— aaron hotchner lovebug

writer and occasional dreamer

[nanidotorg]

nani's masterlist 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

⋆𐙚 ̊. get 2 know me

✎𓂃 nani | 22 | english lit student | audhd | they/them

ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ i love moths, cats, aaron hotchner + my boyfriend

> visit my strawpage!

aaron hotchner (criminal minds)

♡ control freak | ao3

𑣲 there's something about jack hotchner's dad

ʚɞ using you

[blit2tdw]

My stupid loser St. Bernard gf <33

I love love love drawing yeen sleeping and you'll see many many more sleeby yeens <33

Had to ask for tattoo references for this </3

big thanks to @nanidotorg keep being waggy and moth pilled <3

p.s to nani's followers keep being aaron pilled

[nanidotorg]

i will get back to regular scheduled aaron posting soon but i just love my boyfriend stupid amounts

[nanidotorg]

There's Something About Jack Hotchner's Dad - 2

I'm working on a second chapter of There's Something About Jack Hotchner's Dad!

Here's boomer Aaron to feed you whilst I'm working on it. I'm so excited for you all to read it!

Link to the original fic <3

[blit2tdw]

୭⋆˚⊹𐂯 Blit2TDW

He/Him | hyena!rumi pilled | 20yo | Uni student

Hey hey welcome to my stupid blog here are my things...

୭⋆˚⊹𐂯 Who am i?

Hyena who plays Creatures of Sonaria, Overwatch and Fortnite :3

I have many many interest and fandoms, my blorbos and OCs/Sonas will be posted a lot :3

proud boyfriend of @nanidotorg <3

୭⋆˚⊹𐂯 Wuh are you postin?

W.I.P

I plan to post OCs and fanart

𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯

୭⋆˚⊹𐂯 Socials <3

> strawpage :3

subpages: Rumi Mizu

> TikTok: On Hiatus

> Other blogs: @mekamars-truther

[blit2tdw]

She is green because she can be placed there

[nanidotorg]

my criminal minds oomfs need to see my boyfriend’s cat

[blit2tdw]

that one character that haunts the narrative

[arab3lla07]

I need Hotch 💔

[emeritusemeritus]

Before the Dawn.

Before the dawn, I hear you whisper.

In your sleep, "Don't let the morning take him".

Outside the birds begin to call.

As if to summon up my leaving. - Judas Priest ‘before the dawn’.

[Aaron Hotchner x BAUAgent!Reader]

2.8.k.- Smut. Hidden relationship, secret relationship. Soft(ish) morning sex. Boss/Employee relations. PinVSex, Fingering, woman on top. Creampie, no condoms here. Practice safe sex kids, these two clearly don’t. Making love. Slightly sad motif? Hotch is in love.

Hotch Masterlist

You wake to a strong arm around you, anchoring you tightly to his body, a hand pressed to your ribs, fingers barely brushing your breast. It's dark out, but you cant bring yourself to move and look at the time, knowing that any form of movement may compromise your current position. You know it's close to the time your alarm is set to, the birds singing outside alerting you to the approaching dawn. The warmth that radiates from his body beside yours is enough to fight off the slight chill of the room and you melt into his touch, hoping for a few more minutes peace. You can daydream then, of a day without meetings and stress, a day filled with coffee and leisurely walks around museums and parks, a meal at your favourite restaurant. He'd wear that new shirt that had you melting at the sight and you'd wear that lipstick that you know he loves, the tension between you building throughout the day until you inevitably tumble back into bed with desperate mouths and even more desperate hands.

His alarm rings out first, shattering the illusion you'd created in your mind. Maybe you'd be sad about it another time but you can't be upset when his body reaches for you the second his alarm stops. He nestles in closer behind you, his hands finding you with purpose now, his warm breath against your neck. His deep morning voice, more of a rumble, seems to permeate through your entire body as he whispers a good morning into your hair. Your neck cranes ever so slightly, subtly giving him access to your neck and you feel his lips descend on your sensitive skin within seconds. His hands squeeze you a little tighter then, your body reacting instantly to his touch.

"A good morning indeed," he whispers darkly behind your ear as your hips seek him out under the covers, your butt perfectly aligning with the very obvious bulge you knew you'd find. He lets out a little breath as your ass makes contact with his covered cock, finding that spot where it feels just right.

You want to ask if you have time but the chance of being denied right now would break you.

He lets out a stuttering breath as you begin to grind on him, his hand snaking up your sternum to grab hold of your breast.

"You always fit so perfectly in my hands," he mutters, gently squeezing your breast, his thumb glazing over the thin material of your tank top, your hardened nipple peeking through. "Perfect."

"Aaron," you plead breathlessly.

He knows exactly what you need, and in typical Aaron fashion he won't deny you. His fingers hook into the neckline of your tank top and give it a firm tug, your breasts falling out and free for him to touch unobstructed. His fingers find your hardened nipple immediately as his lips begin to kiss down your neck. You feel his cock twitching against the curve of your ass and you begin to roll your hips, realigning yourself so that your cores would be meeting if not for the thin material that concealed you.

"You're needy this morning," he mumbles, his fingers still toying with your nipples. You can hear the gentle smirk in his voice, imagine the look in his eyes if he was facing you.

"I need you Aaron," you reply, giving a firm roll of your hips so enunciate your point. He groans and kisses your neck once more before his hands begin to wander, dragging lower and lower until his fingers are creeping around the waistband of your sleep shorts. You whine when he doesn't slip his hand underneath liked you'd hoped, but instead slide down to the curve of your ass, fingers splayed over your cheeks possessively.

You're certain you're dripping for him already, your body needing no persuasion, not that it ever does when he's around. The scent of him, the sight, his voice, everything about him drives you wild.

His fingers creep over your ass and down to your aching core from behind, his fingers dancing lightly over the thin sliver of fabric supposed to be concealing your pussy. You hadn't bothered with panties, the little short and tank set seeming the most appropriate last night and right now you were pleased you hadn't, and so was he.

He curses as he reaches down and feels how damp the fabric between your legs is, and again when he feels the soft skin between your legs as opposed to your shorts, the fabric barely covering anything.

"You are needy today sweetheart," he says, dragging his fingers over your partially covered folds in a feather-light touch that makes you arch into him, hardly able to contain your gasp.

You feel his fingers hook into the crotch of your sleep shorts and slowly begin to move them aside, dangerously slowly, his fingers slipping between your folds.

You can't hold back the moan that escapes you when his fingers first make contact with your clit, so swollen and aching for him already. He drags his fingers through your folds from behind, catching the abundance of wetness presented for him as he very gently traces your folds. You open your legs wider for him, granting him access, giving him everything. He's teasing now, fuelling the fire instead of giving you relief, and he knows it. You'd never been with a man so focused on your pleasure, so willing to learn about your body and so skilled in his actions that it wouldn't matter regardless.

His finger circles your clit maddeningly and you moan out his name like you're pleading, though you're not certain what for. More? His cock? For him to never ever stop?

He understands.

His fingers slip away from your aching clit and you pathetically whine, only for him to shush you gently.

You feel it then, the warmth of him, the weight of him, his hard cock pressing against your folds without any resistance. He'd removed his pyjama pants whilst you were whining for him and your sleep shorts are still pulled to the side to allow him to slip his cock between your folds.

