly at the seams. Broad thighs taking up most of the mattress. He settles the bottle between them, and you do your absolute best to focus on the glass instead of the fabric creasing over muscle and the very distracting proximity of…everything else.
He braces the bottle with one hand around the base and you forget how to form actual sentences. With his other hand, he uses his thumb to push the cork down into the bottle, veins flexing with each movement.
The cork gives a soft, breathy sound as it starts to sink into the neck of the bottle, and you’re just standing there—useless, wine thirsty, and uncomfortably aware of the fact that this should not be as attractive as it is.
He pulls his hand back as soon as the cork pops and sinks into the bottle, wiping his thumb absently against his thigh and you’re pretty much drooling at the sight, while he looks up at you, unfazed.
“Happy now?”
“Mhm. Ecstatic. Guess you’ve got just as much trouble pulling out as you do finding the hole.”
“You know I can request to have you transferred earlier than Friday.”
“Go ahead,” you say, scanning the room for glasses. “Knock yourself out.” There are none. No glasses. No mugs. Not even a questionable plastic cup.
“You want to take your wine so I can go shower?” he asks flatly.
“You’re not joining me?”
His eyes shift between you and the bottle. “How much was this?”
“Four ninety-nine.” You scrunch your nose as he brings it to his face and smells it. “Come on, you have to toast me. Rossi denied me a leaving party because apparently switching departments doesn't count as officially leaving.”
He lets out a slow breath. “You want a toast?”
“Yes.” You nod. “Or you could list your top five things about working with me. Or both. I have time.”
“Fine,” he resigns, moving along the edge of the bed to make space for you. “One toast.”
You grin as you drop down beside him, your knees touching. You watch as he brings the bottle closer to his lips and mulls over what to say.
“To the fact you never did anything halfway,” he says earnestly and it catches you off guard. You were fully expecting something sarcastic like to the number of sex jokes you made on federal payroll. “Cases, paperwork, people,” he continues. “You were all in. Always.”
And then he tilts the bottle back. You shouldn’t stare, but you do. The way his mouth wraps around the glass, the slow swallow, the faint scrunch of his brows as the taste hits. He pulls it away with a barely-supressed grimace.
“That’s awful,” he scoffs, handing it to you.
Your fingers brush when you take it, and you can’t help but wonder if his thumb still tastes like wine. You lift the bottle, deliberately pressing your mouth to the exact spot his lips just were, and you catch the way his eyes flick down to follow the movement before meeting yours again.
You take a swig, more than you should because it burns. “God—that’s fucking vile.”
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Told you.”
“Now you have to help me finish it. Otherwise I’ll die, and you’ll have to do the paperwork.”
“That’s manipulative.”
You shrug. “Is it? Thought extra paperwork would be your kind of foreplay.”
His lips twitch, and you almost catch the smile he’s trying so hard to suppress it’s making him look constipated. “You have a foul mouth,” he mutters, taking the bottle back and bringing it to his lips.
“Is that the first of the five things you like about me?”
He pauses mid-sip, lowers the bottle just enough to give you that painfully patient stare. “We are not making a list.”
“So that’s a yes?”
He takes another swig, getting him out of answering. When he hands the bottle back, you notice his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, despite you having a firm hold on it.
“Fine. No list. I’ll just assume it’s implied.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“It really isn’t.”
You roll your eyes, taking two big gulps that almost make your eyes water.
The back and forth continues until the bottle is completely empty, along with the mini bottles of whiskey you picked up. The popcorn is gone too, aside from the sad trail of it now crushed into the hotel carpet from your failed attempt to open the bag like a normal person.
At some point, sitting upright stopped being doable. Your backs protested, your vision began to blur at the edges, and now the two of you were lying on top of the covers, side by side, legs still hanging off the edge of the bed.
“Are you still beating yourself up about earlier?” he asks, voice softer than it was before the cheap alcohol.
“A little,” you admit with a sigh. “I wanted to do one last thing before leaving. Not hand it back to you unfinished.”
“You softened him up. Made him think he was in control. It might not seem like much, but it helped.”
You huff and push yourself up onto your elbow, turning to face him. His eyes are a little glassy, and for once he looks relaxed. “Bet you’re going to miss using me as bait.”
He shifts his head to glance at you. “You’re only moving two floors down.”
“And what if my new boss doesn’t like to share?”
“You were always mine first,” he says it so casually, you’re not entirely sure he’s processed his own wording.
“Yours?” you let out a laugh, eyebrows lifting.
“Ours,” he corrects, a vague flick of his hand. “The BAUs”
You’re fairly certain you like the sound of mine more. You look at him again, the alcohol throwing all discreetness out your system. He smiles back up at you in a way you don’t see often. His hair is all mussed, a thin layer of sweat making his skin glow.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, pushing up onto his elbow to mirror you.
You grin at him and he immediately regrets asking because he knows that look. He sighs and drops back onto the bed. “Never mind.”
“I think you need a shower.” You spare him your real thoughts.
“Thanks,” he mutters. “I don’t think I could even get my tie off right now.”
“Do you need a hand?”
He laughs quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I might.”
Sitting up takes more effort than it should. The room tilts a little when you move, but you manage to get onto your knees, wobbling and swaying, before Hotch reaches out and catches your wrist, stopping you from diving face first into his chest.
“What’re you doing?” he asks, just as you swing a knee over his hips and ungracefully settle in his lap.
“Helping you get your tie off because you need to shower.”
He goes rigid beneath you, hands hovering near your waist like he’s unsure if he has permission to rest them on you. “You’re on top of me.”
“We can do this standing if you prefer?”
His eyes close for half a second, like he’s silently begging for patience. “No. Just—”
You catch the speed of that no and can’t help but smile, settling yourself against him. “Okay,” you breathe, leaning in. “Hold still.”
You’ve never actually taken a tie off someone before. Definitely not while tipsy. Which is probably why it’s going so badly. You yank at the knot once… twice… and somehow make it worse. “Why is this thing so tight? Are you into autoerotic asphyxiation or something?”
His hands finally come to rest on your waist. “Please don’t ever say that sentence again.”
“Have we just unlocked a secret turn-on category? It’s fine, I’m very accepting.”
He lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It’s called a Windsor knot.”
“Well no wonder you’re so grumpy all the time—this Windsor knot is cutting off circulation to your brain.”
“You’re making it tighter,” he points out, voice sounding strained. He shifts, probably a poor attempt at comfort because all his movement does is press you directly against his groin.
Your fingers fumble with the fabric, because you’re too busy fighting the urge to move. To roll your hips. To test just how good the friction would feel. “Because you’re moving.”
“You’re on top of me.”
You tug at the fabric again. “I gave you the option to do this standing, didn’t I?”
His eyes shift to your lips, then slowly, he removes one hand from your waist. “Slide the narrow end through the loop,” he says, showing you.
Fuck. He’s talking you through it. And you’re pretty sure you could get off on his voice alone, but you will yourself to focus.
“No—other side.”
You follow his direction, fingers brushing his throat.
“Now loosen it,” he murmurs. His thumb presses lightly at the knot, guiding your hand. “Pull there.”
You do as you’re told, giving a gentle tug and the knot slides loosely apart. “Would you look at that! You’re tie-free.”
You give it another tug, slipping it from his collar so you can inspect it. What you thought was just a diamond print now, up close, looks suspiciously like two Gs. You gasp. “Oh my god. You really spent two hundred dollars on a Gucci tie just to choke yourself?”
His hands are back on your waist again. “It was on sale.”
“You could’ve asked me,” you say, looping it clumsily around your neck. “I would’ve done it for free.”
“You’re wearing it backwards.”
“Well,” you breathe, setting your hands on his chest, the warmth of him not doing you any favours, “you’re the expert in expensive silk strangulation. Fix it for me.”
He looks at you intently. His pupils are blown wide, dark as ink, and you can feel exactly how hard he is beneath you. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are. Probably not—not through those overpriced, perfectly tailored slacks clearly designed to prevent situations like this from becoming obvious.
He reaches for the tie, fingers brushing your ribs as he takes each end. The back of his knuckles grazes the thin fabric of your blouse as he lifts the silk to straighten it.
“You want it to lie like this,” he says softly. “Otherwise it twists.”
You don’t breathe. “Mhm.”
“Now it goes over and under…” His hands do exactly that, looping the fabric while all you can feel is the insistent throb between your thighs. The silk slides against you, his hands settling the knot at the top of your sternum, right between your breasts.
“You can pull the longer end through here,” he murmurs and takes a hold of your hands, guiding them with his. His thumb presses to the knot to adjust it, dragging it higher. “See? Not that hard.”
You tilt your hips forward. “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” you whisper, fingers moving to the top button of his shirt, undoing it. You watch his Adam's apple bob around a swallow. “Do you want to know what I was really thinking about earlier?” you ask, working the second button loose, his white undershirt peeking through.
You glance up at him, and his eyes are fixed on the point where you’re straddling the hard line of his cock. “You’re going to tell me either way, aren’t you?”
“Mm,” you hum, dragging your thumb down the column of his throat, just to feel the way he swallows again. “I don’t have to.”
“But you want to.” His hands are back on your hips, fingertips pressing into your skin through your blouse.
You shrug, wetting your bottom lip. “I was thinking…whether you’ve ever actually thought about sleeping with me.”
He stills briefly, like he remembers all the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing any of this, but also realises the two of you crossed that line half a bottle of wine ago. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
“Tonight doesn’t count. I mean before this. Have you thought about it?” There’s no shame in your voice, just curiosity.
His thumb slips beneath your blouse, making you roll your hips into him again. “Yes,” he grunts out.
“That’s it?”
“You asked a yes or no question.”
Your hand drifts lower, undoing another button on his shirt. “You could elaborate.”
“You really want me to do that right now?”
“Absolutely.” Your fingers pause, leaving his shirt half-open, and slide to the buttons of your own shirt. You toy with one absentmindedly. “Would it help if I took this off?”
His jaw flexes. He looks at your blouse. Then your mouth. Then your blouse again. “That’s not—” He cuts himself off, exhaling through his nose.
“How about this,” you offer with a smile, “every time you tell me when you’ve thought about it, I take off a piece of clothing. Seems fair, don’t you think?”
“And if I don’t want to partake in this game?”
“Then I get off your lap, put on my most conservative pyjamas, go to sleep, you shower, and we never speak of this again.” You really, really hope that’s not the option he picks. “The choice is yours. You tell me what you want to do.”
He goes quiet, thinking—though with how hard his cock is pressing against you, practically straining in those slacks, you’re not convinced he’s capable of coherent thought. You’re hardly better. You’re fucking soaked, and technically the two of you haven’t even done anything remotely obscene. But apparently sitting on your boss’s lap counts as the world’s most effective form of foreplay.
“Rossi’s birthday last year,” he reveals.
“I remember,” you nod and begin working your buttons down. “We stayed behind to help him clean up.”
“And you insisted on putting away the wine glasses—” He stops when your bra comes into view and swallows thickly before dragging his eyes to your face. “You climbed up onto the counter, almost fell and nearly shattered every glass in your hands.”
You laugh, shrugging your blouse off and tossing it on the floor so it can make friends with the popcorn crumbs. “I recall you having a pretty good view of my ass in the process.”
His eyes drop to the breasts spilling out your bra. “Not as good as the view I have now.”
“That’s one.” You toy with the strap of your bra. “Next.”
“The jet.”
You light up instantly. “This’ll be good.”
“We were coming back from Georgia and shared the sofa. You were lying on one end, I was sitting on the other.”
“Do continue.”
“You move a lot in your sleep,” he goes on, eyes fixed on your face, though you can feel the tension in his hands at your hips. “Kept shifting… sighing… dragging the blanket up and then kicking it off again. And with every move, your skirt rode a little higher. I stopped looking when I realised I wasn’t just making sure you were covered. I was… staring.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” you coo sweetly, before attempting to climb off his lap without falling off the bed. His brows pull together as he watches you stand at the edge of the mattress, propped up on his elbows.
There’s a dark patch on his groin, and you don’t know if it’s from you, or him, or both, but it makes your stomach twist, makes you want to end this game so you could finally feel him inside you.
But apparently you enjoy suffering—or making him suffer—especially when he’s looking up at you with his legs completely spread, those wide, helpless eyes and a face tinged pink. So you only smile, fingers sliding to the zipper of your trousers as you prompt innocently, “Did you like the tights I wore?”
“With the seam at the back,” he confirms just as you push the slacks down your thighs.
You hadn’t planned on playing strip—or confessional—poker with your Unit Chief, which is exactly why your underwear is nothing special. Plain grey cotton and embarrassingly damp. You freeze for only a second, then lift your chin like you meant for it to be this way.
“I don’t think I can keep going,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“You can’t last two more rounds?” you tease, kicking out of the fabric pooling at your ankles. “I won’t count the tie as clothing.”
His eyes drag over you like he’s in pain. “I mean if you keep this up for any longer, I’m going to finish in my pants like a teenager.”
You try very hard not to preen. “I’ll do you a deal,” you say, taking a slow step forward until you’re standing between his legs. “Make this one really good…” You lean in slightly, just enough for the tips of your fingers to brush his knee. “…and I’ll take everything off.”
He swallows.
“The last Christmas party.” His words come easily, like this specific memory had been on the edge of his mind for a while.
You nod. “You were my ride.”
“You had on that black dress with the slit up your thigh. You went upstairs to fix your lipstick and asked me to show you the bathroom.” He sits up, his hands coming to rest on the backs of your thighs. “And then your zipper conveniently decided to undo itself halfway down your spine.”
“That zip was very flimsy.”
“I put my hand on your back and you arched into it. Maybe you didn’t even realise you did it. But I did.” His thumb strokes idly against your skin, eyes half-lidded. “All I could think about was how easy it would’ve been to push that dress the rest of the way down… bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror.”
Heat pools low in your stomach. “And you didn’t.”
“You were tipsy and said you’d had too much champagne. So I zipped it back up and walked you downstairs.”
“Such a gentleman.” Your hands are already moving. You reach behind you, fingers brushing the clasp of your bra. “Well…a deal's a deal.” You take your time—partly on purpose, partly because your fingers are shaking the tiniest bit. The clasp gives, and you roll the straps lazily off your shoulders before letting fabric fall.
Hotch has gone completely still, the hands on your thighs frozen like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. The only thing moving are his eyes, dragging over your body so slowly it makes your skin burn. “You okay?”
His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip before he answers. “You know I’m not.”
“Will it make you feel better to do the honours?” Your hands cover his, guiding them up from your thighs to the waistband of your panties.
He looks up at you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this. Wrecked and glassy-eyed. He looks like someone who’d do anything you told him to. If they handed out awards for driving tightly wound, hyper-controlled men right to the edge of composure, you’re certain you’d win.
“Go on,” you whisper softly. “You’ve earned it.”
His fingers slip beneath the waistband and his touch is gentle as he starts easing the fabric down your hips. You glance down as he drags them lower, the inside of your underwear looking far worse than the outside. When you look back up, Hotch is already watching you, mouth curved into a crooked, boyish grin, validated that he’s not the only one soaking his undergarments.
You step out of them the moment they hit the floor.
Hotch’s hands are on you right away, sliding up the backs of your thighs until they settle at the curve of your ass, pulling you closer. He presses a wet kiss followed by a bite to your hip, your hands finding his shoulders to steady yourself.
“I want you on my tongue.”
“Yeah?”
He nods, laying back down and the room is tilting again. Whether from the cheap wine or the intoxication of him, you’re not sure. All you can do is follow, crawling up his body until your knees bracket his head. You don’t lower yourself down just yet.
He doesn’t touch you right away. Just…looks.
“You need instructions?” you tease, threading your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face.
The bastard only laughs, the warm puff of air against your inner thigh making your breath catch. Then he’s lifting his head, and all you can do is watch—lips parted, hand still tangled in his hair—as his tongue finally makes contact with your pussy, dragging a slow stripe up your centre that makes your hips twitch.
He pulls back with obscene patience, and you know exactly why, because a thin, pearly string of your wetness stretches from his mouth to you, and he has the audacity to look proud of it.
He watches the strand break and you barely have time to process what’s happening before he’s hauling you down until you’re sitting on his face. His mouth opens wider to taste more of you, his tongue flattening and dragging through you, like he’s been dying for this. He absolutely has.
“Fuck!” you choke out, yanking at his hair, only for him to groan in response. Your hips stumble forward and for a second, you fear for the man’s airway with the way you’re practically smothering him between your thighs, but you realise he’s the one that’s pulling you down against him.
“So sweet for me,” he thrums, voice buried. You feel more than hear it, a vibration of sound right where you’re most sensitive. Your thighs tremble around his ears as he licks a messy path up you, then dips lower, tongue slipping inside, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly.
A whimper spills out before you can bite it back. You rock into him without meaning to, pulse skittering like it’s trying to outrun your body, that familiar feeling already building too fast.
And that’s when he slows. Doesn’t completely stop, just changes the pace in a way that has you letting out a strangled noise.
“Really?” you pant, trying to catch your breath. “Is this your first time?” You lift yourself enough to look down at him.
“Ask me nicely.”
“What?”
His chin glistens and he looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. “You’re used to demanding things.” His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs. “I think it’s time you learnt to be polite.”
Asshole.
You let out a sharp breath, giving his hair a tug. “Please,” you bite out.
He smiles smugly, and then he’s lifting his head to suck your clit into his mouth. A whole parade of curses spill out of you—creative ones too, the kind you don’t even usually say out loud—tripping over each other so fast you barely recognise your own voice.
And then he pulls back. Again.
“Please what?”