"Aaron," you say breathlessly, reaching out for him blindly as he simply rests his cock between your soaked folds, not moving and not attempting to push into you as you so desperately want.

The anticipation kills you. It's maddening and intoxicating all at the same time, knowing that any second he could slip his bulbous tip between your folds and thrust so deep inside of you that you'll see stars behind your eyes. He's a little over average size but deliciously thick, the kind that makes your walls twitch trying to accommodate him and makes you breathless from the stretch. It's all you can think about, the only thought in your head.

You love this. You love him.

This perfect moment where there's no secrets, no hiding how desperately you want him and no denying how disgustingly in love you are.

Before the suit goes on and his demeanour hardens. Before the next case presents itself, before the horrors and the emotional toll.

Before he turns into Hotch instead of Aaron.

You cry out as he suddenly thrusts into you, finally breaching your aching hole, finally filling you as you so desperately needed. His breathy moan is enough to have you clenching around him already, his hands wandering over your body and settling on your hips.

You're breathless from the stretch and he gives you a few moments to adjust, knowing how much you have to take for him. His lips ghost over the back of your neck again, soothing and antagonising all in the same breath.

He slowly draws himself out of you and then thrusts back inside harder, setting a slow but maddening pace. You can feel every inch of him, every vein and subtle curve, his balls nestling against your pussy lips as he bottoms out, the soft hair at the base of his cock. His big hands are everywhere, like he doesn't know where to touch first.

He pauses briefly then, his cock waiting at your hole just barely more than the tip inside of you.

"I want you naked," he says gruffly, whispering into your ear. "I want to see every inch of your body as I fuck you."

He slips out of you then, not giving you a second to process before his big hands come to the waist band of your shorts and tug them down your legs effortlessly. You don't put up an ounce of resistance, not that you have any desire or inclination to, as you let him strip you. His hands reach for the blankets then, tossing them back without a care so he can finally look at you, your pleasure no longer hidden underneath the covers. He curses as seeing your most intimate area presented for him, the curve of your ass and the wet, delicate folds on display for him. His hand reaches for your waist and manages to pull you so effortlessly into his lap that it should be embarrassing how seamlessly he shoulders your weight and manipulates you for his own desires.

You slide into his lap, his rigid cock sliding against your folds as you perch on him, finally able to get a look at his gorgeous face. His hair is tussled from sleep, slightly grown out and a little messy. He's beautiful, even in the very early morning.

His hands reach up to the bottom of your tank, your breasts already spilling out of the top from where he'd been playing with you earlier, and he slides it off your body, throwing it somewhere you don't care about in the slightest.

He looks ravenous, his eyes fixated on your breasts hungrily, his hands already wandering to slide his palms over your tits. His lips follow not a moment later, his mouth drawing in your right nipple whilst his hands toy with the other, grabbing and squeezing your tits together until he's practically on the verge of suffocating.

You can't help but roll your hips again, feeling so painfully empty after he'd stretched you out and filled you only moments before. He groans into your tits as your pussy rubs along the perfect column of his cock, hips stuttering slightly as you catch your clit just right. Your arms slide around his broad shoulders for security as your hips fall into a sensual rhythm, your pussy working over his perfect cock with determination. One of his hands slips away from your breasts and down your back to stabilise you, helping to guide you without any pressure.

You reach down for his cock, shifting yourself back just slightly to make room and you slowly begin to stroke him with your hand, earning a growl from him. You're good with your hands, he's told you repeatedly, and you slowly begin to guide him to your waiting hole, unable to deny yourself any longer. You cast a glance at his face, seeing him already staring back at you, watching your movements with predatory intensity.

You slowly sink down on him, feeling that delicious stretch once again. Your head tumbles back as a loud moan erupts from you at the feeling. He's even deeper in this position, filling you completely right up to the end of you. It takes your breath away once again just how erotic everything is with him, how he feels and how he makes you feel as he looks at you like that.

Both of his hand slip to your hips and briefly begin to guide your movements, though he simply rests them there as your hips fall into a rhythm, letting you take what you need from him. Your pace increases, spurred on by the obscene sounds he's making and the way his brow creases as he looks at your entire body. He's transfixed by your bouncing breasts, then fixed upon your face, smirking as you struggle to contain your moans. You're bouncing now, taking everything you need from him as your hips relentlessly roll against him, ensuring he hits that perfect spot every time.

He moans out your name, big hands reaching for you with bruising pressure as he attempts to still you, feeling his peak approaching too quickly.

He kisses you then, pulling you deep into his cock as his right hand reaches around the back of your neck to keep you impaled on his lap. His kiss is forceful and needy, the very definition of passion. The kind you only see in x-rated movies, the kind that you never believed existed until he became everything to you.

His right hand falls down to rub across your ass, pausing briefly before he pulls back and spanks you. You feel him chuckle as you gasp, crying out at the sudden sensation and tightening around him. Your hips begin to roll again and in no time at all you're chasing your high, feeling that delicious sensation in your stomach beginning to rise.

Sensing your impending high, his right hand slips away from you and up to your mouth. He brushes your lips and you part them without question, opening up your mouth for his fingers. You suck them instantly, dragging your tongue over the big fingers, your eyes rolling back as you taste yourself on him from earlier. His moan makes you clench as you continue to suck, your eyes meeting his. You get them nice and wet and he pulls them away at a slightly awkward angle to toy with your clit. The way he stretches you out has your pussy lips spread taught and by consequence, your clit is swollen and exposed.

You want to scream. You almost do. His name tumbles out of your mouth like a mantra, your hips wildly bucking on him as you fuck yourself on his perfect cock. He's groaning and moaning with you, growling curses and your name in return as he watches you take what's yours. You've never felt so sexy, so powerful, so determined as the white hot heat of your orgasm begins to surround you.

"Aaron!" You cry out, wildly grabbing at his manly shoulders as your climax erupts, hips bucking on him and beginning to loose your rhythm. He takes over instantly, sensing your inability and fucks up into you from below, harder than he'd been all morning as he tumbled over the precipice of his own pleasure.

It's loud and messy as you cum within seconds of each other, Aaron's huge hands anchoring you down onto him, his entire length shoved deep inside of you where he empties himself. His cum feels blistering hot even though you're sweating from exertion, your walls hot and swollen from the delicious torment his cock provides. You're breathless, panting, as your vision returns. You loosen your grip on Aaron's shoulders, your body quickly turning to jelly as you begin to rest more of your weight on him.

The kiss he gives you then says everything he ever wants to say without needing words. It's a declaration of love, of safety, of all the things he knows he can't give you then moment you both step out of the door. You kiss him back with equal sentiment, your body submitting to him easily as you fold into him.

"I love you," he says as you part, still a little breathless. You smile, touching your nose to his.

"And I love you."

It's never more, it's never less. The words themselves are always enough.

And then you feel it, the shift, unspoken, the elephant in the room. You don't want this to be over, you want him to stay. You want Aaron, but you can't keep him.

In twenty minutes time you'll both slip out of the shower and he'll be dressing in his freshly pressed suit whilst you slip on your formal pants and the tight charcoal grey sweater that had become a sort of uniform for you. He'll kiss you, then kiss your forehead, lingering for a few moments before pulling away.