Correction: he’s a vindictive asshole.
You see exactly what he’s doing. You recognise his pettiness exactly for what it is. You tormented him first, made him spell it out for you, and now he’s returning the favour. He’s a desperate, competitive perfectionist who insists on winning everything, even the art of sexual torture.
“Sadist,” you hiss.
“Mm.” He turns his head and sinks his teeth gently into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Now be specific.”
You give him a dry humourless smile. “Please make me come. First with your mouth and then with your cock.” You drag a thumb along his jaw tauntingly. “Is that specific enough for you?”
His mouth is back on you again in seconds. No easing in this time.
“Jesus—” you gasp, hands bracing on the mattress above his head for balance. The sheets bunch beneath your fingers, the material scratching against your palms.
You feel his tongue circle and suck, like he’s trying to gauge every possible sound out of you, catalogue every single nerve you possess. Your thighs tighten around his temples, the drag of his stubble scraping lightly against your skin.
He pulls you even lower, thumbs digging into your hips, like he wants to disappear into you entirely. The movement forces you down onto his tongue, and the wet, needy sounds he’s making against your cunt are so lewd, you swear you feel them echo behind your ribs.
“Hotch—fuck!”
He hums at the sound, and then his hands shift, big palms sliding up your back, adjusting your angle to give him better access.
“Okay—okay—slow down—” you whimper, even though your hips are doing the exact opposite.
“You asked nicely,” he mumbles into you.
Your laugh comes out breathless and shaky, your whole body tensing under the intensity of his tongue. “I didn’t think—ah—nicely would get me this.”
He answers without words, drawing a slow circle around your clit, and another moan tumbles out of you. You’re close. You can feel it in every part of you, in your thighs trembling around his ears, in the tight pull at the base of your spine.
You gasp, head tipping back. “I—I’m—”
“You can come,” he says headily, tugging you closer. “Go on.”
You tense and wither against him. “Say it,” you pant. “Say you want me to.”
“I want you to.”
Your body caves forward, thighs clamping his head as your orgasm pulls you under so fast you forget to breathe, forget to think, forget everything except the feeling of coming apart on his mouth, wishing you could bottle it forever.
It takes you a few minutes to come back to Earth. Earth being a cheap hotel room in the middle of nowhere.
The first thing you register is the way Hotch’s thumb strokes your hip, then the press of his mouth to the inside of your thigh, another kiss, then another. You manage to lift yourself, and he immediately helps you, guiding your waist tenderly, letting you settle over him in your dazed state.
“Hi,” you croak.
He raises a brow, amused. “Hi.”
“Your face is shiny.”
A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “That would be your fault.”
“I can help with that,” you murmur, leaning down and running your tongue along the line of his jaw, tasting yourself on his skin. Your mouth then grazes the corner of his lips, and that’s when you realise—this man has had his tongue inside you, yet…you don’t know what he tastes like. The two of you haven't actually kissed.
He must sense something is wrong, because his brows lift slightly, like he’s puzzled by the sudden stillness in your body. “What is it?”
You huff a tiny laugh, breath ghosting his cheek. “We haven’t even kissed.” You pull back, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping across his chin to clean the shine you left there.
“You want to?” he asks like it’s a reasonable question, like he didn’t just have his mouth on the most intimate part of your body minutes ago.
“Aaron, you just had me sitting on your face. What do you think?”
“Aaron,” he repeats.
“That’s your name isn’t it?”
“Mm.” His hands tighten at your waist. “Say it again.”
“Are you going to kiss me, Aaron?”
For a second, he just stares up at you, like you’ve asked him something sacrilegious, something he's wanted for so long he’s almost afraid it's not real. His hands slide up your bare waist, settling at your ribs, giving them a gentle squeeze.
“Come here.”
You meet him halfway.
His lips brush yours delicately, soft enough to make your stomach lurch in anticipation.
You pull back a fraction, just to see his face, and then you’re kissing him again, deeper, tasting something you’ve both been orbiting for years. His tongue slides against yours, the kiss swallowing the moan that slips out of you.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you breathe against his mouth, the words almost a whine.
“Which ones are bothering you?”
“All of them,” you answer, fingers blindly racing to undo the rest of his shirt. “Sit up.”
He obeys with little afterthought, pushing up on his elbows so you can shove the fabric off his shoulders. You don’t bother folding it neatly, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and you catch the tiny wince he tries (and fails) to hide.
“Arms up.” You grab the hem of his undershirt, tugging, and he sits up properly this time—bringing your bare, aching centre directly against the hard line of his cock.
The sound he lets out is a half-breath, half-groan at the contact. You don’t get the chance to tease him for it. You’re too busy hauling the undershirt over his head, and he has no choice but to help you strip it off. When it joins the rest of the discarded clothes, you press your hands to his shoulders, giving him a gentle push. He falls back without resistance, molten under your touch.
You lean down, placing a kiss under his jaw, then another just below it, relishing in the way his breath stutters each time your mouth lands on new skin. His chest is warm under your lips, rising and falling in a rhythm that’s embarrassingly close to a pant.
“Christ,” he mutters, and you grin against him, continuing to kiss your way down.
You press another kiss just above the waistband of his trousers, moving down to nudge the bulge beneath the fabric with the bridge of your nose. His reaction is instant. His hips twitch, hands shooting to your hair.
“Want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, glancing up at him through your lashes.
He shakes his head far too quickly. “Keep going.”
So you do. You kiss along the outline of him through the slacks, the damp patch dragging faintly across your lips with each pass. His thighs flex beneath your hands, his breathing falling out in tight, rigid bursts, the fabric getting warmer and wetter under your mouth. You drag your lips along the length of him once more, slow enough to be cruel, and his whole body jolts.
That’s when you take pity.
Your fingers finally move to his zipper, and you feel Hotch’s eyes on you as you ease it down. He lifts his hips immediately, allowing you to roll the slacks off him. The second they hit the floor, you’re already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips again—quicker and needier—as you drag the last piece of clothing down his thighs.
And then he’s bare beneath you.
You sit back for a second, just to drink him in, mouth salivating at the flushed skin of his stomach, the tense lines of his abdomen, the way his cock rests hard and heavy on his stomach, precum sliding down the curve of him. You reach out without thinking, placing both hands on his thighs for balance as you crawl back up his body. Hovering over him, you lower your hips, feeling the head of his length nudge your inner thigh.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like the words slip from him before he can decide whether he’s allowed to say them. His hands trace up your sides, thumbs brushing under your breasts.
That sentence almost makes you coy. Almost. But your body apparently didn’t get the memo, because your hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and Hotch hisses through his teeth. He’s painfully hard in your palm, every throb pulsing against your grip.
You press him back against his stomach and grind down on him.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice shaking when the slick tip knocks directly against your clit. His hands grab your hips, fingers digging in. “I’m close, and I want to feel you. All of you. I don’t think I’ll be able to last if you keep doing that.”
You roll your hips again, a trembling little slide that makes your breath catch. “You will,” you whimper, leaning forward until your lips brush his. “For me.”
His jaw goes disastrously tight, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before they find yours again, throat constricting around a swallow—and you can’t help the grin that curls up in response. You almost regret leaving the unit, because Monday’s briefing would’ve been something, watching him give orders with a straight face while knowing he couldn’t even wait until he was inside you to come.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he rasps. His hand leaves your hip, slides up your spine, and gathers a fistful of your hair. He tugs it, just enough to pull a gasp from your mouth, and then lifts his head to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against your jaw.
You laugh, his exhale scorching against your skin. Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping around his length again, and you pull away from his mouth as you shift upright. You rise onto your knees, finally guiding his head of his cock to your entrance, his precum coating your pussy, your thighs, his own stomach.
“I think you’re enjoying this far more than I am,” you murmur—right before you sink down on him, only a fraction, enough to make you both tense at the contact.
“Slow—” he manages, voice breaking around it. “Go slow.”
You pause there, barely taking the head of him, but it's enough for heat and pressure to spark low in your belly. “Slow?” you echo, tilting your head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know… you weren’t exactly slow with me.”
His hands clamp down on your hips. “That was different.”
You give a faint roll of your hips, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are, how easy it would be to slide all the way down. His breath stumbles out of him, all of his authority stripped.
“Different how?” you tease, tracing a finger down his chest, stopping right where his stomach flexes under your touch.
His eyes flutter shut and when they open again, his pupils are blown, jaw clenching like he’s fighting the urge to thrust into you. “Different,” he repeats, “because I’ve been wanting this a long time.”
“How long?” you probe, sinking down onto him further, the stretch of him intoxicating. His head thunks back against the mattress, a groan lurching out of him.
“Two—years,” he gets out, voice splintering as you take more of him.
You still for a second. “Two years?”
“You’re surprised?”
“I mean… yeah? You don’t exactly flirt. You scowl. And file paperwork. And tell me I have a foul mouth.” You lower yourself another inch, slow enough to make him choke on a sound he’d absolutely murder himself for making in any other circumstance. You feel the stretch deep in your belly.
“Aaron,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Look at me.”
He does instantly.
“You’ve been wanting this for two years?”
He nods, and you sink down onto him, all the way, until the dark curls at the base of him brush your clit. He’s deep—too deep—in a way you’ve never felt before, his cock throbbing inside you as you bite down on a moan.
“Don’t move yet. Just…give me a second,” he whispers, hands kneading the flesh of your ass.
Your fingers splay across his torso as you adjust to him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or do anything about it?”
“Because I was your superior. Still am. For another thirty-six hours.”
“You’re telling me you waited two years because of HR?”
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
You shake your head, lift your hips, and take him again. He fills you up completely, the tip nudging deep enough to pull a choked sound from your throat. You’d imagined him like this—God, probably longer than two years—but it still doesn’t compare.
“You feel so fucking perfect,” he pants, his right hand guiding your roll against him. “So, so perfect,” he mutters, voice fraying as you rise off him and then sink back down.
His spare hand comes up to palm your breast, this thumb brushing the underside before his fingers catch your nipple and pinch. Your head tips back immediately, a moan spilling from you as the pleasure arcs up your spine.
“That’s it,” he grits. “Just like that.”
Every time you sink back down, he stretches you just a little more, hits that spot just a little harder. Your thighs start to tremble with the effort. His right hand only tightens at your hip, guiding your pace, manipulating your angle because of course he knows what feels better. But it’s his other hand, the one that’s still on your chest, that begins to slide lower, drifting over your ribs, over your stomach, the curve of your pelvis.
You don’t even realise what he’s reaching for until his thumb finds your clit.
A helpless cry breaks out of you.
“There she is…” he coaxes, thumb moving in a circle motion. “So pretty and vocal for me.”
You pick up the pace at the praise naturally. His breath falters, hips stuttering every time you grind down and meet his thumb at the same time.
“Aaron—”
His head tips back, a vein standing out at his neck, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps beneath his skin. His thumb slips against your clit with every shake of his body, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses harder, circles tighter, chasing you towards the edge even as he’s sliding towards his own.
“Sweetheart, slow—slow down—”
You don’t. You do the opposite, rocking into him, burying him inside of you. You feel yourself clench around him.
“Fuck!” he groans, your name following. His hands fly back to your hips, trying to hold you still, but your body squeezes around him and his own hips jerk helplessly. The sound he makes next is loud enough you’re almost certain the entire floor hears it. Every muscle in his stomach goes taut as he throbs inside you, warmth spilling in hot waves as he comes harder than you’ve ever heard him breathe.
One of his hands drags back down to your clit, despite the fact that his whole body seems to shake and twitch. He tries to keep his eyes open—tries to keep watching you on top of him—but his lashes flutter shut as you ride out the aftershocks pulsing through him.
You feel the warmth of his release seep out of you, ropes catching your inner thigh, clinging around the base of his still-sensitive cock. He finally forces his eyes open, his thumb still on your clit.
“Are you close?” he rasps.
You nod, legs shaking around him, barely able to hold yourself upright.
“Okay, baby… okay.” His breath stumbles, his whole body jolting each time you move, but his thumb keeps working you.
“Aaron—” Your voice cracks, head falling forward as a wave of heat curls deep in your stomach.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Come on.”
You grind down again, chasing the high, and he groans at the contact, but pulls you flush against his hips so you can keep moving. Your hands slide across his chest, clutching his shoulders, needing something to hold as the pressure tightens like a fist around your spine.
Your thighs clamp around his hips, your body clenching so fiercely around him that his head falls back with a quiet whimper. He tries to thrust instinctively, but he’s too sensitive. He trembles through the shock of it anyway, jaw flexing, teeth gritted as he tries to stay still for you.
“Sweetheart—” he gasps, “I need—you have to—please—”
And that does it. The please. Hearing him say it.
Your release slams into you like a freight train.
Your whole body seizes around him, your nails dragging down his chest as your vision whites out, a sharp sob catching in your throat. The orgasm tears through you in violent waves, blinding and completely overwhelming.
Your body finally goes limp, folding over him, your hands bracing on either side of his head as you lean forward. A thin string of drool slips past your lips as you gasp for air, your pussy still pulsing around his cock in tight, involuntary aftershocks.
Hotch’s arms come up your back immediately, palms splayed, rubbing slow strokes along your spine.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “Easy…I’ve got you. Just breathe.”
You manage a shuddering inhale against his throat, your forehead pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder. You can hear and feel his heartbeat beneath you, syncing with your own like your bodies haven’t quite figured out how to separate yet.
His hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “There you go,” he whispers. “That’s it.”
Your lips brush the base of his throat when you exhale. “Don’t pull out just yet,” you mumble against him, wanting to keep him inside as long as you possibly can, unsure when—if—you’ll ever get this close to him again.
“I’m not going anywhere. You can have as long as you want.”
You both go quiet for a moment, appreciating the soft ache of being filled and held at the same time. His chest rises beneath you with each slow breath, your body melting deeper into the lines of his.
You lift your head up after a while, meeting his eyes. “Two years, huh?”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Two years.”
“What’s the right thing to do now?” you ask, brushing the back of your knuckles along his jaw.
“You need to go pee so I can get you cleaned up.”
You groan into his neck. “Gee, way to ruin a moment.”
“And then,” he adds, kissing your temple, “when your transfer is official… I can take you out to dinner…If you’d like that?”
“A date?” you ask quietly.
“If you want it to be.”
You pull back to look at him properly. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” he says with a smile, voice warm. “That’s what I was hoping.”
Warnings: MDNI, 18+, smut, brat taming, rough sex, multiple orgasms (m), f orgasm, dom/sub dynamics (Dom!Hotch and Sub!Reader), deliberate disobedience, edging/orgasm denial, overstimulation, light bondage, reader being gagged, creampie, cum everywhere, possessive!Hotch, aftercare. L/N used twice.
Summary: You deliberately try to undermine and piss Hotch off in the field so he'll be rough with you behind closed doors.
A/N: If this stinks I'm sorry. I wanted to try and write a fic that wasn't completely in past tense to challenge myself.
But also…. OH MY GOD MY PANTIES ARE SO WET AFTER WRITING THIS 🤤🤭🥴
You’re pushing it today, and you fucking know it.
Every time Hotch opens his mouth to give an order, you directly disobey him, already moving in the opposite direction of what he wanted. Every time he says “hold position,” you take three deliberate steps forward. And every time he shoots you that warning look, the one you know all too well, the one that makes your knees weak and your mouth dry, you smile back like you’re daring him to do something about it right here, right now, in front of God himself and the entire Kansas field office.
He doesn’t. Not yet.
He just keeps that muscle ticking in his jaw that clicks every time he's trying to keep himself professional and his voice clipped, low, and lethal. He knows what you're doing and is mentally tallying every single disobedient act you decide to display for later score.
Morgan keeps glancing between the two of you like he’s waiting for the detonation. Prentiss pretends to be fascinated by the geographic profile. And Reid, poor oblivious Reid, has (actually) backed all the way up against a filing cabinet, as if distance might save him from whatever’s coming when Hotch finally blows.
Rossi, of course, is enjoying the show.
You’re leaning over the evidence table, deliberately bending farther than necessary to reach a photo, when Rossi sidles up beside you.
“You trying to get fired, kid?” he mutters under his breath. Already knowing exactly what you're playing at. Rossi knows Hotch too well, knows you too well. And has definitely figured out just what your relationship entails behind closed doors.
You don’t even look at him. “Just keeping him on his toes, David.”
He hums, unconvinced. “He’s gonna put you on your knees later, and not in the fun way.”
You grin, sharp and sweet, when in reality you should've been mortified at the words coming out of Rossi's mouth. “We’ll see.”
Hotch’s voice cuts across the bullpen. “L/N. My six. Now.”
You straighten slowly, brushing imaginary lint off your shirt. “Yes, sir.”
You saunter over, boots echoing, and stop just inside his personal space, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to glare at you.
The rest of the room pretends they’re suddenly very very busy. And definitely not listening to whatever is about to happen between the two of you.
“You’re off the raid,” he says, voice low enough that only you can hear the tremor of fury underneath. Meaning that you've just struck bingo, and Hotch is giving you exactly what you were playing for later.
You blink, all mock innocence, before you raise your brows at him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re staying here with the locals.”
You laugh, actually laugh, straight in his face. “No, I’m not.”
“That wasn’t a request.” His eyes flash, his pupils dilating, darkening. You can tell that he is trying to claw his way out of Hotch, begging to be released upon you.
“And this isn’t a negotiation.” You step closer, dropping your voice to a purr. “You want me on a leash, Aaron, you’re gonna have to put it on me yourself. In front of everyone. Go ahead.” You cross your arms over your chest.
His nostrils flare. For one electric second, you think he might actually do it, might snap right here, take his belt off, and drag you out by the back of your neck like you both know you want him to.
Instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, trying to ground himself before he says something too unprofessional. When he finally speaks, he leans down to whisper in your ear through gritted teeth, “Fine! You’re with me. You leave my sight for less than .01 seconds, I'll cuff you to the SUV and leave you in the car overnight like some abandoned pet left on the side of the road. Try me.”
You lick your bottom lip. “Promise?”
He turns on his heel before he does something he can’t take back in front of twenty witnesses and the entirety of his team.
The raid is a clusterfuck waiting to happen, and you are the match.
Hotch wants to go in quietly through the back. You’re already halfway across the parking lot toward the front door before he grabs your vest and yanks you back.
“Jesus Christ, do you have a death wish today?” He says, leaving little to no discussion in his tone, you know that tone all too well, even strive to get it out of him on occasion... well, more times than not.
You spin, grinning up at him. “Only if you’re the one pulling the trigger.”
He looks like he’s two seconds from gagging you with his own tie and bending you over right here, right now.
Morgan’s voice crackles over comms. “Hotch, we’re set on the east side. You two coming or getting a room?”
You reach up and key your own comm without looking away from Hotch. “We’re coming, 'baby girl'. Unit Chief’s just having a little performance anxiety.” You can already imagine Morgan's confused look at the nickname.
Hotch rips the earpiece out of your ear and crushes it under his boot.
You whistle, low and a little playful. “That’s destruction of FBI property, sir. Very naughty.”
He grabs the front of your vest this time, hauling you in until you’re nose to nose. There he is. “You do not speak again until this unsub is in cuffs. Not one fucking word. Nod if you understand.”
You nod, solemn and mocking. Already planning to break that exact promise.
He releases you like you’re radioactive.
The warehouse is a maze of rusted machinery and broken skylights. Moonlight stripes the concrete floor. You move ahead of Hotch, deliberately, clearing corners before he can tell you to wait.
He hisses your name, barely audible.
You ignore him.
You hear the unsub before you see him: panicked breathing, the clatter of a dropped magazine. He’s reloading behind a stack of crates twenty feet ahead.
You raise your weapon before you step into the open.
Hotch swears viciously behind you and moves to cover, but you’re already talking.
“FBI! Drop it!”
The unsub spins, wild-eyed, gun up.
You don’t flinch.
Hotch is shouting your name now, furious and afraid all at the same time, but you keep your voice steady, taunting. “Come on, sweetheart. You wanted us to chase you. Here I am.”
The unsub’s finger tightens on the trigger.
Hotch’s arm hooks around your waist from behind, and he yanks you sideways, throwing you both sideways behind a forklift just as the shot rings out. Concrete explodes exactly where you were just standing.
You land half on top of him, ears ringing, heart slamming against your ribs.
He’s shaking with rage, hands gripping your vest so hard the straps bite.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls into your face.
You grin, breathless, high on adrenaline and the feel of him under you. “You’re welcome.”
Another shot pings off metal above your heads.
Hotch flips you onto your back, shielding you with his body, weapon already up. His voice in your ear is lethal. “Stay. Down.”
This time, you finally listen.
He rises in one fluid motion, one precise shot to his leg, and the unsub drops like a puppet that just had its strings cut.
Silence falls in the warehouse, broken only by distant shouting as the rest of the team floods in.
Hotch holsters his weapon, turns back to you, where you’re pushing to your feet.
You meet his eyes across the moonlit warehouse, chest heaving, blood thundering in your ears.
The unsub is down.
The cuffs are clicking.
And Aaron Hotchner looks like he’s deciding exactly how long it’s going to take to make you cry tonight.
The jet is grounded until at least morning due to a mechanical failure in the engine, so the team books into the hotel closest to the hangar and landing strip.
Everyone’s exhausted, adrenaline crashing hard, all a little annoyed from the lack of sleeping in their own beds tonight. But the air between you and Hotch is still a live current, ready to explode any second now.
You’re leaning against the check-in desk, tapping your badge against your palm, when Hotch steps up beside you and quietly tells the clerk, “Two singles.”
You don’t miss a beat. “Separate rooms,” you echo, loud enough for Hotch and the clerk to hear. You flash him a saccharine smile. “How very professional of us, Agent Hotchner. Gotta keep up appearances for the Bureau. Wouldn’t want anyone to know their precious unit chief has been balls-deep in his subordinate every night for the last eight months.”
The night clerk’s eyes go wide. Rossi, waiting for his key behind you, chokes on a laugh which he pretends is a cough.
Hotch doesn’t flinch. He just signs the receipt with a pen that might actually snap in his grip, then hands you a keycard.
“Room 312,” he says, voice flat. “I’ll be there in five minutes. You open that door for anyone else, you won’t sit for a month.”
He walks away before you can answer.
You take the stairs two at a time, pulse already racing.
The second the door clicks shut behind him, the mask is gone.
He shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it toward the chair in the corner of the room, and stalks toward you like a predator who’s finally off leash and pouncing straight toward its next meal.
“Strip!”
You arch a brow at him. “Please?”
He’s on you in two strides, hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back, hard.
“Don’t push me any further tonight,” he warns. “You’ve used up every last ounce of patience I have.”
“Good.” You smile slowly up at him.
He kisses you all teeth, no mercy, until you’re gasping against his mouth. Then he spins you, shoves you chest-first over the foot of the bed, yanks your jeans and panties down in one rough motion.
His palm slides between your shoulder blades, pinning you flat. You feel the heat of him behind you, the hard line of his cock pressing against your ass through his slacks.
“You’ve been begging for this all day,” he says, his voice low and more controlled than you had anticipated when you started pushing him this morning. It's the way he gets right before he completely unravels you. “Every smart-ass comment, every eye roll, every time you said my title like it’s a fucking joke. You want my attention? You have it.”
He drags your hips back until you’re bent perfectly for him, feet barely touching the carpet. The first thrust of his clothed hips against your bare skin is deliberate, grinding, a promise and a threat all at once.
You push back, greedy for him to enter you.
He stills you with one hand splayed over the base of your spine, the other winding your hair around his fist until your neck arches.
“Stay still,” he growls. “You move when I tell you to move.” He leans over you, mouth at your ear. “Color?”
“Green,” you breathe, already trembling. “So fucking green.”
He pulls back just enough to unbuckle his belt, the metallic clink loud in the almost silent room. You hear his zipper, feel the blunt, bare heat of him drag up the seam of your body.
He doesn’t enter you. Not yet.
Instead, he notches himself at your entrance and holds there, agonizingly still, while you try to rock back and take him, sheathe yourself on his cock. His grip on your hair tightens, holding you exactly where he wants you.
“Beg!”
“Please, Sir—”
“Louder.”
“Please fuck me, Sir, I need—”
He slams into you in one brutal stroke, no warning, filling you so suddenly your breath catches on a scream.
Your legs wrap around nothing, toes curling into the carpet, hips snapping hard enough to jolt the bedframe into the wall with every thrust.
He flips you onto your back without pulling out, hooking your knees over his elbows, and spreading you wide. The new angle drags a broken sound from your throat as his thrusts take him deeper and deeper.
“Look at you,” he growls against your collarbone as he shoves your shirt up and runs his mouth over your skin, teeth scraping against you. “Acting like a spoiled little brat in front of the entire team. You think they didn’t notice? You think I didn’t see the way Morgan smirked every time you opened that mouth?”
“Maybe I wanted them to know,” you taunt, breathless, reaching for him. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t belong to—”
He cuts you off by pulling out entirely and flipping you again, this time onto your knees, face and chest pressed against the mattress.
He thrusts back in so hard your hands scrabble for purchase on the sheets.
“Say it,” he snarls, one hand sliding up to collar your throat from behind, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave a bruise in the morning. “Finish that sentence.”
“I belong to you,” you sob, clenching around him. “Only you—fuck—Aaron—”
“That’s right.” He presses you deeper into the bed, hips relentless. “You’re mine. And tomorrow, when you can’t walk straight and my cum still dripping down your thighs during our briefing on the jet, you’ll remember exactly who you answer to.”
He reaches beneath you, finds your clit with better precision than a trained sharpshooter, no searching, no hesitation, just the rough pad of his finger settling right where you’re swollen and aching for him. He doesn’t move at first. Just presses, holds, lets you feel the weight of that single point of contact while his cock throbs inside you, stretching you open, owning every trembling inch.
You try to rock back, to chase more, but his grip turns iron.
“Stay,” he growls against the shell of your ear, breath hot, voice shredded. “You take what I give you.”
Then he starts to move, slow, cruel circles that drag over your clit with exactly enough pressure to make your thighs shake. Every stroke is perfectly timed with the roll of his hips, the thick drag of him pulling out until only the head remains before he slams back in, forcing the air from your lungs.
Your hands claw at the sheets. Your spine arches so hard it hurts. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter, vicious and unstoppable, until you’re sobbing his name into the pillow, broken and desperate little pleas of his name.
He speeds up, just barely, thumb flicking faster, hips snapping harder, the wet sound of him fucking you filling the room along with your wrecked moans.
“Cum,” he orders, voice cracking with restraint. “Cum on my cock right now. Show me who you belong to.”
The command rips through you.
You shatter, back bowing, toes curling, a raw scream tearing from your throat as your entire body locks down around him. Wave after wave crashes over you, so intense your vision whites out, every pulse of your orgasm dragging him deeper, milking him with greedy, rhythmic clenches.
He swears once and loses the last thread of control. His rhythm stutters, hips slamming forward one final time as he cums with a rough groan, spilling inside you.
You feel every throb, every pulse, the way he jerks and grinds through it, forehead pressed hard between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to fuse himself to your skin.
He stays there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving against your back, both of you trembling in the aftermath, slick with sweat and utterly spent. You can’t help it, your hips give a tiny, greedy roll, chasing the last sparks of pleasure, trying to keep him deep.
A soft, satisfied moan slips out of you.
Hotch’s chuckle rumbles against your spine. His arms tighten, pinning you flat to the mattress so you can’t move an inch further than you've already wiggled.
“You think we’re done?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. He nips the lobe hard enough to make you gasp. “Oh, sweetheart. You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my time to play.”
He pulls out slowly, letting you feel every inch drag against your oversensitive walls. You whine at the sudden emptiness, but before you can protest, he’s already moving, shirt buttons flying, slacks kicked the rest of the way off, socks gone.
In seconds, he’s gloriously bare, all hard lines, cock still half-hard and glistening with your cum.
He turns his attention to you next, signaling with his hand for you to flip over on your back. You do as ordered.
Your shirt is shoved up under your arms. He yanks it off, unhooks your bra, and tosses both across the room. Then he grabs his discarded tie and crawls over you.
“Hands up,” he orders.
You obey instantly, stretching your arms above your head. He loops the tie around your wrists, threads it through the headboard, and cinches it tight. Not painful, but absolutely inescapable from your end of the deal. You tug once; the silk holds firm.
A helpless little thrill shoots straight to your core.
He settles between your thighs again, slides back inside you with one smooth thrust that makes your back arch. You’re so wet, so swollen, the stretch burns in the best way, you're not sure you can take the sensation much longer before cumming again.
“Good girl,” he praises, voice rough. “Stay just like that.”
He starts slow. Long and deep strokes that hit every spot inside you. His mouth finds your neck, your breasts, sucking bruises into your skin while his hips roll in that maddening rhythm he knows drives you absolutely insane.
It doesn’t take long before you’re writhing, breath hitching, thighs trembling around his waist.
“Please! Sir, I’m close,” you whimper.
He pulls out completely.
You cry out, hips bucking at nothing. He watches you struggle against the tie, thighs squeezing together for friction that isn’t there.
“Shh.” He strokes your hip in a soothing yet cruel manner. “Calm down a little. We’re nowhere near done.”
He waits until your breathing evens, until the desperation fades, then slides back in and starts all over again.
He does it four times.
Four times, he builds you right to the brink, fingers on your clit, mouth on your nipples, cock dragging slow and steady against your walls, until you’re sobbing, begging, tears of frustration gathering at the corners of your eyes.
The fifth time you get loud, really loud, a broken, whining “Please, please, I can’t—” spilling out over and over.
Hotch clicks his tongue. “Too noisy, baby.” He reaches for your discarded panties and balls them up. “Open.”
You shake your head, playful defiance flaring even through the haze.
He arches a brow. “Open that pretty mouth, or I stop entirely and you get nothing.”
Your lips part instantly. He stuffs the panties in, the taste of yourself flooding your tongue, muffling every sound to desperate, garbled whimpers.
“There we go,” he croons, brushing the back of his hand over your cheek. “Much better.”
He fucks you like that for what feels like hours. He comes once deep inside you again, groaning your name against your throat. Pulls out, strokes himself, and paints thick stripes across your stomach and breasts.
Later, he pushes your knees to your chest, and spills across your face while you keen helplessly behind the gag.
Each time he finishes, he starts again, sliding through the mess he’s made across your frame, using it to make you slicker, filthier. You lose count of his orgasms. You’re a trembling, oversensitive wreck, and still he denies you that second release, pulling out the instant your walls start to flutter.
Finally, finally, he collapses over you, sweat-slick and breathless, cock spent and utterly dry. He reaches up and carefully unties your wrists, massaging the faint red marks with his thumbs. Then he gently pulls the soaked panties from your mouth. You work your jaw, swallowing hard, voice hoarse.
He kisses you softly. “Up,” he murmurs.
You’re boneless, but he helps you sit. He slides the same wet panties that he just pulled from your mouth back up your legs, tugging them into place with deliberate care. The fabric settles against your abused, swollen pussy, trapping every drop of his cum inside you. You whimper at the pressure.
He leaves for a second before coming back with a wet cloth in his hand.
When he settles back down beside you, he cups your chin, tilts your face to his, and with the warm cloth, he cleans your cheeks, your lips, your eyelashes with tender, reverent strokes that make you melt against his hand.
But when you reach for a tissue to wipe your chest and stomach, he catches your wrist.
“No.” His voice drops into that stern, deep tone that makes you freeze. “You don’t clean the rest off. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until we’re wheels-down at Quantico and you’re standing in my shower at home. You’re going to feel me on your skin every second on the jet, every time you shift in your chair. You’ll remember exactly who you bratted off to today, and exactly who owns every inch of this body. Understood?”
You nod, throat tight, arousal somehow flaring all over again despite everything.
“Yes, Sir.”
He smiles, a small, satisfied, and soft smile, before he pulls you into his chest. His hand spreads possessively over the sticky mess on your stomach, holding you close.
“Sleep, trouble,” he whispers into your hair. “You’re going to need it.
You’re already half-asleep when he speaks again, voice low in the dark.
“Next time you pull a stunt like that in the field, I won’t wait until we’re in a hotel room.”
You smile against his skin, sore and sated and utterly ruined.
“Next time,” you mumble, “I’ll be worse.”
He bites your shoulder in warning.
You wake up to the alarm on Hotch’s watch at 5:47 a.m. He’s already sitting on the edge of the bed, hair damp from the shower, knotting a fresh tie. You try to roll over and immediately regret it. Every muscle between your hips screams. Your thighs are sticky, your pussy swollen and aching, and when you clench experimentally, you feel the slow, obscene slide of everything he left inside you only a couple of hours ago.
He glances back, eyes satisfied.
“Up,” he says, voice still rough from sleep and sex. “Wheels up in forty.”
You groan. Actually groan. Getting vertical feels like an Olympic event that you never trained for.
He watches you struggle into yesterday’s jeans with the faintest smirk curling his mouth, when in reality, all you want is a pair of sweatpants.
The panties he pulled back up your legs after he finally untied you are soaked through, his cum, yours, the evidence of four separate loads, and every step makes the fabric drag against your oversensitive clit.
By the time you limp into the hotel lobby, the whole team is already waiting. Morgan does a double-take.
“Damn, sweetheart. You pull a muscle wrestling that unsub... or something?”
You flip him off with the hand that isn’t clutching your go-bag strap for support.
Hotch doesn’t say a word, just opens the back door of the SUV for you like a perfect gentleman, as you make it to the cars. You slide across the seat and bite the inside of your cheek to keep from whimpering when your ass meets cold and slightly hard leather.
On the jet, you take the seat farthest from the group, legs pressed tightly together, praying the movement of the plane doesn’t jostle anything loose. Hotch sits directly across the aisle from you, tablet in hand, leading the debrief like nothing happened last night. Like he didn’t wreck you so thoroughly that you’re still tasting him through your pussy.
He starts with the profile review. You’re supposed to contribute. Instead, you’re hyper-aware of the slow trickle working its way down your thigh every time the jet banks left. You shift, and the wet drag of cotton against your folds makes you swallow a gasp.
Hotch’s eyes flick to you. Calm and professional. Except for the slight curve at the corner of his mouth that says he knows exactly what you’re feeling.
“Agent L/N,” he says smoothly, “care to walk us through the victimology again and what we can learn from it for future cases?”
You open your mouth. Close it. Clear your throat. “Uh. Females, twenty-two to twenty-nine, brunettes, all abducted within—”
Your voice cracks on the last word because the plane hits a pocket of turbulence, and you feel a fresh pulse of warmth slip free. You clamp your thighs harder, face burning.
Reid starts rambling about geographic decay rates. You stop listening. All you can focus on is the slow, steady throb between your legs and the way Hotch’s gaze keeps drifting to your lap like he’s cataloging every squirm.
Forty unending minutes later, the wheels finally touch down in Quantico. You stand too fast, and your knees nearly buckle. Hotch’s hand shoots out to steady your elbow, the perfect picture of a concerned boss... or partner.