And he'll no longer be your Aaron, he'll be Hotch. You won't be sweetheart, you'll be Agent. You'll work together efficiently, professionally, a perfectly sequenced choreography you'd perfected over the years. But you'll miss him, want him, wait for him. You'll wait for Aaron to come back to you, just before the dawn.

[nanidotorg]

Using You | A.H. x Reader

Tags/Warnings: angst, Divorced!Hotch, BAU!Reader, SITUATIONSHIP TRIGGER WARNING BRO, mentions of depression/mental health, mentions of cheating, Hotch and reader are in a pre-established “relationship”, so, so much smut: PinV, unprotected sex, quickie, oral sex (M receiving), rough sex, hate sex, secret sex, fingering, hair-pulling, biting. I wrote this with my pussy I’m sorry, second person narrative, no use of Y/N

Summary: Whilst Haley and Aaron have been separated, your relationship with Aaron has become complicated, sitting somewhere between friends with benefits and two people who need one another. When the divorce is finalised, the tension comes to a head, and your relationship with your closest friend- and the man you’ve fallen in love with- is threatened. 

W.C: 8.3k

Author’s Note: Situationship Aaron Hotchner I love you so much. I think about Aaron’s vulnerability a lot when rewatching the season where he and Haley split, and having my own vulnerabilities surrounding relationships created… this. I am very sorry in advance. There are some points where the reader is quite a bit unlikeable, but I think those parts are my favourite and were the most fun to write. 

Beta-read by my beloved @blit2tdw <3

Heavily inspired by Using You by Mars Argo.

Happy reading! Likes and reblogs are always appreciated <3

What were you expecting?

Haley was his high school sweetheart. The mother of his child. His wife. Ex-wife. You held no animosity towards her: she’d welcomed you into her home many times for drinks and games, always made a point of saying hello to you when she popped into the office to see Aaron. How did you repay her? Falling in love with her husband. Ex-husband.

Playing with your nails, slowly chipping the red nail polish from them, you sat on the sofa in Aaron’s office. He was in his chair, head in his hands. You’d been silent for a long time. A conversation you needed to have was hanging in the air like a bad smell, the pair of you too scared to begin it. Was scared the right word? Apprehensive. You knew that even being here with him was adding to the already incomprehensible amount of stress he was carrying on those broad shoulders of his. Aaron shifted slightly in his chair and your head snapped up to look at him. He was already looking at you, shoulders slumped, his hair ruffled from where he’d been resting against his hands. 

“Aaron…” you began, but he shook his head and you immediately shut up. This was not a conversation you had the right to begin. 

Did it make you a bad person? Aaron had confided in you one late night in the office how rocky his relationship with Haley was becoming. He knew that you’d just come out of another relationship, so you would be the one person who understood. You’d been friends since you first started the BAU, and you also understood more than most people how gruelling the hours were. So many failed relationships on your behalf because of the stupid hours and emergency jet rides across the country. He’d confided in you because you’d also become a family friend. He’d confided in you, and a few weeks later you were in his car with his hands gripping your waist as you rode him. 

Aaron sighed. “Whatever we’ve been doing needs to stop for a while.” 

They weren’t words you wanted to hear, even if you did expect them coming. You felt slightly sick at the way your stomach flipped in hope: “for a while” doesn’t mean forever, right? It gave you at least some shred of hope that you could cling to until he was ready for you again. That was a stupid, childish feeling. 

We’re such a mess together;

you make me lose my temper.

The first time you slept with Aaron Hotchner, the pair of you knew it had been a mistake. A drunken one at that. You’d both fallen on hard times: your partner had cheated on you, and Haley had moved in to her sister’s with Jack. In your heartbroken states, you’d both wandered into one of the city’s smoky bars, drank one too many glasses of whisky, and ended the night with Aaron’s hands in your hair and your lips wrapped around his throbbing cock. 

Then it happened again. And again. Until it became a ritual for you to be bent over the desk of his office, stars exploding behind your eyes as you tried to remain on this plane of existence by gripping onto the sides of the desk. Aaron was ruthless during sex. Not that you were complaining- you’d never been fucked like that in your life- but the one time you’d tried to reach up and hold the side of his face he’d swatted your hand away and turned you over onto your stomach. Pulling at you like a ragdoll, he got you up on your knees and pushed your face into your bed.

“Aaron-” you began, but he shushed you as he jerked himself a few times, putting a large hand on the small of your back and re-entering you. A muffled moan ripped from your mouth, your eyes rolling back at the feeling of the sting. It was almost too much; you’d considered asking him to stop. You knew, with full confidence, he would stop the second you said the word, but fucking Aaron Hotchner was addicting.

You’re the only one, who’s making me come-

Holding you down by your spine, he slammed into you, trembling whimpers falling from his mouth. Your eyes squeezed shut and you imagined his face of pleasure, lids heavy, mouth agape. His usually carefully-styled hair falling over his eyes, sweat beads pooling on his upper lip. More than anything you wished you could touch it. Smooth your thumb over the sweat and collect the taste on your tongue. Be completely and utterly overwhelmed with him. Everything about him. 

To my simple senses,

I’ll never love,

anyone the same.

“Ah, fuck- I’m gonna cum,” he stuttered, his hips jutting forward in sloppy, desperate movements. Grabbing you by a shoulder, he yanked you towards him. You’d had sex enough with him by that point to know what he wanted. You scrambled to your knees as he jerked himself, his arm over the soft skin of his stomach, hips jerking, eyes closed, head tipped back. A broken groan of your name fell from his mouth as the first spurt of cum landed on your face, making you flinch slightly. This is exactly what you wanted. This is exactly what he wanted. When he opened his eyes, he groaned quietly at the sight of your face painted by his orgasm. Your heart swelled past your shivering lungs when he gripped you by the chin, collecting his cum with a swipe of his thumb. The tip of his thumb pressed against your bottom lip, urging it to open. Of course, you obliged. Aaron’s eyes locked on yours as you sucked his thumb clean, both of your breathing ragged. A soft blush had settled across his face, and even in your darkened bedroom, you could see the fondness glinting tiredly in his eyes. He’d never looked at you like that before. So why had he been so against you holding his face? 

This pattern continued. He allowed you in then cast you out. Aaron had always been cagey and deeply private, but you’d rather he gave you absolutely nothing than allow you the smallest of glimpses into himself then close you off again. Upon reflection, you assumed that he just had no idea what he wanted from you. You were a way to blow off steam, to not think about how his marriage was falling apart. You were a step up from his right hand. Don’t get it twisted. You were using him just as much as he was using you. Case gone bad? You could knock on his hotel room door knowing he’d let you in and ruin you. Another failed date? Aaron Hotchner’s flat was nearby the restaurant you were at, and Jack was staying with Haley. 

It had quickly become more than that. At first you thought it was just you, that you’d deeped the sex a little too much, but then Hotch began pairing himself with you on cases. He’d seek you out first before anybody else. Sometimes he’d call you to his apartment and you’d just sit and talk. About anything. The sex would dwindle, then he’d argue with Haley or a case would be particularly nasty and it would pick up again. Hot, cold, hot, cold. Constantly. It felt like it would never end. Until now, apparently. 

I’ll never feel ashamed for using you for pleasure.