You make it down the stairs on wobbly legs, every step making the mess in your panties shift and cling. You’re praying no one notices the way you’re walking like you just rode a horse for twelve hours straight.
Rossi falls into step beside Hotch as you head for the car park. He doesn’t even bother lowering his voice.
“Atta boy,” he mutters, clapping Hotch once on the shoulder.
Hotch doesn’t answer, but you catch the faint, wicked tilt of his lips before he slides on his sunglasses.
You flip Rossi off behind Hotch’s back.
Rossi just laughs knowingly and calls over his shoulder, “Feel better, kid.”
No, you should not abruptly wake a sleepwalker; instead, gently guide them back to bed to ensure their safety and prevent them from becoming confused, disoriented, or combative. If you must wake them, do so gently by speaking in a quiet voice and using a light touch, but prioritize steering them back to their bed to prevent potential injury.
A/N.
18+, Minors DNI. dubious consent, sexual explicit content, sexsomnia. smut. angst.
here's part two. hope you enjoy!
WORDS.2135ish
" Is everything alright? "
The scenery behind the window was a blur of colours, landscapes, houses, and cars passing by.
" Yes. " You answered, avoiding his gaze, avoiding him.
" You sure?" He inquired. You could discern a bit of concern in his voice. Eyes on the road, Aaron turned briefly to look at your profile. " You barely said any words since yesterday. "
Biting your lower lip, you pushed your forehead against the cool glass of the SUV's window. Closing your eyes, you tried to fight the pounding headaches echoing inside your skull.
" Did I do something? "
Yes.
No.
It's me.
Aaron called out your name.
Opening your eyes, you realised the car had stopped moving and you were parked on the side of the road.
" What is going on? " He asked, his voice authoritative, leaving no place for argument.
You turned your gaze to him, swallowing your fear, finally meeting his hard and confused stare.
" Something happened. "
" During the interview. "
" No "
" At the jail, " Aaron frowned his eyebrows, tilting his head to the side, trying to understand.
" No. " You repeated shaking your head, tension building up inside you. A turmoil of emotions made you nervous, warm all over, and you rubbed your palms against your jeans.
" So whe-"
" Last night! " You cried out, frustrated, breathing hard. " Last night at the motel. " You added seeing puzzlement in his eyes.
" W-What happened last night?" He asked you, bewildered by the situation.
Sighing, you dropped your gaze to his tie. Ashamed. The entire car felt warm.
Too warm.
"You- You were sleepwalking, " You started, stammering, your words heavy in your mouth. Hearing him inhale loudly, you raised your eyes to him. " But you didn't g-got out of the room. " You clarified quickly.
" I don..- " Aaron blinked twice rapidly before focusing his serious, somber eyes on you, perplexed. " I don't sleepwalk. " He deadpanned.
" You did. "
" That's impossible, " He dismissed, turning his head away, shaking his head. "Yes, I'm stressed, and our work makes our sleep schedules erratic and unstable, but I don't sleepwalk."
" I have bruises that prove otherwise. " You whispered, biting your lower lip, your gaze on anything but him.
" W-What. " Aaron stuttered, turned his head to look at you, disbelief in his eyes.
It was the first time you heard SSA Aaron Hotchner stammer since you arrived at the BAU.
A tense silence settled inside the car. You could hear the other cars passing by yours, but you refused to look at him.
Looking down at your hands on your lap, tears began to gather in your eyes, making you feel embarrassed.
" What happened? "
" A-Aaron, please d-don't make me. " You whispered, shaking your head, raising your sight to look at him, your vision blurred by the tears. "Don't m-make me say it out loud. "
Gripping the steering wheel in his hands, his knuckles white, Aaron could only imagine what had happened.
Profiling your behaviour, your words.
He knew that whatever happened must have been intimate.
Sexual.
" You should have woken me up. " He scoffed, closing his eyes, visualising what the moment could have been.
" I-I…"
" You should have woken me up. " He repeated, abruptly, upset but also ashamed.
Starting the engine, Aaron began to drive the car back into the lane.
He didn't say any words. You didn't try to, looking back at the window, wiping the tears with your sleeves.
Uneasy silence settled inside the car, being carried out by anger, confusion, and shame.
How could you both come back from this, now?
Except, before you could try to forget everything in the comfort of your home, you had one last stop to make.
Stopping the cat at the same place as yesterday, you looked at the Motel's sign blinking again against the night sky.
" Aaron. " You murmured. " I'm sorry." You apologised, your eyes never leaving the sign's light.
He finally let go of the steering wheel, pressing his back to the car seat. Tensed.
" I will sleep in the car tonight. "
---
Everything went fast. Too fast.
Like a blur.
One moment, you were alone in the same motel room. Next, he was standing above the bed.
Feeling an unfamiliar presence that wasn't there when you fell asleep, you woke up, startled.
The first thing you saw was his unfocused, glazed eyes lit by the sign outside. The second, his hand moving inside his pants, rapidly.
Bewildered, you sat on the bed, switching on the bedside lamp next to you.
" Aaron, " You whispered, your voice hoarse from sleep. " How did you…"
You frowned your eyes at him, licking your lips, then you looked at the main door, which was slightly open.
He picked up the lock.
Aaron knelt on the bed, still masturbating. He started to remove his tie with his right hand, his gaze still focused on you, panting.
He picked up the lock, and he was sleepwalking.
Fuck.
" Aaron. " You stated, pressing both of your hands on his chest, breathing hard, you concentrate on his face. " Aaron, you have to wake up. "
Moaning under his breath, his lips open slightly, his hips started to move with his movement, thrusting, his gaze still focused on your face.
Hot. It's starting to get too hot in the room. Watching his movement briefly, you inhaled deeply, trying to stay focused.
You had to wake him up. This could not happen again.
" Aaron," You repeated, calmly, brushing the palms of your hands on his chest. " Please, wake up."
He grunted, the pace of his left hand growing faster inside his pants. Aaron shoved on your shoulder, making you lie back on the bed.
You let a small cry escape your lips, surprised. Unbuckling his pants, pushing them under his hips, you watched mesmerised as his hand stroked his hardness, making him growl every time he reached the tip.
Seeing the pre-cum coating his shaft, you licked your lips, feeling turned on.
However, you forced your eyes to catch Aaron's dark, unblinking one.
His pupils were fully dilated, heated by desire.
" Aaron. " You tried again, reaching for his cheek. He leaned into it.
It was as if your voice couldn't reach anymore. No reasons or thoughts were left on his mind. He pushed his knees around your right leg, trapping you. Breathing hard, Aaron reached for your hand on his face to place it under his own, making you move with him.
" Aaron. " You gasped, feeling the smooth skin of his dick under your palm, hard.
You let your hand move with him, your eyes dropping on him.
On what you did to him.
" Yes. "
The pace of your movements grew faster and faster, making him thrust his dick into your hand, his moaning voice echoing in the room. He dropped his head forward, removing his hand to let you move alone on him as he fist the blanket next to him, lips parted, eyes dark, wide with lust, chest heaving under his white shirt.
Closing your eyes briefly, feeling he was getting close, you started to move with him, your thighs trying to grasp for something. Your clit quivering to be touched.
You began pushing yourself against his thigh, whimpering, feeling warmth spread between your legs.
" Aaron. " You whispered, pressing yourself against him, while your hand movements started to falter on him.
Aaron licked his palm before putting it back on his cock, moving with you, eyes unfocused. Dark.
You kept dry-humping him, biting your lips, ashamed by your movement yet still panting, whimpering, each time you felt your clit sliding against him through your clothes.
Sweat coating his brows, his cock throbbing under your palm, Aaron pushed your hand flat against his tip. Jerking himself faster, he came hard, eyes black, a growl escaping his lips. His comes spilling on your skin.
Branding you.
You watched him growing still, his eyes opening slightly, then blinking.
Blinking again. And again.
The unfocused glaze over his eyes disappearing.
Consciousness coming back to him.
" I'm sorry. " You whispered, panting under him, sliding down your hand covered with his spent under your clothes. " I'm sorry, Aaron. "
You needed it. You wanted it.
And as you started to stroke your clit, his come blending with your wetness, you whimpered. Sliding your fingers inside you, you arched your back, closing your eyes, pushing your palm at the apex of your thighs. Stroking.
You could hear him above you, his breathing becoming even. His frame was still above your moving body.
Ashamed, you didn't open your eyes, chasing your own orgasm, tilting your head to the side.
Warmth spread across your limbs as your fingers moved faster, stretching your folds, wetness coating your hand. Lightheaded, caressing yourself, you licked your lips while you started to get higher and higher until you reached it.
The delicious sensation.
Coming hard, you moaned, eyes still closed, shockwaves coursing through your body.
Breathing hard, eyes still shut, ashamed and light-headed, you felt him move slowly above you.
" D-don't call me that. " Aaron breathed out under his breath, before sitting at the edge of the bed next to you.
Still panting, you opened your eyes, the glow of the lamp still on, and you turned your head to look at his rigid back.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Aaron sighed, dazed, looking at the bedroom door slightly ajar.
" Hotch…" You started biting your lips, embarrassed, moving your hand slowly away from you. Closing your eyes briefly, you opened them and pushed your back against the headboard of the bed, sliding your knees to your chest, hugging them. " It's the second time. "
Without an answer, he started to put his clothes back on. His back was still turned to you. You looked at him, feeling empty. Distressed by his behaviour.
Slightly disgusted by yours.
Perplexed.
" You picked up the lock. " You added weakly.
" I know! " Aaron snapped, angrily turning his dark gaze toward you, his face red with anger.
Shame.
You dropped your eyes to your hands, his heated, furious gaze making you feel uncomfortable.
SSA Aaron Hotchner, the Chief Unit, you knew was never angry at you.
Disappointed, sure.
But never angry.
Even when you messed up in the field, missing key elements to look for, or made typos in case files.
He never raised his voice at you.
Until now.
" Listen, " Aaron began, sighing, " I’m going back to Virginia tonight. I will call the office for a car service to pick you up." He continued without looking at you, putting his belt back.
" So, you're leaving me here." You realised, raising your eyes to him, uncertainty clouding your mind. " Don't you want to talk about-."
" There's nothing to talk about. " He cut you, harshly, his voice deep echoing in the small room.
" I-I think we do. " You stated, trying to gain back your focus, thinking about what happened the last two nights. " Hotch. " You called him softly, eyes pleading.
Aaron didn't answer, not looking at you as he started for the door, his back to you.
" If I recall, you still have a few days of vacation left. " His authoritative voice announced, opening the bedroom door, " Take them, Agent."
It was not a suggestion.
Closing the door on his last words made his order final.
Tired.
You lay back on the bed, your eyes caught briefly the mess you made on your hand.
Taking the pillow next to you, you pressed it against your face.
Fuck.
You wanted to scream.
So, you did.
---
Penelope's name appeared on your phone's screen for the umpteenth time this week.
Pushing your phone away, you took a sip of your tea, pressing the blanket against your chest.
You did as he said and took a few days.
Hiding at your place.
You didn't have the strength to explain or lie to your friends about what happened.
Sighing, you put your cup on the table in front of you. Night has fallen on the city, but unable to sleep, without seeing the image of the nights you spend with Hotch, you sit on your couch, the glow of the TV illuminating your small living room.
You should have woken him. Those were your thoughts for the last couple of days.
You should have been more convincing and woken him before things started to be more…
More.
A pounding knock on the door made you rise from the couch.
At his hour, you hoped it wasn't Penelope coming to ask you some questions. She could be persistent.
But it wasn't one of your closest friends behind the door.
Instead, Aaron Hotchner was standing there.
Eyes unfocused, unmatching shoes laced to his feet, he looked pale and tired.
" Aaron? " You called confused.
He didn't answer.
But pushed you inside your apartment, pressing your back to the wall, taking your face into his hands, and kissed you.
Bruising your lips.
summary: your boss keeps calling at the most inconvenient time, right when you’re on the edge of the highest pleasure. finally, you get your retribution.
Delicate fingers trail up from your ankle, dragging from calf to knee. Leaving a wake of goosebumps behind. Your hips jump forward and a light sigh crawls from your lips. Impatiently, you pull his hand up and rip down your own underwear, and finally, fingers push into you.
Your eyes squeeze close and you’re not quiet this time, a loud squeak comes from the back of your throat. A desperate hand grabs onto his forearm, gripping hard as your back arches off the mattress, the cool air rushing in and sticking to the warmth on your skin.
“Oh my god!” You sigh.
His thumb jumps up, rubbing deep, round circles around your clit, just skirting the edge, enough to make your eyes roll back. Your abs jerk you forward as you creep closer to the edge, pulling his torso down to meet yours, teeth sinking into his shoulder, leaving a line of red indents. This muffles the loud cry that leaves you. It was like you were running towards the edge of a cliff, ready to jump off and dive into a sea of endless pleasure.
Suddenly, the enjoyable fantasy you were bathing in was cut short. The loud blaring ringtone seemed to bounce off the walls of your dates bedroom, and you woke up from your dream. It was an awful sound, pulling you into harsh reality, like being doused with ice cold water and you jolt up, pushing the poor guy down.
His fingers slide out of you as you scramble down to the floor, where your phone was still screaming at you from your jean pocket. Pulling it out, you look at the screen in grave displeasure. The one name you didn’t want to read at two am on a Friday night, after a successful date.
“Hotch.” Your eyes shut as you wait for the dreaded words to come through the phone.
“We have a case, be here asap.” His gravely voice scratches down your back like nails on a chalkboard.
Throwing your head back, you groan silently. “Alright, I’m on my way.” You take a deep breath in and pull yourself off the floor like you weighed a ton. “I’m sorry, I’ve been called into work, gotta go.” You say, giving the poor guy a sad smile while pulling up your jeans and your very not work appropriate top. It was a dark red, covered in rhinestones, a deep v neck that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. A pathetic wave comes from your wrist, and the cold air hits you quicker than expected, climbing into your car.
The elevator ride up to the BAU floor took an eternity, each floor button lighting up as you pass it. It slows on floor four, and you shuffle over as the doors slide open. Your eyes don’t leave your shoes as one of the guys from cyber crimes steps into the space. Finally, getting to floor seven, you give him a tight lipped smile before stalking into the bullpen.
You hear him before you see him, Derek laughing at something dorky Spencer had said. Then, a loud whistle comes from him as you walk into view. “Wow, I guess someone had a good night.”
“Not even close.” You laugh, rummaging through your desk and yanking out the go bag, throwing it over your shoulder.
“Bad date?” He pipes, his eyebrows pulling together, concerned.
“Great date.” You sigh, giving a pointed look to Emily, Pen and JJ. All of them leant on Emily’s desk and she shakes her head.
“Again?” She asks, a disbelief in her tone.
“Again!” You exclaim, throwing your hands up before walking to the bathroom to get changed into your work clothes.
“Is this one of those girl’s night things I don’t understand?” Derek asks, a sassy hand on his hip.
“You don’t even know the half of it sugar.” Penelope shakes her head, the feathers she had stuck in her buns swaying back and forth.
“Round table!” Hotch barks to the group from the catwalk, his head nodding towards the conference room.
Everyone filters into the room, all taking their usual seats around the table. The projector screen pulls down slowly, and Penelope stood awaiting her go.
“Where’s-.” Hotch started, but was quickly silenced by your light jogging into the room, pretty much throwing yourself down in the chair.
“Good night?” Dave asks with a smirk. You glare at him darkly, like ice shooting from your eyes, a scowl forming on your face. “Ok!” He turns away from you to the screen.
Penelope clicks on the remote, and the projector whirs. Three photos of brunette woman pop up on the screen, and then gruesome ones follow up. “Here’s our victims, Lila Grey, Jess Jones and Kira Walker. All found slaughtered in alleyways, necks cut.” Pen squeaked, looking away from the screen.
“The Glendale police department want our help in locating the killer, they can’t figure out where in the city he is or who he is.” Hotch says, “Wheels up in 20, debrief on the jet, he’s escalating.”
-
The jet was warm, a stark comparison from the runway, that was biting cold and climbed through the fabric of your shirt. It was still a marvel to you that you had a private jet, it was smoother than an economy plane.
Magnolia files were plopped down in front of you, the back of Hotch’s suit comes into vision and he sits down in his regular seat, back to the small kitchenette. His eyes didn’t even cast you glance but that gets pushed to the back of your mind when your eyes are filled with puddles of blood.
“Seems pretty cut and dry right?” JJ calls, “Middle-aged, probably single, woman hating.”
You were all in agreement, “What did the women do for work?” You ask, staring at their photos.
“They all worked in finance, behind the scenes.” Derek says, “So maybe financial incentives?”
“They have a list of suspects for us to look at once we get there, two of them can’t be located so that’s our priority.” Hotch commands, “But rest till we get there, I know I interrupted your sleep.”
“Well most of us.” Emily jokes, nudging you with her shoulder and a catty smile spreads across her lips.
“Shut up.” You say with gritted teeth, and a light slap to her shoulder and you couldn’t help the bright red heat that spread across your face. Catching dark eyes across the jet, you somehow think you turn more red and focus on the file in front of you.
It’s early when you land, the sunrise just peeking through the clouds and shrouds everything in a bright orange hue. You stare out of the window of the police precinct, a cup of strong black coffee. Spencer was drawing on the whiteboard figuring out a geographical profile for the two missing suspects while the rest of the team checked on the others already interviewed, just to double check.
You stare at the map, the huge circles not making any sense. “What have you marked?”
“Where they were killed and their addresses.” He stated, stroking his straight tie.
“Add in their workplaces.” You say, Spencer adds the dots to the whiteboard. Connecting each women’s three points into a triangle and he circles it in a bright red. “Call Pen!” You instruct Spencer and he pulls his flip phone out, refusing to succumb to modern technology.
“You’re on speaker.” He tells her as soon as she picks up.
“Pen! Look for previous offenders in a three mile radius of Davis street.” A stressed hand pulls through your hair. “Look for previous assault offenders, battery, bar fights, domestic.” You list off, a nod from approval from Spencer.
“Sorry pumpkin! But there’s no one with a previous history in this area.” She says, deflated, before apologising and leaving the call.
“Stupid geographical profile.” You scoff, shoving yourself into the chair.
“Maybe we could add.” Spencer starts but you cut him off, tone harsh and sharp.
“We’re not gunna find him!” As it came out you felt the unneeded venom. “Sorry. Just frustrated.” You give him a weak smile and the rest of the team appear in that moment.
“Everything ok?” JJ asks, looking between you and Spencer.
“No result from the geographical.” You shrug with a sigh. “I’ve also looked over lots of people work priors. They either don’t normally branch to women or are back in prison.”
Morning turned to evening and you hadn’t left the same position from earlier, the whole team looking over files upon files. Hope was slowly dwindling as a large pile of takeaway coffee cups piled into a mountain.
“Alright, let’s call it a night.” Hotch says, leaning back and standing up. “Unfortunately for the hotel two people have to share. They were fully booked for the night, no cancellations.”
A collective groan comes from the team, that’s the last thing you all wanted to hear after a long day. The short ride to the hotel was a quiet one, silent prayers hoping, wishing to have a room to yourself.
-
“Ok, let’s draw draws.” Derek says, pulling out the straws he kept in his go bag. You all had decided when Strauss wanted to stiff you with sharing rooms, you’d draw straws, keep it fair and by chance. This led to Spencer rambling on about probability and how it wasn’t really fair due to preconceived notions on picking. “It’s bossmans turn to share so whoever draws the short straw, get cozy!”
Derek pulls his first, long. He sighs and holds them to Dave, long. His smile was brass and unwavering and he heads off to bed before anyone else had pulled theirs. Spencer pulls his, long. Derek finally gets to you, putting them in front of you.
You cast your mind back to Spencer’s rant about preconceived notions. You knew you were privy to picking straws on the right, due to being right handed. A leap of faith, you pull one on the left. It stops a second after you grab it and you shut your eyes in disappointment.
Everyone else releases the deep breaths they were holding. You tried to not show Hotch your face, trying to not deeply offend him.
Begrudgingly, you drag your feet behind Hotch, not missing the sympathetic looks from the rest of the team, waving them off weakly.
“Well there goes her nightly plans.” Emily snorts to JJ, tapping shoulders as they walk away with a snicker.
Hotch’s ears prick up at that, her hushed tone knowing that whatever that was wasn’t meant for his ears, especially because you shoved an aggressive middle finger in their direction. That only made Emily and JJ laugh more.
He leads the way to the room, carefully checking behind to make sure you’re still trailing behind him. You were, you looked exhausted. Feet dragging, bag dragging and rubbing your eyes. Holding the key card up to the censor, it beeps loudly and he pushes open the door.
One bed, he strode in the hotel room, putting his go bag on the small couch. “Sorry you have to share with me. I’ll take the couch.”
You rolled your eyes, you knew he was trying to be chivalrous. “It’s fine, and no. You won’t fit on that couch.” You shake your head. “You’re not the first man I’ve shared a bed with.” You joke, he doesn’t find it funny.
“I’ll take the side near the door.” He states seriously. You nod.
“Fine, you can have the first shower, I prefer to shower in the morning.” Your tone is harsh. He nods and you stare at his back, glaring daggers into his back hoping he’d bleed out and die so he couldn’t interrupt another one of your orgasms.
The shower turns on and rushes loudly. You pull on your pyjamas and slip into the sheets, staring longingly at your go bag, desperate for the release that was hidden away in a deep pocket.
He came out of the shower in just a towel. He was sparkling in the shitty LED light of the hotel room, he doesn’t look at you as he quickly rummages through his go bag, pulling out his pyjamas and muttering a “Sorry” then disappearing back into the bathroom.
Then he climbed into bed next to you, it was awkward and the two of you were ridged. Him because of the unwavering professionalism that suffocated his every move, and you still ever so frustrated of your lack of getting off. Realising the two of you had never shared a room before, you wondered what kind of sleeper he was. Emily was a wriggler, JJ a kicker, Spencer a mumbler and Derek a snorer. Rossi somehow had never shared a room with anyone on the team, you were convinced he rigged it.
He sat with a case file open and you sighed. “It’s getting late, can I turn the light off?” You ask, frustrated after thirty minutes of tossing and turning, the white bright hotel light hindering you.
“Yep.” His brows scrunch at your harsh tone. You look into his eyes, he’s profiling you, a deep breath sucked in and you flipped over.
“Night.” Your tone is clipped as the room is covered in a thick layer of darkness, you fall asleep quickly and set a quiet alarm for far to early in the morning.
You awoke to the first shrill ring of your alarm. Eyes pulling open into pure blackness. Sitting up, you take a couple moments to breathe, staring at your phone and reading a text from Pen.
‘How’s the boss?’
‘Ridged like a corpse.’
Your eyes gloss over him even though you couldn’t see him, you hadn’t woke once in the night to any movement or snoring, it was so… Hotch.
Wandering to the shower with your go bag, it spurts on, sputtering until it comes to a steady stream. You step in and the shower, it’s warmer than the hotel showers you were used to. An involuntary sigh pulls from you, hands running through your hair, washing out the shampoo. Your cheap body wash also being ran down the drain.
Before you knew it, your hands and slipped down south. Lightly touching, ghosting over yourself and you bite your lip. One of your fingers grazes your clit and a louder sigh crawls from you, you bring a hand to your mouth as you start moving in frantic circles.
Images of Hotch from the night before cloud your mind, his back muscles glistening in the hotel light and the faint glimpse of chest hair you’d seen when he hid away back in this very room. Before you could debate the morality of wanking to your boss who was one thin hotel wall over, two of your fingers slip inside of yourself and you bite a lip so hard you draw blood.
Your chest heaves and you lean against the shower wall. The white tiles were cold against the heat radiating from you, the contrast making everything more intense. Your mind filled with Hotch, arms, back, chest. That ten second glimpse was enough to send you spiralling. The warmth of him next to you in the bed had your legs trembling. Wandering, your mind jumped to what he would be like as a lover, would the strokes be deep or rough, you hoped rough. Teetering, closer and closer to the edge you were panting, deep in your fantasy you could almost hear his voice.
Except you could hear his voice, and he was pounding on the door.
“Hey! We need to get going and I need to brush my teeth.”
The shower turned cold, and you gasped loudly, jumping out.
A film reel plays in your head, there’s no way this is happening again. Every date, you finally get to the edge, the phone rings. No matter what time, nine am, two am, his voice always pulled you out of the deepest pleasure.
“Are you ok?” He shouted through the door, wrapping a towel around yourself you open the door to him standing right there.
“Yeah, there’s no more hot water.” You pull your lips together into a line, pushing past him so he can’t profile your flushed face. The bathroom door locks behind him.
You imagined taking an axe to the door psycho style, but then came to your senses, scrambling into your work clothes and running out of the room before he could finish up in the bathroom.
-
When you get to the precinct, Emily is already there. She’s pouring over case files and you sit down next to her, coffee already in hand.
“What have you got?” You ask.
“There’s this guy, lives just outside the geo profile and has a prior of car damage. Before you say unrelated, it was his ex’s car and she was in it.” You nod along and point to the very small yes pile.
“Somebody didn’t get a good night sleep.” She laughs looking at the tiredness on your face.
“He has a sixth sense.” You hiss quietly, looking around to make sure no one else was in earshot. “I was mid shower.”
“Yikes.” She grits her teeth and looks at you sympathetically. Then her sympathy turns to that sly grin she would get, when she was about to suggest something incredibly stupid. “You know.” Her voice is low, “There is one way to fix his sixth sense..”
“You’re crazy.”
“We all know you have a thing for him.” She tilts her head knowingly, you shake your head and look to the door.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Swallowing thickly, you refuse to meet her eyes.
“The rest of the team might not be able to profile you well, but I can.” She teases and nudges your shoulder.
You roll your eyes and scoff. Eyes staring at the file in front of you, swiftly moving on from Emily’s brash accusation. Fingers tapping on the wooden table, a smooth rhythm.
The rest of the day goes slow, dragging by, each second like pulling teeth. Spent pulling files and cross checking.
You hum and grunt all day, dozens of trips to the coffee machine, gulping them down. Derek catches Emily’s eye across the table, he nods towards you with a raised eyebrow. She waves a hand dismissively as you come back in, mug full to the brim. It’s five when you finally get a hit.
“Don Forbes.” Penelope states. “Has a matching record with Emily’s car guy, and his face suspiciously matches the one from the mugshot. He changed his name, that’s why we couldn’t find him.”
Hotch stands straight at that, pulling on his blazer he’d haphazardly shoved off during the day. You all follow suit, pulling on your vests and triple checking the gun was settled in your holster.
“Prentiss.” He states as she appears next to him, pulling her to a small corridor away from the team. “Is she ok to be in the field?” He nods towards you.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” She nods, “She’s just..” She takes a pregnant pause. “Frustrated.”
Hotch furrows his eyebrows, “At the case?”
“She’s going to kill me.” Emily mutters and checks over her shoulder, seeing you strap Spencer into his vest. “You keep interrupting her, private moments.” She widens her eyes intentionally.
“Ah.” He responds flatly. Nodding that stiff nod he always did. “Let’s go then.”
-
“Don Forbes, FBI!” Derek calls through the door, banging on it loudly.
No answer, JJ peers through the window. “He’s running!” She shouts, and you and Hotch immediately run to the back of the house, Derek kicks down the door and the rest of the team file in.
As you round the corner, he barrels through his own back door and tries to barge through the back gate and into the woods that lined his home. But, Hotch grabs the back of his collar, yanking him back and throwing him down into his shed wall. Pulling his arms behind him and clinking the cuffs on.
Everything turns into a blur, the heat crawls up from your legs, up your torso and to your neck. It’s like the world goes silent, only focused on Hotch and how his biceps made the fabric on his shirt pull tight.
-
Finally, Don had been questioned, confessed and checked, to be kept in holding to his trial. Breathing a breath of fresh air, the team stands outside of the precinct.
“Let’s stay the night, It’s too cloudy for the jet now.” Hotch nods, glancing up to the sky.
“Alright! Who wants to hit a bar?” Rossi rocks back on his heels, throwing his blazer over his shoulder. An echoing chorus of yes’s and please’s come from everyone.
“I think I’ll give this one a miss, I’m exhausted.” You smile and wave, quickly walking over to the car, ready to drive off.
A knock comes on the window just as you put the key in the ignition. Hotch is stood there, and you nod. He pulls open the door and climbs in.
“Not feeling it?” You ask and drive out.
“No. I’m also feeling tired.”
You glance out the corner of your eye, “I must be great in bed huh?” You joke and your eyes widen. “That’s not what I meant.” Bright red flush covers your face and you are thankful to be pulling into the hotel car park.
“I don’t doubt it.” He says smirking, climbing out of the car.
Following him to the room, he clicks open the door and you flop down on you flop down on the bed face first, you sigh, the cheap hotel mattress feeling like a cloud after a whole day of ridged plastic chairs. “Could you grab my pyjamas?” You mutter to Hotch.
“Sure.” He laughs and shakes his head at you, your head pressed into the pillow.
Pulling through your bag, he grabs your pyjamas, they were long sleeved and had a pattern of small forest animals dotted all over. Underneath, there was a pink vibrator, staring at it.
“You always bring this with you?” You hear Hotch ask and you lazily turn your head.
He’s stood there, holding your vibrator in his hand taking steps towards you. You scurry up, and sit on the edge of the bed. And he was walking towards you slowly, clicking it on. You wanted the ground to open and swallow you up. The embarrassment consumes you, your mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.
“I know about your little predicament.” He smiles, it’s teasing and tantalising. He’s now towering in front of you, taking your jaw in his hand and’s forcing you to look up at him.
“Oh god.” You didn’t think you could get redder, but the heat on your cheeks becomes burning.
He clicks off the vibe and throws it to the side. Pulling you up, and putting a stabilising hand around your back. “This ok?” He checks in, you nod furiously.
Then, he kisses you. His lips are warm, and you already squeak, his arms hold you close, his chest was hard, solid, his muscles flexing as one of his hand snakes to the back of your head. You grab his bicep, fingers digging in. He groans into the kiss now, catching your bottom lip with his teeth.
Your hands wander, the cotton shirt smooth under your fingers. The top button pops open easily, the next one too. You hadn’t stopped kissing, his tongue dips into your mouth and your fingers fumble with the buttons. He was warm, everywhere.
Finally, the bottom button pops open, the shirt flows open. Pulling away from Aaron’s kiss, your eyes drag down his naked chest. Unable to control yourself, your lips attach to the base of Aaron’s jaw, and your hands feel him up. He’s breathy, you suck on his neck, not caring about the consequences tomorrow.
Pulling you off, he looks down at you, those pools of dark brown hypnotising you. He bends down, now focusing on your neck, in between teasing kisses he whispers, “I’m sorry for interrupting your fun.” His nose drags up the side of your neck.
“How about I make it up to you?”
You’re sure you melt at that, your legs turning to jelly. His strong, sturdy arms hold you up, sweeping your legs up, he throws you down onto the bed. The old springs of the hotel bed creak as you bounce. Sliding up to the pillows, he moves.
It’s predatory, the way he crawled up to you. Him the lion, you the helpless deer. His fingers popped open your slacks, yanking down your legs, coming face to face with your red underwear.
“For me?” He smirks, pinging the elastic back into your hip, it makes you jolt. It’s a light stinging pain, you don’t mind.
“You wish.” You cut back, a flashy smile on your face. He doesn’t like that, the deep, serious unit chief spreads across his face.
“You’re going regret that.” He growls, pulling the panties down your legs, leaving you bare to him. Before you even suck in a breath, his mouth is on you.
Licking a deep stripe up you, entrance to clit, a deep shudder pulls from your body. Landing on your clit, his tongue flicks softly. Sparks of pleasure shoot through your pelvis, and your hands grip onto the pillow surrounding your head.
“Oh fuck!” You cry out, your head shoving back.
He smirks against you, big, thick hands pulling your thighs apart, leaving you wide open, to his mercy. His licks turn into sucking, taking your clit into your mouth and your thigh muscle tenses. His teeth graze it, and you’re sure you saw stars.
Legs trembling through his tight grip, your eyes squeeze shut as you cum. He’s relentless, licking you through your orgasm, making your hips jump.
He looks up at you, his eyebrows peaked, chin shiny with your juices. “God.” You sigh at the sight.
“Not God baby, just me.” He smirks and dives back in. Going back to the rough licks and pokes he was using before. He licks another full stripe up you, pulling back and blowing cool air over your clit.
Your hands jump into his hair, it’s softer than you thought it would be. You claw at his scalp and you feel your abs tense. One of his hands snakes down, sliding up from the bottom, catching your wetness as he goes. His finger slips inside of you and you moan out. “Sir!”
You don’t even think about the title, but you feel him groan against you, the vibrations travel up you.
“You can give me another?” He asks, and another finger pushes in. He pushes up and brushes your g spot. You swear you feel your brain turn to mush, the constant stimulation, his tongue flicking your clit and fingers pumping in and out you. The tension builds in your abdomen and you nod furiously, the front bits of your hair fall in front of your face.
Through your hair you meet his eyes, “Use your words.” He instructs, non relenting.
“Yes, Yes! Yes!” You scream out, sure the dirty looks you were going to get from the receptionist tomorrow morning would be scorning. You cum on his face again, your body going limp and you spread out, chest heaving up and down, sweat clung to the shirt you hadn’t removed yet.
That came off in quick succession, Aaron crawling up your body, hands grabbing one side each, he yanks. The buttons fly everywhere and he pulls it off you, snaking his hands around your back and unhooked your bra, also pulling that from your body.
“My shirt!” You whine, “That’s my favourite one.”
He kisses you softly this time, a look of fake sympathy in his eyes. “Aww, I’ll buy you three more, in different colours.”
He’s back on your neck, sucking the skin in, giving you a deeper hickey next to the lighter one he’d left earlier. Your hips jump up and brush against his cock, and you gasp. His teeth scrape along your neck as you push up against him.
He undoes his slacks, pulling them down and his boxers with them and your eyes wander down.
“Woah.” You say before you can think about it, your eyes become as wide as saucers.
He drags his cock up and down you, covering the tip of his cock in your wetness. Your teeth clamp down on your lip, as it catches on your entrance and he pushes in ever so slightly.
“I’m gunna rip you open.” He says breathlessly, his voice deeper than you’d ever heard it.
Before you can even formulate a quip, he pushes into you, the stretch making your eyebrows pull together and a begging look in your eyes.
“Oh!” You moan, and he pulls out and slams back in, the sudden fullness sending you into a deep pleasure spiral.
He lowers himself down to his forearms, his head right next to yours, his thick forearms flexed and the veins popping out. His thrusts are uniform and rough.
“You going to cum again for me?” He asks, knowing he won’t last long in tight warmth you had surrounded him in. It felt like every time he pulled out, you sucked him back in.
“Yea.” You whisper breathlessly, and you sink your teeth into the flesh on his forearms. Mumbling the constant string of moans pulling from your throat.