Aaron clapped his knees and stood. There was a darkened look on his face, mostly unreadable, but he looked defeated. You knew him well enough to read the smallest of hints on his face that let you into what he was thinking. He wouldn’t even look at you as you mirrored him, standing from the sofa shakily. His hands were balled into fists as he turned his shoulders towards the door of his office, silently signalling you out. Was that… it? That is how he was going to terminate this… thing you had going on? You whispered his name, and he exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head.

“Don’t. Please, don’t,” he said quietly, his voice even. “It’s not appropriate. This was a mistake.” 

He wasn’t wrong. You knew that, of course you knew that. The moment he entered you for the first time you knew it was a mistake, that it would go too far. But it still hurt to hear it, especially after you’d stupidly gotten your hopes up. Swallowing, all you could do was nod. It was no use arguing with him, especially about this. Some space and time is all he needed, then you could talk to him properly. What you needed was some wine and Penelope Garcia. Aaron opened the door for you and stood at the doorway like a guard, his head bowed. Wordlessly, wanting nothing more for him to call after you, you flounced past him, through the bullpen and into the corridors towards Penelope’s office.

“You did what?”

You were sitting inside Penelope’s apartment, your face buried in your hands. Two glasses of red sat half-drank on the coffee table, one of them stained with Penelope’s lipstick. It’s not that you were ashamed of your actions, it was more… Okay, you were pretty ashamed. It wasn’t a great look, pouncing on a married man the minute he’d split with his wife. They weren’t even officially divorced… until now. 

You brought your knees up to your chest and peeked at Penelope through your fingers. She was gawking at you, jaw practically touching the floor. One of her hands grasped her necklace, fiddling with the pendant anxiously. You felt awful burdening her with the mess of your life.

“Pen, neither of us meant for it to happen,” you tried to explain, and Penelope snorted.

“You don’t say?” Your friend adjusted herself on the sofa and brought your hands down gently, taking them into her lap. You eyed her warily. “Sugar muffin, you’re smarter than this. Why are you letting him use you like that? You know yourself there’s a massive power imbalance there. Big bad SSA Aaron Hotchner, your boss, and then little old you.”

Shifting uncomfortably, not knowing which side you wanted your weight to rest on, you gazed at the floor in thought. 

“I was using him back. When I found out Warren was cheating on me, I just… Needed something. Someone. He’s like the ultimate rebound.” 

Taking one of your hands from Penelope’s grasp, you leant over and grabbed your glass of wine. You took a deep swig, letting your eyes flutter shut. It was warm and comforting on the way down, numbing down your feelings of guilt just a little more. Sighing, Penelope copied your actions. The two of you sat sipping in a comfortable silence, mulling over the brevity of what you’d just revealed. Because it changed a lot of things. It changed dynamics, shifted trust. Both of you could be in serious trouble for inter-Bureau fraternisation. You’d misused his office many, many times. There were probably little splatters of you all across that poor room. It was Penelope that broke your silence.

“Find another rebound.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Find another rebound. Someone a bit less risky than Hotch. Bleugh. He’s like my Dad- I can’t imagine ever having sex with him.” She shivered and stuck her tongue out, as if trying to get rid of a bad taste. You couldn’t help but burst into slightly drunken giggles, clutching your stomach as you nudged your bespeckled friend with your foot. 

“Oh, Penny, you have no idea what you’re missing out on.”

So… you did. You found another rebound.

It wasn’t hard. You weren’t exactly unattractive, and the city was full of single men. Penelope had helped you set up a dating profile on your phone that night, which you regretted instantly in the morning when you saw what photos the pair of you had drunkenly chosen. After a little editing and deleting all of the drunken typos from the ‘About’ section, you were happy with it. 

No more Aaron. No more dangerous rebounds and rough sex with your boss when you were both emotionally drained. As you sank back on your couch, some trash on the TV and a steaming mug of coffee in hand, you ran your hand over one of the throw pillows. He’d had you, right there. A sharp exhale left your nose at the thought. That was the night you knew you’d gone too far with him.

It had been raining non stop. More than Seattle ever could, it seemed. You were exhausted, barely able to keep your eyes open as you rustled around in the wardrobe for something to wear to bed. The case you’d just come home from was awful. Hotch had a giant stick up his ass the entire time and it was making the rest of the team miserable. You’d knocked on his hotel room door to check on him and ended up completely ignored. It was just a mess of a case that you were lucky to have actually solved, and the entire jet home you all sat glaring out of the windows in complete silence. 

The knock on your front door startled you near out of your senses. Who could possibly be banging on your door that late at night? Stupid question. You knew exactly who it was, and he was coming to let off steam. Throwing on a robe, you padded bare-footed to the front door and cracked it open. A soaking wet Aaron Hotchner stood on the precipice of your home, dark eyes glinting down at you. Both of you stood staring at one another for a moment, as if you were nervous. 

“It’s raining,” he said simply, his voice soft. Fuck’s sake. When he used that voice, your knees weakened. All animosity and annoyance you had for him managed to disappear. 

“You’re quite the profiler,” you replied quietly, making him grin. You could see his teeth glinting in the light of your hallway. It pleased you that he remained getting rained on. He deserved it, treating you all like shit and then expecting to come over for sex. I mean, he’s going to get it, you thought to yourself, but I might as well play this game.

Hotch cocked an eyebrow. “Can I come in?”

“Maybe.” Your response was too quick, too breathless. He knew you needed this as much as he did. Ten minutes later, he was on your couch, head lolled back, eyes squeezed shut, your mouth moving slowly down the column of his cock, cheeks hollowed. One of his hands shot up to grab you by the hair, pacing you just to his liking. Soft pants fell from his lips as you swirled your tongue around his leaking tip, groaning around his length. When your eyes flicked up to look at him, he was looking down at you, face flushed. His eyebrows were knitted in concentration, dark eyes fixed on yours. You groaned around his cock, the sight of him almost too much. His mouth fell open in a silent cry as you took him to the very back of your throat, eyes watering, breath coming out in short hisses from your nose. His other hand slammed itself down on your head and, with a rough, gargled groan of your name, Aaron Hotchner finished down your throat. You gagged at the sudden feeling, pulling your head away and falling back on your haunches, holding a hand under your chin so as not to spill anything on your brand new rug. Panting, Aaron watched as you swallowed his load, something like a whimper escaping him as he watched you. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said breathlessly. You laughed, a short, harsh bark. 

“I don’t have to do a lot of things,” you replied. A flicker of annoyance crossed his sweaty face. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you sat back on your heels and watched him tuck himself back into his pants and begin to stand. 

“I’ll go make you some tea,” he grunted, shaking his legs off and buckling his belt. This was another recurring thing with Aaron that made it harder and harder for you to stay away: his aftercare was great. You collapsed back onto your rug, staring at the ceiling, arms splayed out either side of you as he pottered about in the kitchen, helping himself to your mugs and tea-making supplies. What am I doing? You scolded yourself, sighing deeply as you listened to him move about. If you closed your eyes and imagined hard enough, this could be something normal. Your boyfriend moving about the kitchen, making you tea to soothe your used throat. But it wasn’t. It was your situationship, your boss, making you tea after he’d just come in your mouth. 