Feeling like you’re floating, you’d never felt this amount of pleasure as his cock dragged deliciously against your g spot. “So-so full.” You squeak out, eyes rolling back.
“Where’s all that annoyance now huh?” You could hear the smirk and his thrusts get faster, transporting you into another world.
“Ah- ah! Aaron!” You suck in a deep breath. You’re sure your brain goes black, not capable of a competent thought. Your whole body trembles this time, the coil in your pelvis just begging to snap.
“Cum for me baby.”
That’s all it takes, you tighten around him, nails digging into his back and a silent cry comes from your throat. He slows slightly, however, still thrusting and bringing himself over the edge.
Pushing to the hilt, he releases inside of you. He places his forehead against yours and he slips out of you.
“You ok?” He checks in, stroking your hair.
“Yeah.” There’s a satisfied smile on your face as he quickly darts off to the bathroom, coming back with a wet rag and cleaning his cum off of your pussy and inner thighs, you shiver, still sensitive.
Once you’re clean, he clambers into bed next to you, pulling the covers over you, neither rod you bothering to get dressed.
“You know, I might have to make a complaint to HR,” You joke. “I’m sure that my boss cumming in me might come under sexual harassment.”
“Hmm.” He hums. “Well I think my subordinate rubbing herself in the shower while imagining me naked also comes under sexual harassment.” He jokes back.
Horror pulls over your face. “I’m gunna kill Em-”
He cuts you off, “Emily didn’t tell me about the shower, but she did tell me about you not coming for a while, well she implied it.”
“Then how?” Your jaw is slack and that familiar redness lights you up like a christmas string.
“I am a profiler.” He smiles. “Your face was very, very red.”
“Oh shut up. You’re the one who came out here in a towel and decided to just show me those back muscles.” You roll your eyes.
“My back muscles?” He smirks, smugness all over his face.
“Fuck off.” You huff, “Sir.” You add slyly.
It’s now his turn to turn bright red.
-
“Is anyone going to address the elephant in the room?” Derek asks after everyone is a couple drinks in, looser from the alcohol.
“Or do you mean the elephants that aren’t in the room?” JJ snorts, taking another sip out of her drink. Her and Emily make eyecontact across the circular table and start giggling manically.
“What? What did I miss?” Spencer tilts his head in confusion. “There’s no elephants in the room.”
“Hotch and y/n sitting in a tree.” JJ starts.
“What you think they’re kissing?” Spencer exclaims, pushing up his glasses in shock.
“Oh they’re doing a lot more than kissing. I can’t wait to tell Penelope.” She finishes, typing furiously on her phone.
-
an: heyy party people, thanks for reading this!! this idea was a long time coming so please please like and reblog it! i need that fbi agent so baddddd. comment if you want to be added to a tag list!!
Aaron had a hard time going back to dating after all happened with Hailey and Foyet, he didn’t want to rush into things especially since he had Jack to think of. So after many rejections, he finally accepted a date that Penelope had organized, the woman was actually a teacher and the connexion between them was immediate. They had many dates, officially became a couple four months after the first one and now it’s been a year and a half since she agreed to moved in with him.
Everything was going well, Jack and her had a good relation, Aaron was glad his son had a feminine presence and couldn’t be more happy with her.
It was Sunday and Aaron decided that he wound’t wake her now, they had the rest of the day for themselves since Jack had a sleepover at his aunt the night before. He decided to bring her breakfast in bed, being a bit romantic for once. A tray with coffee and pastries in his hands, he began to go back upstairs carefully. He saw her sleeping peacefully, her mouth opened and her limbs extended across the bed, he put the tray on the dresser before sitting next to her on the bed. He let in fingers trailed across her face, watching her nose scrunch up at the disturbance, he chuckled slightly and decided to wake her up with some kisses. His lips traveling from her forehead to her cheeks, pausing at her eyelids when he saw the smile she was trying to fight.
“_Come on darling, it’s time to wake up.
_Hmmmm no. we still have time to sleep a bit.
_But I made your coffee and I have your favorite pastry too. It would be a shame if I eat all of it.
_Why didn’t you start with that! Gimme the coffee Aaron.
_Of course Madam, here you go your coffee.”
After your breakfast, you decided you needed more cuddle, Aaron spooning you from behind, tracing some forms on your arm. You wanted to feel closer to him, you scooted back until your ass was flush against his front, but to you it wasn’t enough. You grabbed his arm and curled it around your waist earning a chuckle from Aaron. He put his hand under your shirt, grabbing her breast and squeezing you a bit more. But still you felt the need to be even closer.
“_Honey? Could you- could you be closer please?
_I’ll crush if I do that darling. I could do something else if you wanted.
_Please anything, just want to feel you.
_Don’t worry my love, I’ll take care of you.”
He let his hands going to your hips, grabbing your underwear and pulling them off, doing the same with his. He let his fingers traveling to your wet cunt, stroking slowly your clit to prepare you, then his fingers went to your hole, entering one first then another, feeling your walls fluttering around his fingers. Your moans were soft, you could feel his breath in your ear, his hips bucking against your ass in rhythm with his fingers. He withdraw his fingers to grab his cock, muttering an “are you ready love?” gruffly, you nodded excitedly. You felt the tip rubbing your pussy back and forth until it catch your entrance. He entered in one long stroke, letting you feel every inch of it before stopping when your hips were flushed together.
You settled back against his chest, feeling content and relaxed, Aaron left some kisses here and there letting enjoy the rest of your morning peacefully with his cock buried on you. He promised himself he’ll fuck you to sleep tonight, maybe even stuffing you full of his cum and keeping it there all night. Yeah he couldn’t wait for tonight.
MDNI, NSFW 18+ ~~ Kinktober Masterlist Main Masterlist
wc: 2.2k
cw: Smut, Office sex, Established ‘FWB’, filming with consent, degradation, praise, Dom! Hotch, Boss Hotch, BAU unit Reader, Oral (m), p in v, PWP, Aftercare
The dim glow of the desk lamp cast long shadows across Aaron Hotchner's office, the only light piercing the otherwise darkened BAU bullpen. It was well past midnight, the kind of hour where the building felt like a ghost town, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the occasional creak of settling floors. You knew he'd still be here.
Aaron always was, buried in case files, his tie loosened but his focus unbreakable. That's what drew you to him in the first place: that unyielding intensity, the way he commanded a room without saying a word.
You'd been seeing each other for months now, though "seeing" felt like too formal a word. It started as stolen moments after tough cases, a way to release the tension that built up like storm clouds over the team. Friends with benefits, maybe, but with the added complication of him being your boss. The lines blurred quickly late-night texts, shared glances during briefings, and now this, slipping into his office when everyone else had gone home.
You knocked softly on the doorframe, leaning against it with a small smile. He looked up from his paperwork, his dark eyes softening just a fraction as they met yours. "You're still here?" he asked, though there was no real surprise in his voice. He knew why you'd come.
"Couldn't leave without saying goodnight," you replied, stepping inside and closing the door behind you. The click of the lock echoed in the quiet space. You crossed the room, perching on the edge of his desk, your skirt riding up just enough to catch his attention. His gaze flicked down, then back up, a hint of that predatory gleam you loved.
Aaron set his pen down, leaning back in his chair. "Goodnight, huh?" His voice was low, laced with amusement. He reached out, his hand finding your knee, thumb tracing slow circles over your skin. The touch sent a shiver up your spine, familiar and electric.
You leaned in, your lips brushing his in a tentative kiss that quickly deepened. His free hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer, his mouth claiming yours with the authority that came so naturally to him. Tongues tangled, breaths mingled, and soon you were sliding off the desk into his lap, straddling him as his hands roamed up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher.
Things heated up fast, the way they always did with him. Your fingers worked at his tie, loosening it further, while his lips trailed down your neck, nipping at the sensitive spot just below your ear. You gasped, grinding against him, feeling him harden beneath you. "Aaron," you murmured, your voice breathy, needy.
He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with desire as they locked onto yours. His hand stilled on your hip, and for a moment, you wondered if something was wrong. Then he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. "I want to try something," he said, his tone steady but edged with that dominant edge you craved.
You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piquing even as arousal thrummed through you. "What's that?"
He held up the phone, thumb hovering over the camera app. "Film us. Just for me."
You blinked, a mix of surprise and intrigue washing over you. It wasn't that the idea turned you off—far from it—but it was unexpected coming from him, the ever-professional Hotchner. "Film us? Why?"
His free hand slid up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he tugged gently, tilting your head to meet his gaze. "Because I think about you when you're not here. The cases take me away, and I want something to remind me of how good you feel, how you look when you're falling apart for me. Something I can watch and remember exactly what it's like to have you." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Will you let me? Say yes, and I'll make it worth your while."
The honesty in his words, the raw need beneath his controlled exterior, sent a thrill straight to your core. You bit your lip, nodding slowly. "Yes. Okay…Film it."
A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. "Good girl." He hit record, propping the phone against a stack of files on his desk for now, angling it to capture the two of you. Then he guided you down to your knees between his legs, his hand still in your hair. "Start with your mouth. Show me how much you want this."
You knelt there, heart racing as you looked up at him through your lashes. The red light on the phone blinked steadily, a silent witness. Your hands trembled slightly—not from nerves, but from the rush—as you unbuckled his belt, freeing him from his pants. He was already hard, thick and ready, and you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking slowly.
Aaron adjusted the phone, holding it now in one hand to get a better angle, pointing it down at you. "Look at the camera," he commanded, his voice like velvet-wrapped steel. "Let me see those pretty eyes while you suck me off."
You obeyed, glancing up at the lens before leaning in, your tongue flicking out to tease the tip. He groaned softly, his free hand guiding your head forward. You took him into your mouth, inch by inch, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked. The taste of him, salty and musky, filled your senses, and you moaned around him, the vibration drawing another low sound from his throat.
"That's it," he murmured, his hips bucking slightly. "Such a good little slut for me, aren't you? Taking my cock like it's all you think about." The degradation hit just right, making you wetter, your thighs pressing together for friction. He filmed it all—the way your lips stretched around him, the saliva glistening as you bobbed your head, faster now, deeper.
You gagged a little when he hit the back of your throat, but you didn't pull away. Instead, you pushed further, determined to please him. His praise came in waves, mixed with the filth. "Fuck, you're perfect. Look at you, choking on me like a desperate whore. But you're my whore, aren't you? Say it."
You pulled off just enough to gasp, "Yes, yours," before diving back in, your hand working the base in tandem with your mouth. Aaron's breathing grew ragged, his grip in your hair tightening as he thrust shallowly, fucking your face while keeping the phone steady. The camera captured every sloppy sound, every tear that pricked at your eyes from the effort.
He pulled you off suddenly, his chest heaving. "Enough. I don't want to finish yet." Setting the phone aside for a moment, he hauled you up, kissing you hard, tasting himself on your tongue. Then he spun you around, bending you over the desk briefly to hike up your skirt and yank down your panties. "Get on me," he ordered. "Reverse. I want to film you riding me like that."
You complied eagerly, your body aching for him. He sat back in his chair, phone in hand again, recording as you straddled him facing away. His free hand guided you down onto him, and you sank slowly, gasping at the stretch, the fullness. "Oh god," you whimpered, your hands bracing on his thighs.
Aaron held the phone low, angling it to catch the way he disappeared inside you, the slick glide as you lifted and dropped. "Ride me," he growled. "Show the camera how much you love being filled by your boss's cock."
You started moving, rolling your hips in a rhythm that had you both moaning. The position let him hit deep, brushing that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. He thrust up to meet you, his hand occasionally smacking your ass, the sharp sting blending with the pleasure. "Faster, slut. Bounce on it like you mean it."
The dirty talk spurred you on, your pace quickening. Degradation poured from him—"Look at you, so fucking needy, using me in my own office"—interspersed with praise that made you melt: "You're doing so well, baby. So tight, so perfect for me." He adjusted the phone, getting close-ups of your ass as you rode him, then higher to capture your arched back, the way your hair cascaded down.
Sweat beaded on your skin, your breaths coming in pants as you chased release. Aaron's control frayed; he dropped the phone onto the desk, still recording but now using both hands to grip your hips, slamming you down harder. "Come for me," he demanded. "Let me feel you clench around my cock. Be a good girl and come."
It hit you like a wave, crashing over you as you cried out, your walls pulsing around him. He followed soon after, groaning your name—wait, no, he didn't say a name, just a guttural "fuck" as he spilled inside you, holding you flush against him.
For a moment, the only sounds were your heavy breathing and the faint beep as he stopped the recording. He eased you off him gently, turning you to face him. The dominance faded, replaced by something softer, more tender. "You okay?" he asked, his thumb brushing your cheek.
You nodded, still catching your breath, a lazy smile on your lips. "More than okay.”
He pulled you into his lap properly this time, wrapping his arms around you. One hand stroked your back in soothing circles, while the other fetched a bottle of water from his desk drawer—he always kept one there, ever the prepared leader. "Drink," he said softly, uncapping it and holding it to your lips.
You took a sip, then another, leaning into his warmth. He kissed your forehead, murmuring, "You were incredible. Thank you for trusting me with that." His fingers combed through your hair, untangling knots with care. No rush, no dismissal—just quiet aftercare, the kind that made you feel safe, cherished.
After a few minutes, he helped you clean up with tissues from his desk, then adjusted your clothes, his touch gentle. "Stay as long as you want," he whispered. "Or I can walk you to your car."
You shook your head, content in his arms. "A little longer here is fine."
He smiled, holding you close in the quiet office, the world outside forgotten for now.
MDNI, NSFW 18+ ~~~ Kinktober Masterlist Main Masterlist
wc: 1.8k
cw: Smut, Established relationship, Facial slapping, Rough consensual, p in v, Fingering, dirty talk, Oral (m) Vulgar language, Hard Dom! Hotch, unhinged i’m sorry, PWP, degradation (slut, whore ect), praise.
You slam the apartment door behind you a little harder than intended, the sound echoing through the quiet space like a punctuation mark on the absolute shitshow that was your day.
Overstimulating doesn't even begin to cover it endless meetings, emails piling up like accusations, that one coworker who wouldn't shut up about her weekend plans while you were drowning in deadlines. Your head throbs, your muscles ache from tension, and all you want is to crawl into bed and forget the world exists.
Aaron's voice cuts through the haze before you even spot him. "Rough day?" He's in the living room, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking every bit the composed unit chief even in the comfort of home.
But his eyes, those dark, assessing eyes soften just a fraction when they land on you.
He sets down the file he's been reading, because of course he's still working, and stands up, crossing the room in a few purposeful strides.
You nod, dropping your bag by the door and kicking off your shoes. "The kind where I want to scream into a pillow. Or break something." Your voice comes out tighter than you mean it to, frustration bubbling up like it's been waiting for a safe space to erupt.
He reaches you, his hand gentle on your arm at first, thumb stroking in a soothing circle. "Tell me what you need." It's not a question; it's an offer, laced with that quiet authority that always makes your pulse quicken. In your relationship, Aaron Hotchner isn't just your partner he's your anchor, the one who knows when to hold you close and when to push you over the edge in the ways that make everything else fade away.
You meet his gaze, feeling the heat already building despite the exhaustion. "I need to forget. Make me forget, Aaron. Please." Needing to pretend today did not happen and you knew he could make that happen.
His expression shifts, that softness giving way to something sharper, more intense. He searches your face, always so careful, even now. "You sure? We can just—"
"No," you interrupt, stepping closer until your body presses against his. "I need you. The way only you can do it."
He nods once, decisive, and his hand moves to your chin, tilting your head up. "Safe words?"
"Yellow to slow down. Red to stop." The ritual grounds you, reminds you that beneath the intensity, it's all trust.
"Good girl." The praise slips out low and approving, sending a shiver down your spine. Then his grip tightens just enough to make your breath hitch. "Strip. Now."
The command hits like a spark, igniting something primal.
You obey, fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers as he watches, arms crossed, his presence filling the room. By the time you're naked, vulnerable under his scrutiny, the day's chaos is already blurring at the edges.
He doesn't touch you yet. Instead, he loosens his belt, the sound deliberate, echoing. "On your knees."
You drop without hesitation, the carpet soft under your knees. He steps closer, unzipping his pants, freeing himself. He's already hard, and the sight makes your mouth water. "Open."
You do, and he guides his cock in, slow at first, letting you adjust. But then his hand tangles in your hair, pulling just hard enough to sting. "That's it. Take it like the needy little slut you are." The degradation rolls off his tongue, rough and unfiltered, but his eyes god, his eyes are full of heat and approval. "You look so fucking perfect like this, on your knees for me."
He thrusts deeper, setting a rhythm that's demanding, making your eyes water. You gag slightly, and he pulls back just enough to let you breathe before pushing in again. "Such a good whore, choking on my cock after a bad day. This is what you needed, isn't it? To be used."
Yes, god yes. The words, the control it's erasing everything else. Every shitty thing you dealt with all today. You hum around him, the vibration drawing a low groan from his throat.
But he doesn't let you finish him like this. After a few more thrusts, he pulls out, hauling you to your feet by your hair. The sting in your scalp is electric, sending heat pooling between your legs. He spins you around, bending you over the arm of the couch. "Spread your legs."
You comply, arching your back, exposed and aching. His hand comes down on your ass, a sharp smack that makes you gasp.
You breathe, the pain blooming into pleasure.
Another smack, harder.
He continues until five, because he can and because he wants to. And he knows what it does to you. Because Aaron knows you better than you know yourself.
Your skin burns, sensitive, and you're dripping wet by the end. "Look at you," he murmurs, fingers sliding between your thighs, teasing your entrance. "Soaked already. Pathetic, isn't it? How desperate you get for me."