There were a lot of decisions you could have made at that moment. You could have just stayed there, happily waiting for him to return with a cup of herbal tea just how you like it. You could have kicked him out the kitchen, told him you could make the tea yourself. You could have even kicked him out of your apartment, telling him to never come back and that this messy, messy situation you’d gotten yourself into had to stop. You could have done any of those things, and they would have been ten times better than the decision you actually made. Wordlessly, you hauled yourself up and off the floor and went into the kitchen. He stood at the stove, one arm bracing the counter, the other on his hip as he watched the pot boil. He glanced over when he heard you enter, his eyes flickering up and down your body, drinking you in. You stood at the doorway for a moment, allowing him to look at you. It was a bit like a stand off, both of you staring at one another, nothing but the breakfast bar between you. 

“Your tea is almost done,” he said quietly. Aaron was good at breaking the ice, always knowing what to say. It was the lawyer in him. His response to confrontation, however, was when Aaron Hotchner, the FBI agent, shone through. You could practically hear his cogs turning as he studied your face carefully. He did this thing where his dark eyes would scan, side to side, never stopping but never seeming erratic. Always level. Looking for a flicker of a frown, a bead of sweat. Always trying to guess your next move, your next words. To anyone outside of the BAU, this would be… unsettling, at best. But you knew that he knew that you knew what he was doing. Knew. Knew. I know you, Aaron Hotchner. I see you. 

“I think about you all the time,” you began, slowly. His nostrils flared when he gritted out your name. A warning shot. It didn’t deter you. “I think about you inside me. I think about how stupid you make me. I think about how you fuck me over your desk and have to turn around the photos of your wife because your moral compass lasts for a little while, up until you see my underwear.” 

“Stop,” Aaron breathed. You moved around the breakfast bar as the kettle began to whistle. A quiet bubbling undercut the whistling, but it grew louder and louder as you stared at one another, chests rising and falling sequentially, breath in, breath out. Rhythmic, but not in sync. 

“I think about falling in love with you. How, maybe, I’m already half way there.”

It felt like you’d been winded. Your heart was hammering on the inside of your ribcage, threatening to shatter the bone and splinter your chest. Aaron was completely unmoving. On the stove, the kettle screamed. 

“I follow you around like a stupid, loyal dog. I come away from cases at my desk so we can have sex. I limp home after you’ve had a bad day and think the heat in between my legs is a blessing. I curl myself into a ball when you don’t want me and wait, like a stupid, loyal dog until you do again.”

We’re such a mess together. You make me lose my temper. 

Aaron cursed. The kettle had bubbled up and over, sizzling violently on the stove, plumes of white steam curling up towards the ceiling. You took a step back as he grabbed a tea towel and dragged the kettle off of the stove and into the sink, a flurry of curses falling from his usually mild-mannered mouth. As he growled at the sink, you darted in to turn the stove off and flick the extractor fan on, the steam beginning to choke the kitchen a little too much. A little bit of teamwork. You could feel his eyes on you as you wiped the stove down, but it was too hard to look at him. It had been easier to blame this all on him, even when it was both of you that had gotten into this mess. 

Aaron went to say your name. 

“I think you should go.” 

Penny:

Guuuuuuuud luck on your DATE tonight!!! Send a pic of your outfit before you leave! Kisses! <3

You:

[You sent a photo]

Is this too slutty..?

You:

I have this irrational fear that there’ll be a mass shooting or something and I have to wear this dress and a bulletproof fbi veat

You:

*vest

Penny:

OHHH YOU SEXY THANG!!!!!!!!!! 

Penny:

Derek has JUST sworn to me he will stop anything murdery from happening across the entire state tonight, tonight is YOUR night miss agent lady! 

Penny:

Oh, btw, it is SO slutty. Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Rolling your eyes, a grin plastered across your red lips, you tossed your phone onto your bed and looked into the mirror for the millionth time that night. The dating app profile you and Penelope had set up had been a great success, and you were just about to leave for a date with Ryan, a high school teacher. He had floppy hair, a stupid smile, and had a job so far out of the realm of your own that you were excited to talk about some stupid highschoolers with him rather than Unsubs. 

It had been a couple of days since Haley and Aaron had finalized their divorce. Ever since your discussion in his office, Aaron had avoided you like the plague. That suited you just fine. Distance would be what healed your relationship with him, and you could slip back into being a boss and his subordinate. Just like how it had been before. You smoothed a hand down your stomach, over the fabric of your dress, and thought of Penelope. The pure, visceral fear you had felt when you heard she’d been shot. The darkened look in Aaron’s eyes as he sped over to her apartment. The way his knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. Your hand grasping his thigh as he drove because you felt like you were going to throw up. It was always going to be personal. Your team were more than work colleagues; they were your family. Aaron had been such an integral part of your life for years at that point, and imagining a life where he was just your boss was… well, it was impossible. 

A shuddering breath left your painted lips. Behind you, your phone buzzed. 

Ryan (Tinder):

Hi just checking in! I’m about to drive over to the restaurant. I know you said you don’t need picking up but im still happy to swing by along the way! Super super excited to meet you! 😀

You smiled at your phone. He was like a Golden Retriever. Your nails tapped gently against the screen as you wrote a reply. 

You:

No need! Driving myself stops me from buying a bottle of wine lol

You:

See you soon!

Ryan (Tinder):

Smart thinking! See you soon! 👍

The restaurant you had both chosen was slightly fancy, but you still felt slightly overdressed as you clacked towards the entrance, stuffing your car keys into your handbag. One of your hands ghosted at your dress, pulling it down even when it was fully stretched. You hadn’t done this for a long time. Your ex had been your friend, and Aaron had been your boss, so a first date with a stranger wasn’t something you’d ever encountered before. Well. You’d encountered murdered women that had been on a first date, but other than that. On the corner just before the restaurant you stopped and softly clicked open your handbag. Beside your purse and perfume, your gun winked up at you, reminding you of its almost overbearing presence. Better safe than sorry, right? 

I mean, he knows I’m an FBI agent, you thought to yourself. Surely he expects me to have a gun.

Aaron would have laughed at that. You clicked your handbag shut and forced yourself forward.

Ryan was waiting for you outside of the restaurant, smoking the last of a cigarette. You couldn’t help but grin at the sheepish look he shot you when he caught your eye, tossing the butt to the floor and quickly stepping on it with his shoe. 

“Not a good first impression,” he laughed, greeting you with a side hug. He smelt like cigarettes and a slightly musky aftershave. It was not an unpleasant combination. “You didn’t even give me a chance to slip myself some gum.” 

You giggled, shaking your head. “Don’t be silly. You work with high schoolers. I’d smoke too.” 

“You work with murderers,” he quipped, and you burst into laughter. 

“Touché.” 

You took Ryan’s arm happily and he led you inside, giving his name to the hostess. You looked around instinctively as you waited for a waiter to be assigned to you. There were two exits you could see: one to the restaurant area, and a second to the adjoining bar. You assumed there were multiple more in the kitchen areas, and they’d be the fire exits. The restaurant was busy, the sound of cutlery clinking and soft conversations cushioning the silence you’d found yourself in whilst you were taking inventory of your surroundings. 

“Do you do that everywhere you go?” Ryan asked quietly, in your ear. Your head snapped around to face him, an apology already forming on your lips, but the man was just grinning softly at you. It made your heart feel funny, like you were a schoolgirl with a crush again. He must be a very hot topic amongst his students. 

“It’s an instinct,” you explained as a waiter led you to your table. It was one of the outer ones, closest to the bar. The bar was much sparser than the restaurant; the food there clearly outshone the cocktails. “Exits and windows are your most important things to initially look at. Then any potential blind spots.” 

You cringed slightly. Talking like that made you sound like Morgan. You really didn’t want Ryan to think you were some sort of macho, self-important GI Joe. He gazed at you with these sparkling, dark blue eyes that made your breath hitch. It was like every one of your words were worth listening to, worth making an effort for. It made you giddy with glee. When you apologised under your breath sheepishly, Ryan held his hands in the air, laughing. 

“Don’t apologise! What you do is super cool, dude,” he said, pushing his hair back and letting it flop differently. “Sorry. Shouldn’t call you dude.”

He grinned when you laughed loudly.

Once you’d both ordered your meals and the first drinks came, the conversation slipped into hobbies and interests. Ryan was fantastic at commanding a conversation, whilst also giving you more than enough space to answer his questions and choose your own topics. Your stomach was beginning to ache, you were laughing so much, and the lop-sided smile Ryan wore hadn’t left his face the entire night. You couldn’t believe your luck. Penelope Garcia I am going to kiss you on the mouth when I see you at work tomorrow. Your eyes worked over Ryan’s body, raking left to right, inhaling him ocularly. Profiling him. You couldn’t turn it off. His outfit was probably one that he wore for work, maybe for a parent-teacher conference. It was something akin to what Reid would wear: a brown jacket that he’d taken off and carefully put over the back of his chair, a button-up cream shirt that had the first top two buttons undone. Brown slacks and black dress shoes. It was all ridiculously charming. The shirt was slightly crumpled and every now and then, he’d pat the pocket of his trousers to make sure his packet of cigarettes were still in there safely. He wasn’t used to styling his hair in the way he’d done it that night, and every time he raked a hand through his hair, he’d rub his fingers together, the feeling of the product he’d used foreign to him. 

“How long have you been single?” you asked, forking at your salad. Why the hell did I order this? It’s literally just leaves and a ring of dressing. Ryan’s eyes flicked from your plate to you, darting behind you then back. Was he… was he also trying to survey the area? Cute. A sheepish look graced his face. It was so boyishly charming that you found yourself smiling. 

“My whole life?” he answered, shyly unsure of himself. “I was such a nerd in high school and college. I was head of the debate team and took it way, way too seriously. I also played in the chess regionals. So, no time for girls, really. Sorry- women, I mean. No time for women.” 

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of your throat. This was exactly what you needed. It felt cruel calling Ryan a rebound at that point. He was such a separate breed of human being to your ex and to Aaron. It was like filling your lungs with fresh air. You took a sip of your wine before replying. 

“Chess? I have a friend that would love you,” you replied, putting your glass down and tentatively forking some salad into your mouth. 

“We’re already at the ‘introductions to friends’ stage? I must have made a great impression already,” Ryan joked, his tongue darting out and licking across his bottom lip as he grinned at you. Something warm dripped into your stomach and you returned his grin. 

“Down, boy,” you teased, your voice low. “Don’t get too excited.” 

Ryan quickly looked away as a quiet whimper fell from his mouth. Pride filled your chest; you’d never had this kind of advantage over a man before. Of course, you’d keep it respectful, but the thought of eliciting more of those noises from him made you shift in your seat slightly to relieve the pressure building between your legs. Ryan’s eyes rose again, moving from your face to just behind you again. You frowned at him. That hadn’t been the first time that evening he’d checked out the bar behind you. His eyes never lingered long, always seemed to fix on the same place and not take in the rest of the bar. You glanced behind you, trying to follow his eye. The bar had filled up a little bit more at that point, but it only seemed to be regulars, sitting away from one another. Two people in a corner, nursing two half-consumed beers. A woman, presumably the barmaid, wiping a booth down. Somebody in a peacoat pushed open the door to the bar, making the bell hanging above twinkle quietly. One man in a suit sat at the bar, cradling a whiskey. 

One man in a suit sat at the bar, cradling a whiskey. 

The man looked over his shoulder again, chin pressed against his arm. Aaron Hotchner’s dark eyes met yours before looking away and taking a sip of his whiskey. 

Ryan was saying something. By the intonation, he was trying to probe an answer from you about something. You didn’t hear. Perhaps you couldn’t hear: it felt like you’d been submerged underwater. The waiter reappeared, pointing at your plate, probably asking you something too. God, why is everyone talking to me? 

“Excuse me,” you managed, taking the thick napkin you’d laid across your lap and pressing it to your mouth before standing, far too quickly, and rushing off towards the bathroom. Behind you, you could have sworn you heard a barstool scraping against wooden flooring. 

Why was he here? Why today? Why were you reacting like this? Pushing open the door to the women’s washroom with your shoulder, you tripped over to the sink and stared at yourself in the large mirror. Today was meant to be about me. Not him. Why is he fucking everywhere? Shaking hands fiddled with the clasp of your handbag and you shoved your cell and gun aside to find your lipstick. Taking slow, shuddering breaths, you tried to calm yourself down as you popped the cap off and wound the red lipstick up slowly. The ritualistic application of the makeup was enough to calm you down. He’d go soon. If you didn’t pay him any attention, he would go, and you could finish your lovely date with lovely Ryan. Because he really was lovely. You were already slightly giddy thinking about going on another date with him, in a much comfier outfit than the dress you were wearing. The shock of seeing Aaron was beginning to subside. With much steadier hands, you returned your lipstick to your handbag and fixed your hair in the mirror, smiling at your reflection. Pouting at your reflection. Winking at your reflection. There we go. Joy restored. You’re going to go back out there and blame the wine and awful salad dressing and- 

The door to the washroom began to creak open and you cursed, ready to apologise to the woman trying to get in that you hadn’t locked the door and it was still occupied. A large hand curled around the door, followed by a shoulder, followed by the rest of SSA Aaron Hotchner. Eyes wide, you stared up at him as he slipped inside and locked the door shut behind him, his eyes never once leaving you. 

“Who is that?” he asked, his voice quiet. Anger rippled through you like an electric shock. It was red and hot, and your nostrils flared in annoyance. 

“You have some cheek,” you hissed, walking over to jab him in the chest. He winced slightly in pain, and you enjoyed it. You jabbed him again and he grabbed you by the wrist when you pulled your hand back to jab it a third time. “Get your damned hands off of me, Hotchner.” 

“Who is that?” he repeated, slower this time, each word enunciated as if he had created them. The grip on your wrist tightened and you felt your stomach churn in some sick sort of excitement. Breath huffing from your nose, you glared up at him. 

“My date,” you replied, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. Because it was. Aaron’s grip twisted, bringing your hand higher up as he began to back you against the wall. One of your feet slipped beneath you, not enough traction between heel and tiled floor, too much pushing from above. Aaron just jerked you upwards, your next step landing, your body not struggling enough for your liking. “What are you-” 

“You move on quickly,” he observed as your back hit the cold wall of the bathroom. It pulled a gasp from you, soft, shocked. Your back arched from the wall on instinct, too cold on the bare skin the dress exposed. Aaron closed in, nudging your legs apart with his knee, pressing it upwards into your crotch. The gasp melted into a shocked moan, mouth agape, your senses full of him. His mouth lowered to your neck, one of his hands sliding down your waist and hip, his fingers brushing along the hem of your dress. You couldn’t help yourself; your head rolled back, eyes flickering into the back of your skull as his hot breath rolled down your neck and back, the tips of his fingers just teasing themselves underneath your skirt. 