"Please, Aaron," you whimper, pushing back against his hand.
He chuckles, dark and low. "Begging like a slut. But you've been so good today, haven't you? Handling all that bullshit at work." His fingers push inside you, curling just right, and you moan. "You deserve this. Deserve to be fucked until you can't think."
He withdraws, and you hear the rustle of clothes as he sheds the rest. Then he's behind you, aligning the blunt tip of his cock to you before thrusting in with one hard push that fills you completely. The stretch is intense, borderline overwhelming, and you cry out.
"Fuck, you're tight," he growls, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. He doesn't give you time to adjust, pulling back and slamming in again, setting a brutal pace. Each thrust jolts through you, the couch creaking under the force.
The day's remnants shatter with every movement.
You clutch at the cushions, lost in the sensation, but he grabs your hair again, yanking your head back. "Eyes on me."
You twist to look over your shoulder, meeting his gaze—fierce, possessive. His free hand comes around, fingers circling your clit in time with his thrusts. Pleasure builds fast, coiling tight.
But then he slows, just enough to make you whine. "Not yet. You come when I say."
"Aaron, please—"
His hand leaves your clit, and before you can process, it cracks across your cheek. The slap is sharp, stinging, sending a shockwave through you.
Your vision blurs for a second, but the heat that follows is intoxicating, mixing pain and pleasure in a way that makes you clench around him.
"Color?" he demands, voice rough but checking in.
"Green," you gasp, the word tumbling out. It hurts, but god, it's what you crave—the edge, the release.
He slaps again, lighter this time, on the other cheek. "That's my girl. Taking it so well. Such a filthy little thing, getting off on being slapped like a whore."
The degradation stings as much as the slap, but it's laced with praise that makes it all sweeter.
He resumes thrusting, harder now, his hand alternating between soothing rubs and more slaps each one timed with a deep thrust, building the intensity until you're teetering on the edge.
"You're mine," he growls, punctuating with another slap that makes stars burst behind your eyes. "My perfect, obedient girl. Look at you, falling apart for me."
Tears prick your eyes, not from pain but from the overwhelming everything the fullness, the slaps, his words wrapping around you like a vice. "Aaron, I—I'm close."
"Not yet." He pulls out suddenly, flipping you onto your back on the couch. You land with a huff, legs spread wide as he climbs over you, re-entering in one smooth motion. Face to face now, his expression is a mix of control and raw need.
He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand. The other trails down, slapping your breast lightly before moving to your face again. "You want more?"
"Yes," you beg, arching into him.
He delivers another slap, this one firm across your cheek, making your skin tingle. "Good girl. So eager. You're doing so fucking well, taking everything I give you."
His thrusts turn erratic, deeper, hitting that spot inside you relentlessly. The slaps come sporadically now, each one pushing you higher, the pain blurring into ecstasy. "Come for me," he finally commands, his voice breaking. "Now, Show me how much you need this."
The words tip you over. Orgasm crashes through you, waves of pleasure that make your body convulse, clenching around him. You cry out, incoherent, the world narrowing to just him his weight, his scent, the sting on your cheeks.
He follows moments later, groaning your name, a low satisfied sound as he buries himself deep, spilling inside you. His grip on your wrists tightens, then releases as he collapses half on top of you, both of you panting.
For a long moment, there's just breathing, the aftershocks rippling through. Then he shifts, pulling out gently, and his hands are soft now, cupping your face where he slapped, thumbs brushing away any tears.
"You okay?" His voice is back to that gentle timbre, concern etching his features.
You nod, smiling weakly. "More than okay. That was... exactly what I needed."
He kisses your forehead, then your cheeks, tender where they're still warm. "You were incredible. Let me get you some water, and we'll clean up."
He helps you sit up, wrapping you in a blanket from the couch before heading to the kitchen. As he returns with a glass and a cool cloth, pressing it to your skin, the day's weight is gone replaced by a bone-deep contentment. In his arms, everything else fades.
Because when life gets too stressful…Aaron will always be there to fuck you brainless to forget.
(if anyone on the taglist isn’t getting notified or on here when you’ve asked lmk!! if you’ve changed usernames it won’t tell me so you may have been accidentally removed or it’s an oversight with i apologise for!!)
late seasons hotch, established relationship, fem!reader
summary: hotch REALLY misses you on the plane ride home, especially when you send him photos from the beach
wc: 1k
warnings: masturbation, a lot of sex talk
not edited/proof read sorry
The case took the team a whole 8 days, he’s almost never gone for this long and by God he missed you. The case was finally over, but usually they say with him, he’d think over any detail he’d missed throughout the hours in the sky.
But that morning you’d sent him a text, a photo of Jack putting on his own sunscreen, letting him know that you guys were having a beach day. You always sent him updates while he was away, and you’d decided that a hot Saturday is July was perfect for heading down to the shore.
And sure enough the photos continued. He was sitting on the jet, barely 30 minutes into a 6 hour flight when you sent that first photo from the beach. He felt awful, he should be looking at his son, happily building a sand castle, but all he could see was your body in the bikini. Jesus, it was barely even revealing. There was limit cleavage on display, a perfectly normal bikini, not begging for attention, and yet it had all of his attention anyways.
Your skin glowing in the sun, slightly glossy likely a mix of sweat and sunscreen. The way your breasts so perfectly filled out that top, and he wished there was less fabric there. And God the little rolls in your stomach as you sat in the sand? How could one woman be so perfect?
He missed, he missed you. He hated being away from you but it was part of the job and something he was used to, but 8 days? And you’re sending him bikini photos? He was only a man at the end of the day, a man sitting alone in a corner of the jet, completely hard.
He closes his eyes, taking in a shaky breath. But his eyes close and all he sees is your pussy. His eyes shoot open. You’re a total pervert! Closing your eyes and all you can see is your naked girlfriend? Ew! Pull yourself together!
He takes out a book and breathes softly, managing to calm down somewhat as he reads about some politicians childhood stories he found relevant enough for his biography.
A soft vibration in pocket alerts him to a text message. He takes out his phone and open his messages. Three more photos from you. A selfie of you and Jack sticking out your tongue playfully, a photo of Jack in the water, and a photo of just you. And like the asshat he is, he promptly ignores the photos of his son, hearting the messages and taking his time to look at the photo of just you.
Your hair was wet now, you’d been in the water, but you looked so incredibly sexy. Lying on a towel, eyes scrunched up as one hand blocked the sub from your eyes. Those perfectly manicured nails that would so pretty around his d-
Aaron! For God’s sakes, you have another four hours on this plane ride! There’s people on the jet! Your coworkers! How is that all you can about?
But oh he could think about you… He imagined taking you the second he walked through the door. He wouldn’t even take off his jacket before he’d have you pressed up against the living room wall, pushing your panties to the side and sliding into you. He feels his dick twitch at that thought– being inside you. The way your walls would clench around his cock, how warm and wet you’d be, your pussy just begging him to cum inside of you.
He was gone. No more restraint, letting himself close his eyes and picture you, picture everything he wanted to do to you. Maybe he’d make you put on a bikini again just so he could take it off? Or fuck you it. Or both. He didn’t really mind. And he’d have to eat you out, surely you’ve missed him too right?
Yeah, he’d eat you out. He’d suck on your puffy cunt till you squeeze your legs and pushed his head away, and as soon as you let him he’d dive right back in, taking care of that sweet sweet pussy he adored so much. Yes she deserved a lot of love and attention that he desperately wanted to give.
His erection was painful, he was sure he’d be leaking precum through his black dress pants within minutes. What else was he supposed to do? He looks around, most of the team is sleeping, Morgan listening to music, Prentiss reading a book. He had no choice, he tells himself.
And so, feeling completely ashamed of himself, he stood up, heading into the bathroom of the plane, locking the door. It was cramped, and he had very limited mobility, but still, he carefully un lucked his belt and slid down the zipper, adjusting his boxers and freeing his aching cock from the confines of his clothes.
It’s a sight to see really, the tip is red, leaking precum all over himself, veins popping. It hurt, truly painful, he needed relief. And so he let himself wrap his hand around his length.
He’s able to keep quiet, closing his eyes and imagining what it would be like to have you on your knees in front of him, taking him as deep as you could. How he would rest on your tongue, feeling the velvety insides of your mouth, it’d be amazing. Or maybe you riding him, yes… he could lay back and watch himself disappear inside you, how perfect would that be?
Or maybe he’d lay you down on your stomach, get you comfortable and hold you down while he pounded into you, getting out every ounce of tension and frustration in his body. He didn’t care anymore, he just needed you– your body.
His cum spills out into his hands and his eyes shoot up. His orgasm is underwhelming and doesn’t last, but at least he gets some relief. He quickly grabs some paper towels to clean himself up, hastily washing his hands off his own self pleasure.
He sat back down feeling throughly ashamed of himself. So many years of working at the BAU, taking this very jet several times a week, and he’d never gotten to such a low point of touching himself in the bathroom. And yet he’d done.
Sum. In the silence of the night at the BAU office, after an exhausting case, Aaron Hotchner, the stoic and authoritarian leader, finds his agent still working late. What begins as a tense conversation turns into an intimate power play, where she surrenders to his command.
Warnings. 18+, fem!reader, explicit sexual content, explicit language, dom!aaron, sub!reader, daddy kink, fingering (r receiving), breast play (squeezing, nipple teasing), oral (a receiving), p in v, creampie, they don't use condoms. Minors dni.
➜ 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 ‘ 𝟐𝟓 !
The late-night hush of the BAU offices wrapped around you like a blanket, the only sounds the distant hum of the air conditioning and the faint click of your heels on the linoleum floor. The case had been brutal — a string of abductions that hit too close to home, leaving the team drained and scattered. Most had gone home hours ago, but Aaron Hotchner — your unit chief, your secret — remained at his desk, buried in paperwork, his broad shoulders tense under his suit jacket. You'd lingered too, not ready to face the empty apartment waiting for you. Or maybe it was him — the way his presence anchored you, his quiet strength a balm to your frayed nerves.
You knocked softly on his open door, stepping inside when he looked up, his dark eyes softening at the sight of you. "It's late," he said, voice low and gravelly, the kind that sent shivers down your spine. "You should go home."
"I don't want to be alone tonight," you admitted, closing the door behind you, the lock clicking into place. The blinds were already drawn — habit from too many confidential briefings. Hotch's gaze sharpened, reading you like a profile, but there was heat there too, the unspoken dynamic that had blossomed between you in stolen moments over the past months. He pushed back from his desk, standing to his full height — towering, commanding, the lines of his face etched with exhaustion but also desire.
"Come here," he ordered gently, and you did, crossing the room to stand before him. His large hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he searched your eyes. "What do you need, sweetheart?"
The word sent a thrill through you, but you craved more — the role he slipped into when the world was too much, when you needed him to take control. "I need you, Daddy," you whispered, the title slipping out like a plea, your voice trembling with vulnerability and want.
Hotch's breath hitched, his grip tightening slightly, eyes darkening with that possessive hunger. "Say it again," he commanded, his voice dropping an octave, the authority in it making your knees weak.
"Please, Daddy," you repeated, pressing closer, your hands fisting in his shirt. "Make me forget everything else."
A low growl rumbled in his chest as he captured your lips in a kiss — fierce, demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim you. His hands roamed down your body, unbuttoning your blouse with efficient precision, exposing your lace bra. "That's my good girl," he murmured against your mouth, the praise sending heat pooling between your thighs. He backed you toward his desk, sweeping papers aside with one arm — work be damned — as he lifted you onto the edge, the wood cool against your skin.
His mouth trailed down your neck, sucking marks into the flesh, each one a claim. "You've been so strong today," he said, his voice rough with emotion, fingers unhooking your bra to free your breasts. "But now, let Daddy take care of you." He cupped them, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened, pinching just enough to make you gasp. "These are mine," he growled, leaning down to take one into his mouth, sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak.
"Yes, Daddy — oh god," you moaned, arching into him, your hands tangling in his short hair. The title fueled him, his control slipping into something primal yet calculated — he knew exactly how to unravel you. His free hand slid up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher, fingers finding the damp lace of your panties. "So wet for me already," he praised, rubbing you through the fabric, the friction teasing but not enough. "Tell Daddy what you want."
"I want your fingers — please, Daddy, touch me," you begged, hips bucking against his hand. He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through you as he pushed your panties aside, two thick fingers sliding into your heat with ease. The stretch was perfect, his fingers curling to hit that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. "Like this?" he asked, thrusting slowly, his thumb pressing your clit in tight circles. You nodded frantically, moans spilling from your lips as pleasure built, coiling tight in your core.
But Hotch wasn't rushing — he savored your reactions, his own arousal evident in the bulge straining his pants. "You're doing so well for Daddy," he murmured, increasing the pace, fingers pumping deeper, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet office. Tears pricked your eyes from the intensity, your body trembling on the edge. "Come for me, love. Show Daddy how good he makes you feel."
The command pushed you over — orgasm crashing through you, walls clenching around his fingers as you cried out, "Daddy — yes!" Waves of pleasure rolled, your release soaking his hand. Hotch watched, eyes hooded with lust, his free hand stroking your thigh soothingly. "That's my girl," he praised, withdrawing slowly, bringing his fingers to his mouth to taste you, a groan escaping him.
But he wasn't done — far from it. He undid his belt, freeing his cock — thick, veined, hard and leaking pre-cum. "On your knees," he ordered, helping you down from the desk. You knelt eagerly, looking up at him with wide eyes. "Suck Daddy's cock," he said, voice rough, guiding the head to your lips. You opened, taking him in — the salty taste filling your mouth as you swirled your tongue around the tip, hollowing your cheeks to suck deeper.
Hotch's hand tangled in your hair, not forcing but guiding, his hips thrusting shallowly. "Just like that — good girl," he groaned, the praise making you wetter. You took him as deep as you could, gagging slightly when he hit the back of your throat, tears streaming now from the effort. "Look at you, crying for Daddy's cock. So beautiful." He pulled out, wiping a tear from your cheek, before lifting you back onto the desk.
"Spread your legs for me," he commanded, positioning himself between them. You obeyed, skirt hiked up, panties discarded. Hotch rubbed his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slickness. "Tell Daddy you want it."
"Please, Daddy — fuck me," you begged, and he thrust in slowly, the stretch burning deliciously as he filled you inch by inch. "So tight for me," he groaned, bottoming out, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. He started moving — slow at first, letting you feel every ridge, then faster, each thrust deep and claiming. "This pussy is mine," he growled, one hand sliding to your clit, rubbing in time with his strokes.
The pleasure was overwhelming — his cock hitting deep, his fingers relentless, the daddy kink amplifying every sensation. Tears flowed freely, a mix of ecstasy and emotion, as you clung to him. "Daddy — I'm gonna come," you sobbed, and he thrust harder. "Come on Daddy's cock — let go." You shattered again, clenching around him, your cries muffled against his shoulder.
Hotch followed, thrusting deep with a guttural moan, spilling inside you — hot, filling you completely. He held you as you both came down, kissing your tears away. "You were perfect, sweetheart," he whispered, the daddy role softening to tender care. In his arms, the world faded — only pleasure remained, a bond forged in trust and desire.
KINKTOBER ‘25 ❤︎ DAY EIGHT mile high club → aaron hotchner !
like what you see? check out my kinktober 2025 masterlist!
warnings: fem!reader, bau!reader, switch dynamics kind of?? (r starts but hotch def finishes...), overworked hotch my love, technically voyeurism?(well yk its plane sex...), r is a tease, grinding/dry humping, riding, quickie, kissing, biting, marking, rossi being suspicious, unprotected p in v, creampie...
wc: 2.5k
div: animatedglittergraphics-n-more, toastray
lowercase intended, no use of y/n
the quiet hum of the jet was ambient, the soft patter of rain dotting the windows. the cabin was hushed—nothing but the faint sounds of breathing and the occasional snore. after a case on the other side of the country, everyone was worn thin, completely wrung out by the job’s demands.
it wasn’t unusual for the team to need rest on the ride home.
what was unusual was for nearly the entire cabin to be asleep. prentiss had dozed off against jj’s shoulder, whose forehead pressed to the window. rossi was slumped in his seat, a half-finished glass of whiskey still balanced beside him. reid’s book lay forgotten in his lap, and morgan’s headphones leaked a faint stream of music—though he was far too unconscious to enjoy it.
almost everyone was asleep. everyone except you—and your boss.
you sat across from him at the small table, watching dreamily as he sorted through files and finalized reports, the wire frames of his reading glasses resting low on his nose. you loved him like this—focused, composed.
still, it worried you how hard he worked. you’d always been there to help him unwind. and right now, you were growing impatient with how much of his attention was wasted on the papers in front of him when you were sitting right there.
you let your heeled foot drift up his leg beneath the table, dragging slowly from his ankle to his calf, nudging up his grey slacks to reveal a flash of pristine white sock.
he was always so put together—truly businessman in his core. his shirt was crisp, his suit pressed, every inch of him disciplined. a drill sergeant in his own right.
but you were the only one who ever saw him… otherwise.
you watched his expression carefully as you continued, your movements unhurried. his jaw tightened, brows furrowed, and his bottom lip caught between his teeth—but still, he said nothing.
“aaron.”
his name rolled off your tongue with an ease born of habit. you’d said it countless times—whispered in the quiet of his home, murmured under the warm glow of restaurants, gasped beneath him in bed.
but never here. not on the jet. not in a professional setting where it was always sir or hotch. never his first name. never in front of the team.
his brow arched as he kept writing, black ink flowing steadily across the page. still, he didn’t bother to look up.