It was hard to find words. Your hands scrabbled at his blazer, finding purchase and yanking him in closer. 

“I’m trying to get over you,” you spat, biting down hard on your lip when his fingers began to bend round to your inner thigh. Your next words were muffled by your lip. “You were the one who ended things.” 

“I don’t see you pushing me away.” His reply was quick. Aaron’s dark eyes were locked on yours as his fingertips finally, finally reached your underwear. The pad of his finger swept along your clothed slit, his other hand gripping your waist tightly. You sucked in a shaky breath. No, you weren’t pushing him away. Instead, when he growled about how wet you already were in your ear, your hips ground down automatically. The thickness of his calloused fingers rubbed perfectly against your swollen clit, and your hips didn’t stop. Aaron’s teeth found your neck and sunk into the supple flesh, a broken cry leaving your mouth as they did, your hips bucking again and again, pathetically, against his unmoving hand. 

His mouth moved down, slowly, to your collarbone, leaving a line of bites that alternated between soft and so hard you hissed out in pain. Your hips didn’t stop moving, and when he moved his hand, dipping his fingers under your lacy underwear and into your warm wetness, your eyes widened and your hips became a crazed, desperate frenzy. His fingers made small circles around your clit, and each drag along it made stars explode behind your eyes.

“Look at yourself.” Your head had fallen onto his shoulder, his mouth back at your ear. “Fucking yourself on my hand. I’m not even doing anything.”

“I’m thinking about him,” you managed out, whimpering when he drew his hand away completely. 

Aaron took a step back, a disgusted look on his face. 

“No you’re not,” he said, dangerously quiet. You were still panting, face warm, your entire body vibrating with arousal. 

“Yes I am. I’m thinking about how I’m going to take him home tonight and scream his name into the same pillow I did when you-”

You didn’t have time to finish that sentence. Aaron gripped you by the hips, twirled you around, bent you over the sink, your hands barely having time to brace yourself on the curved porcelain before he was yanking your dress up and kneading the soft muscle of your ass. You couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror; the thought of Ryan waiting for you at the table as Aaron was taking his cock out of his slacks and pushing your underwear to the side with a thumb made you feel sick. 

“Tell me you want this,” he ordered, stroking his leaking cock with one hand, the other holding you still by your waist, locking eyes with you in the mirror. The groan that came from you didn’t sound human. It was a noise of pure, disgusting want. It was a noise from a woman that had been reduced to nothing. It wasn’t you. 

“Please, Aaron,” you gritted out. 

Aaron wasn’t a man that second-guessed things. You had barely finished the word please before he was entering you. That sting. How intoxicating that sting was. How much you’d missed it. It had barely been a month since you last slept with him. Your bodies still knew one another so well. Once fully sheathed, Aaron did not give you a chance to breathe. His free hand moved up, wrapping your hair tightly around his fist and yanking, forcing you to look at yourself. His thrusts were brutal; his hips snapped against yours, forceful, meaningful, almost arrogant. He groaned, deep in his chest, his head tipping back, eyelids drooping as he watched your face twist in pleasure in the mirror. 

Aaron’s pace didn’t stop. With the hand that was on your waist, he pulled you back onto his cock over and over as you made every attempt to try and stay upright. 

“Are you still thinking about him?” he asked, and you hated yourself for how quickly you shook your head. 

“No, no no no no.” Your voice was high, whiny, desperate. “Only you. It’s only ever been you.” 

Aaron was shocked you could even string a sentence together. He tugged on your hair and you groaned loudly, forgetting where you were, forgetting your proximity to the man you were on a date with. It’s okay. Aaron thought for you. You were completely at his behest, bending to his every whim and desire. He let go of your hair and shoved his fingers in your mouth, groaning quietly at the sight of you drooling around his thick digits. 

Your knees began to shake as you neared your orgasm. The sight of Aaron staring at you in the mirror was too much. Every now and then your eyes would glance down to yourself, Aaron’s fingers in your mouth, the drool running down your chest and his wrist, pooling at his expensive watch. It was all too much. 

“Go’a cu’,” you attempted, not able to speak like that. Your eyes widened in shock when his hand came down on your ass, hard, his thrusts keeping pace. In the mirror, you could see his eyes were locked on the sight of your pussy accommodating him, his eyebrows drawn in, mouth agape. He was close. You’d slept with him enough to know that. The coil in your stomach tightened, your eyes slamming shut as you clamped your teeth down, hard, on his fingers. Your whole body seized as your orgasm claimed you, biting down on Aaron’s fingers as he tried to wrestle them away. You hoped it hurt.

“God- Fuck!” 

Aaron managed to pull his fingers away just before he reached his own orgasm. He hissed your name as both of his hands gripped your waist, jerking his hips forward as he emptied himself inside of you. Tears streamed down your face as you collapsed, exhausted, onto the sink. Both of you stood there silently, the only noise filling the restaurant’s bathroom being your ragged breathing. 

Ryan (Tinder) 

Hey! Thank you so much for such a good date last night. 

Sorry you got sick half way through, I did think that salad looked suspicious

Ryan (Tinder) 

Let me know if you want to meet up again. I really liked spending time with you 🙂

Nausea swirled in your stomach when you glanced down at your cell. You were sitting at your desk, chewing your nails to shreds. Your computer glared at you with an email you really didn’t want to reply to, and now your phone was baring its teeth at you too. After a moment of contemplation, you picked up your phone and typed a reply. 

You

Yeah I had so much fun! I’d love to see you again.

You turned your phone onto Do Not Disturb and chucked it behind you. It hit something before clattering to the floor. Swallowing down the guilt that had been occupying your stomach since last night, you turned your attention to your computer. Your fingers worked slowly across the keyboard, acting as if you’d never been presented with such technology before. 

To: erin.strauss @ fbi . gov

Subject: Transferral 

Dear Strauss, 

Thank you for your email and quick correspondence. 

I’d like this email to stand as my official request to resign from the BAU with immediate notice. I have had interest from Counterterrorism and Organized Crimes.

I realise that this means I will have to be transferred from Quantico to another branch, and I appreciate your concerns, but this will be beneficial to me. I believe that I am not finding the BAU beneficial to me anymore, and it is time to move on. 

I am free for a meeting tomorrow, yes. I look forward to it. 

You pressed send and turned your computer off. It was easy to start crying when you crawled into bed, the silence of your apartment pressing in on you, the memory of Aaron Hotchner in every crevice. You needed to leave. Run away and not look back. When you turned your face into your pillow to scream, you swore you could smell his aftershave. 

Penelope’s nails dug into your arm as she dragged you along the corridor towards her office. She refused to look at you. In the brief moment she had looked at you, there were tears in her eyes. Every time you tried to say something, she just shook her head, blonde ponytail bobbing. You both reached her office and she rushed you inside, slamming the door shut. Keeping one hand on the door, she finally turned to look at you. Tears had dripped down her painted cheeks and your chest tightened. 