“yes?”
he almost sounded annoyed, though you knew it was just the weight of the case pressing on him. from your seat across the table, you could practically feel the burn behind his temples, the tight knots winding across his shoulders.
“aaron. look at me.”
finally, his eyes lifted from the papers, and he sighed. you looked at him the way you always did—full of warmth and admiration, more than he ever thought he deserved.
“sorry. what is it, agent?”
the formality made you close your eyes briefly and shake your head. you weren’t interested in speaking to your boss. you wanted to speak to your boyfriend.
“look around.”
you smirked as his eyes flicked across the cabin, probably for the first time since takeoff—before drifting back to yours, perplexed.
“everyone is asleep.”
you said softly.
“yes. it was a draining case.”
he still seemed confused, but he tried to follow your train of thought.
“very stressful, too.”
you mused, leaning in, your elbows resting on the polished brown wood of the table.
“it was.”
“i’d bet anyone still awake could use some… unwinding.”
he tilted his head, dark, tired eyes still not catching on.
“i’m not sure i follow.”
you chuckled under your breath, rising from the cream coloured leather seat and crossing to his side of the table. neatly, you began gathering his files, stacking and sliding them to the corner of the desk, out of the way.
“what I’m saying is…”
you tapped the last of his papers square, then set them aside with the rest of his abandoned work.
“…everyone’s asleep. it’s just you and me. stressed. pent up. forty thousand feet in the air.”
your voice dropped to a whisper as you leaned over him, your knees sliding to either side of his hips. the boldness of the move caught him off guard—he hadn’t expected this from you, not here, not with the team innocently sleeping only a few feet away.
you pulled his glasses off of his face, neatly stacking them onto the pile of papers and files as his body went still beneath you, every muscle drawn taut. for a moment, neither of you spoke—the hum of the jet and the soft patter of rain filled the silence.
“this isn’t the time.”
he murmured, finally speaking up, though his hands hovered at your waist, close enough for you to feel the heat of them.
“everyone’s asleep.”
you reminded him softly.
you could see the conflict flicker across his face—he exhaled through his nose, a sound that was half-sigh, half-defeat. you caught the glint of his eyes, which turned undeniably soft when they found yours.
“you shouldn’t test me like this.”
he said, voice low, the edge of control threading through it.
“i’m not testing you,”
you replied, barely above a whisper.
“just reminding you to breathe.”
for a long beat, he didn’t move. then, slowly, carefully—he reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. his fingers lingered a moment longer than they should have.
“breathe.”
he echoed, as if trying to convince himself.
for a moment, aaron stayed still beneath you, every inch of him restrained. you could see the struggle behind his eyes—duty, self-control, all the things that made him who he was, pulling tight against the part of him that simply wanted to feel.
“…aaron.”
the sound of his name slipped from your lips like a secret, soft and coaxing.
he closed his eyes for a breath, jaw flexing once, twice—until something inside him finally gave way. his hand rose, firm and sure, finding the back of your neck. He guided you down until your mouth met his.
the kiss wasn’t tentative. days of exhaustion and restraint were carried between the press of his lips against yours, the kind of hunger that built quietly overtime, in the spaces between work. every ounce of tension he’d tried to contain poured out in that single, shuddering release.
outside, the hum of the engines and the soft percussion of rain against the windows melted into nothing. the world narrowed to the heat of his mouth on yours, you relished in the soft exhale he gave when your fingertips brushed the stubble along his cheek.
you broke apart only to breathe, foreheads pressed together, his thumb tracing slow, grounding circles at the base of your skull—as if memorizing the feel of you.
“i shouldn’t have done that,”
he murmured, though conviction didn’t quite reach his voice.
“too bad you already did.”
your whisper carried a ghost of a smile, and something in his eyes softened. his lips curved, the faintest hint of a grin—before he drew you in again, slower this time, deliberate, like he was allowing himself the dangerous luxury of forgetting everything else with the press of your form flush against his.
when you finally pulled back, silence filled the small space between you, heavy, alive, thick with everything unsaid. aaron’s hand lingered at your throat, thumb resting beneath your jaw, eyes drinking you in as though he was trying to commit every detail to memory.
“you have to stop doing this to me.”
he said quietly, a flicker of humour tugging at his lips.
“doing what?”
“making me forget where we are.”
there was no reprimand in his tone, just a kind of weary surrender. you reached up, brushing your fingers along the edge of his jaw.
“maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”
he huffed a quiet laugh, low and genuine.
“it is when we’re here, technically still at work.”
“aaron... everyone’s asleep.”
you reminded him once more, your voice light but your eyes saying something else entirely.
he leaned in again, forehead resting against yours, his breath warm when he murmured,
“you’re impossible.”
“i know.”
neither of you moved for a long time. the engine’s drone became a lullaby beneath you, the world shrinking until there was nothing left but the shared rhythm of your breathing.
then, after a pause long enough for his reason to start returning, you spoke again, your voice threaded with mischief.
“i think i’m still pretty stressed, aaron.”
his eyes lifted to yours, amusement flickering beneath the surface.
“really now?”
“mhm,”
you breathed, a wicked thought sparking.
“and i think you know exactly how to help me unwind.”
a soft laugh escaped you as you shifted, the hem of your skirt sliding higher around your thighs. you adjusted, slow and deliberate, until your hips hovered over the heat pressed against his slacks.
he gave you a look—a warning, a plea, maybe both. but then you rolled your hips once, experimentally, and his restraint cracked at the edges.
“not here.”
he said, voice rough, the warning dulled by the way his breath hitched.
you smiled against his skin, lips grazing the line of his jaw.
“no one will know,”
you whispered, loosening his tie with sneaky fingers.
“as long as we’re quick, and quiet.”
your words trembled between you, half a promise, half a dare.
and when your fingers found the zipper nestled between you, his hand shot up—not to stop you, but to catch your wrist, trembling slightly, as though even he couldn’t decide if he meant it.
you wasted no time undoing his restraints, freeing his now-hardening length, warm and insistent in your palm. your lips sought his again, covering the gasps and muffled moans that slipped past him as you worked him with one hand, while the other slid your soaked panties aside, teasing your own heat closer to him.
you hovered above him, hips trembling, before lowering yourself with deliberate care. a sharp gasp escaped as his tip pressed against your slick entrance, inching into your more than welcoming slick, filling you in a way that sent sparks flickering through your core.
your mouths met again, lips moving in an attempt to stifle the urgent sounds threatening to escape, your hips rolling against his until he was buried deep inside you.
breaking the kiss, you blinked up at him, lashes heavy, eyes misted with the sting of the stretch. straddling him, you let your hands drift to the collar of his dress shirt, sliding it down to expose the sensitive skin of his neck. your lips traced tender kisses, soft nips, kittenish licks—teasing, but never biting, no matter how much you ached to.
the jet lurched suddenly, pitching you against him and rattling the cabin. instinctively, his hand flew to your mouth before a whine could escape, eyes darting to check if any of your oblivious teammates had stirred.
relieved by the steady breathing and lazy postures around you, he let himself relax. he wasn’t done with you, not by a long shot—and neither were you with him.
in an instant, your lips were back at his neck, heat and rhythm syncing with every movement of your hips. you traced a teasing path along his jaw, lips pressing, teeth grazing, hands clutching him tighter.
his own hands anchored you by the swell of your ass, pressing you closer, driving you deeper, pushing you both toward that delicious, dizzying edge.
“so beautiful… all mine.”
his whisper shivered against your ear, and you lifted your head to nibble at his jaw, only to meet his gaze. your pace faltered, thighs trembling as the weight of exhaustion settled in.
you stumbled forward, pressing into his suit-clad chest, biting back a sob. you wanted more—needed it—but your body no longer obeyed.
“aaron… i can’t… please…”
he shushed you with a soft coo, cupping your jaw, grounding you. his other hand pressed at the base of your ass, firm and reassuring.
“i’ve got you, my sweet girl.”
with a gentle lift of your hips, he let you rise on him, then lowered you back, tip teasing deep against your cervix. you bit down hard on your lip, stifling every gasp, every whimper, as he repeated the motion, timing each movement with precision.
the thrill of the forbidden—the taboo, the knowledge that oblivious teammates surrounded you, made your body hum. every rise, every fall, every roll of your hips was electric, a dangerous intimacy hidden in plain sight.
one final thrust, one deep, piston-like motion, and you were shattered. stars exploded behind your eyes as you lurched forward, teeth sinking into the skin above his collarbone. his groan vibrated through you, and moments later, his release followed, grounding you both in a shared tremor of heat.
for a long moment, you stayed pressed against him, bodies still intertwined. outside, the rain had cleared, but inside, the only sound was your ragged breathing, uneven yet intimate.
aaron’s gaze softened as he took in your flushed, mascara-smudged, tousled form. his hand flattened out your hair, patting the crown gently, eyes tracing the red mark blooming across his chest.
“naughty girl.”
he whispered, voice low and private.
“hmm?”
you murmured, dazed, looking up at him. your tired eyes, hair frizzed and cheeks flushed, made him inhale sharply. you were a perfect mess, utterly his.
“oh, nothing.”
he kissed the top of your head again, pulling you close, warm and soft against him, the pulse of your shared heat lingering.
“i honestly think that was the fastest we’ve ever—”
“yeah,”
you breathed, watching as his eyes flicked to the watch on his wrist.
“seven minutes.”
“wow.”
you murmured, a laugh escaping as the haze of release slowly faded, your body reclaiming itself.
such quick love was uncommon between the two of you, aaron was a man that cherished every second he had with the people closest to him. but in that moment, he felt more than grateful to have had you, even just for a little while.
reluctantly, you eased off his lap, knowing the stolen intimacy had to end. stumbling slightly, you padded toward the bathroom, wiping away all evidence of your encounter, freshening up.
upon your return, aaron was composed as ever, shuffling through his papers as if nothing had happened. you sank into a new seat, tugging at the fabric of your blouse, crossing your legs, trying to settle into normalcy, picking up where you left off in the book you had long abandoned at the start of the flight.
rossi stirred beside you, rubbing his eyes, giving aaron a sleepy, knowing look before taking a sip of lukewarm whiskey. aaron rolled his eyes at the exchange, but the faint smirk tugging at his lips betrayed the secret you both carried.
aaron’s gaze turned to meet yours across the cabin, sharp and calculating, but softened by something only you could see. a small nod, brief, fleeting, but enough. enough to remind you that this, this stolen, dangerous closeness—was yours alone.
you leaned back, exhaling fully, letting the tension drain, allowing the electric knowledge that whatever came next, you belonged to each other in ways no one else would ever comprehend.
that was more than enough.
this took such a long time to write bcuz my cat was sleeping on my chest and it was so hard to type!! anyway i hope u like the little joke in the title (cuz they fuck for seven minutes in the sky... get it...) it kinda bothers me that seven is in the title of day eight but i'll live. anyway hope you enjoyed!🩵🩵 (please reblog if you did!)
I don't have anything extremely specific (sorry, I'm just leaving work and haven't really thought about this).
But if you want to, how about jealous Aaron who has the, very rare, opportunity to go pick up the reader from her job and see her all smiles with another coworker? In this case I was thinking that there might be a age gap between them and the male coworker is more of her age? So a bit of jealous and insecure Hotch?
If you feel comfortable with this of course!
Have a good day 😊
in comparison
cw; fem!reader, age gap, insecure :( and jealous!aaron, some angst, small suggestiveness, fluff <3 wc; 1.2k
You were exiting the building with a few of your colleagues, partaking in what appeared to be an entertaining conversation from Aaron's line of sight. The liveliness on your face was vivid, undoubtedly enjoying whatever the whole of you were collectively discussing.
You looked comfortable, relaxed, happy. You molded into the group well. One of your male colleagues in particular was inching a bit too close, a near awestruck expression on his face as a laugh escaped you. If he took one step to his right, his shoulder would be touching yours. While you were clueless, he was enamored.
Aaron felt his eyes harden involuntarily, a jealous heat swarming through his body; he wanted to march over there and assert his role as yours. However, the feeling wasn't long lasting. A profound sadness climbed up his spine, as he gained a different perspective.
It wasn't that you didn't fit into his life. On the complete contrary: you were the perfect addition.
But something about seeing you with others, with someone closer to your age, was daunting. Intimidating. It sickened him how natural the visual appeared. Reality has smacked him in the face numerous times over the years, he wouldn't be surprised if it happened again. That somehow, someway, you would prefer the latter. The one that had nothing to do with him.
As you walked towards Aaron's car, you glanced back at your coworkers, offering a wave and a smile as they jointly headed to the parking lot. His window was opened a crack, and he heard you call back towards them, "Have fun tonight!"
Aaron exhaled a breath.
"Hey." You chirped as you slid into the passenger seat, leaning over the center console to place a kiss on Aaron's cheek. He was rather stiff as you did so, causing you to lightly scrunch your nose in confusion, pulling away slowly. Something was up.
"Hey," He echoed, greeting you with an almost forced smile. The abruptness of his thoughts had unsettled him deeply - he couldn't shake them. "You ready?"
"As I'll ever be." You responded hesitantly, searching his face as you buckled your seatbelt. You added after a moment, happy to be in his company and the emotion overtaking your heart. "I missed you today."
But your words went unnoticed, as he had already reentered the void that was his unwelcome thoughts.
In result the car ride home was silent, Aaron's pout unfaltering. His mind was plagued by the image of your coworker being in his place, driving you home, or the two of you huddled together amongst a night out with friends. It caused an uncomfortable, sad pit in his stomach.
"You missed a turn."
"What?"
Your statement jolted him back to earth. No he didn't... did he? His eyebrows furrowed in a line, reassessing the current surroundings. Nothing out of the ordinary, all familiar street signs. When he confirmed he, in fact, did not miss a turn, he turned to you, only to find a knowing smirk plastered on your face.
His eyebrows quirked softly, obstructing the line drawn above his eyes. "What was that about?"
"To get your mind off whatever you're stewing about."
A smile threatened his lips, due to your witty expression and observation, "I'm not." His tone found a slightly lighter note - amusingly guilty. Anything but convincing.
"Aaron, darling, you're gonna break some teeth if that," Your playful demeanor dropped for a moment, your eyes tracing back and forth, as if you were in a trance. "Jaw of yours tightens anymore."
Your brief distraction eased a notion of his jealousy, he still had that effect on you, thankfully. He readjusted his grip on the steering wheel, his stare forward.
"So what is it?" You asked, "Did you have a bad day?"
He shook his head.
"Bad bout of cases?"
Aaron grimaced, his knuckles letting up only to secure his fingers over the wheel again, "They're always bad."
"Something I did?"
He opened his mouth to respond, but only silence came out. His hesitation caused your face to fall, your shoulders dropping and posture succumbing to the back of your seat.
"No honey, no you didn't do anything." He was quick to reassure, feeling entirely worse. "I can assure you."
Your eyes met his, needing more.
He sighed defeatedly, surprisingly not afraid to bluntly admit, "I'm jealous."
"Jealous?" You froze, but then it clicked. You gestured behind, as if your colleagues were somehow tailing the two of you. "Of...?"
Aaron bit his lip, nodding slowly.
Your expression lightened, a soft and genuine wonder in your eyes, "Why?"
"Are you okay with this?" Confusion arose on your face once more, so he clarified. "This. Us. You signed up for a lot, quickly at that."
Truth be told, the two of you had progressed at a rate neither of you expected, due to the sheer infatuation you possessed for one another. That, too, had been natural.
"I'm divorced, widowed, a father - I come with baggage. My 'going-out' are days long gone. I don't want you missing out."
"Aaron." In a way, you could laugh. It tore your heart into pieces he was thinking this way, doubting himself but he was clueless in an adorably, idiotic way. In summary, he simply never gave himself the credit he deserved. "What could I possibly be missing out on?"
"You could be spending your weekends out, socializing, with people closer in age. And yet, you're..." He came up with an example.
"Making pillow forts. These are supposed to be the best years of your life. I'm terribly boring in comparison."
"Hey, I make a mean pillow fort."
He gave you a look.
Your hand grabbed his bicep affectionately, clinging onto it as if you were knocking some sense into him. "I chose this. I chose you. Jack is the addition to my life I never knew I needed. And I don't want to be out galavanting bar to night club to bar. I jump at the opportunity to deny a night out to spend it in. With you. When have you ever seen me wanting to go out and party?"
An expression of distaste flashed across your face at the concept, and Aaron's head tilted to the side as he considered your point.Yeah, that was true.
"I'm a homebody. And if there's anything I've realized over the course of the past months, you're my home. You."
Aaron let out the breath he didn't know he was holding.
"I know what I'm in for. And I embrace it with open arms. I want it." Your face was content, even more so than when you were talking with your colleagues. "I love you. And I love the life we're creating. It's so special, beyond my wildest dreams."
"Really?" A boyish, hopeful expression graced his face.
"Really. I wouldn't want it any other way. I can promise you. This- you're everything I could ever want."
Aaron's hand found your thigh, giving it a gentle, loving squeeze. "I love you too, sweetheart."
You beamed in response - you'd never get tired of the words leaving his lips.
"That one guy though," Aaron raised his eyebrows, taking a quick glance at you. Envy began creeping back, "He seemed interested. Wasn't a fan of that."
You scoffed, unbothered. "I'm into men, not boys. Which again, you are the utmost depiction of." Your delightful smirk resurfaced, admirably looking him over. "Believe me, I couldn't be more satisfied."
He wanted to play into your suggestive remarks, but he needed further confirmation. Once more. "You sure?"
"Oh, I'm positive."
Finally satisfied himself, he surrendered, "Okay."
"In fact, I can think of a few ways to show you just how much later."
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