“Explain.” 

You did. You explained everything to her, because there was no use lying to her. You told her about Ryan, and seeing Aaron in the bar. How you had sex with him in the bathroom, and then lied to Ryan about throwing up and cut the date short. Penelope watched you talk the entire time with a horrified look on her face. 

“...and now you’re looking at me like that,” you ended your story with, and Penelope’s face melted into a glare. 

“Of course I am!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air. “You do a couple bad things and run away from them? Who even are you?” 

She was right. You were taking the coward’s way out. Everything working with the FBI had taught you- resilience, strength, trusting your team- you’d completely ignored. Sought escape rather than holding your own and fighting for yourself. 

Penelope blinked at you. You frowned at her, chewing the inside of your cheek. 

“Pen, I feel like I’m drowning in him,” you began, softly. The glare left Penelope’s face. “Everything is him. Work is him. I go on a date with a really great guy and he’s there. I lose myself when I’m around him. I become stupid, make idiotic decisions, let myself be completely part of him. He changes, too. We’re terrible for one another, and we’ll continue to be terrible for one another until one of us leaves. And my life is much easier to uproot than his is.” 

All Penelope could do was say your name, softly, and bring you in for a hug. You hugged her tight to your chest, smelling her soft vanilla perfume, feeling her chunky necklaces press against your chest. You hated that you were losing this. You hated that you were losing your job at the BAU, and your life in Virginia. All for someone who was meant to solve things. All for someone that was so good. Too good. You had to pick him out of your teeth before they began to rot. 

It wasn’t that Aaron was a bad guy - he was anything but. You knew that he was good. But he was not good for you. You turned one another into animals, clawing, biting, possessive. Cannibalised one another, emphasising distraction rather than facing the actual problems in your lives. As you sat across from him later that day, Strauss next to you, he stared at you and he knew. He always knows. Perhaps he’ll know more than anyone else you’ll ever meet in your life. 

You and Strauss stood up to leave. He shook Strauss’ hand and she nodded at you both, turning and leaving. You lingered behind, glancing over at him. Sighing, he nodded, and you closed the door behind her, leaving just you two behind. 

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly. There was so much tender sincerity in his dark eyes that you felt sick. “I’m sorry for what happened in the restaurant. I…” 

Aaron looked away from you, frowning, deep in thought. Aaron Hotchner never second guessed himself. Until right now. 

“It’s not just that, Aaron. I’m dangerously infatuated with you. It’s not good for me, and I don’t like who I become around you,” you replied, your voice equally as quiet as his. His eyes slid to yours, and you shrugged. What else were you to do? 

“I just don’t know what I want.” Your heart seemed to stop in your chest. You stared at him as he looked at the floor, trying to gather his thoughts. Trying to stay stoic and certain, trying to stay himself. It was useless. You both melted in front of one another, unable to stick with this narrative of a person you try to be to everyone else. “I have so many things happening to me, and you weren’t ever meant to solve them, but I started using you to distract me, and that turned into my expecting you to solve all my problems. You can’t do that - Christ, I can’t do that.” 

We’re such a mess together. 

You make me lose my temper. 

“Then I do have to do this,” you said, simply. Aaron frowned at you. He wasn’t happy with that answer. But you wouldn’t be happy if you stayed. It was, ultimately, a choiceless choice. Choose between unhappiness or unfamiliarity. You stepped towards him and reached a hand up, cradling his cheek in your palm. He needed to shave. His stubble bristled against your skin, sharp, wary. One of his thumbs wiped away a tear that you didn’t realise was rolling down your cheek. 

“It couldn’t have been anyone else,” he whispered.

“I know.” 

[alinathinkstoomuch]

DRUNKEN INNUENDO

aaron hotchner x reader

18+ MDNI

summary: you're forced to share a hotel room with your boss, gasp! based on this request!

warnings: smut!!! unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), lots of sex jokes, at least 4k words of build up and sexual tension because i was #ovulating, strip poker, hotch almost jizzes in his pants at the sight of your boobs, this fic is baso me spreading the pathetic!hotch agenda, like he’s so desperate and touch starved in this it’s not even funnyyy, overstimulation, creampie, alcohol consumption, r has hair long enough to tug

wc: 8.7k

✰ masterlist

You taste metal before you realise you’ve bitten too far. A stinging telegram from skin you’ve been gnawing at since you got into the car. It’s a habit you never quite managed to break, surrendering crescents of yourself to restless teeth. 

“Quit that,” Hotch says, cutting you a quick sideways glance. It’s meant to be a reprimand, but there’s no real bite in it, only the bite of your own teeth on your nails.

You drop your hands into your lap like a guilty child.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, making a turn onto the main road. 

“You think I’m biting my nails because I’m hungry?”

“No. I know you only bite your nails when you’re overthinking. And I know you’re more inclined to talk when you’re not running on an empty stomach.”

You glance out the passenger window, taking notice of the rain that has thickened since you bolted to the car. The prison is already a smear in the rear-view mirror, tucked so far into nowhere it feels less like an institution and more like a secret earth is ashamed of. You imagine its architects deciding it should be placed where even guilt would have trouble finding it. 

“There’s a diner about half an hour up the road,” he tries again. “Good coffee. Bad pie.”

You consider it, and on any other night you’d say yes without thinking, like you’ve done countless times before. But you remember that tonight, you’re not heading home. You’re heading back to the hotel room you’re sharing with your boss. The same four beige walls that felt far too small last night.

You hadn’t realised that sharing a bed would also mean sharing melatonin. Though clearly Hotch got the better end of the deal, sleeping like a man immune to proximity-induced panic while you lay still, every muscle tense, your heart hammering as if trying to pound thoughts into words you had no business thinking.

“Can’t we make the drive back home tonight?” you ask, shifting to look at him. “I can drive most of the way if you want to doze off.”

“I think given the weather and your driving skills, that wouldn’t be a wise choice.”

“What’s wrong with my driving skills?”

“You once reversed into a mailbox.”

You scoff. “You weren’t even in the car when that happened.”

“No,” he says, unbothered, “but I did have to file the vehicle incident report explaining why the Bureau SUV suddenly had a dent in the rear bumper.”

You glance out again and he’s right. Sheets of rain blur the road, the wipers swiping furiously just to keep a sliver of the world in view. You’d sooner chew down a mouthful of nails than attempt to drive in this, and considering Hotch handled the entire drive here and carried most of the interview, it hardly seems fair to pester him to slog through another four hours just so you can sleep in your own bed. 

“You did well,” he offers obligingly, and you know he’s trying to patch up your bruised ego.

You hadn’t imagined your last few days with the BAU would involve revisiting what was meant to be a closed case. But new evidence had surfaced, linking back to one of your consults which, after this week, wouldn’t even be yours anymore. It would probably be passed on to JJ or Morgan, but you’d insisted on coming, unwilling to leave loose ends behind. 

That insistence had landed you on a two-day trip with Hotch accompanied by a night in a cheap, overbooked hotel, one bed, a sleepless night yesterday, and the creeping dread of repeating it again tonight.

“You’re lying. I barely got him to talk.” 

“You did more than you realise. We managed to get a name.”

We. You turn your head and catch the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “You managed to get a name,” you correct. 

His shoulders lift in a slight shrug, eyes still on the road. “It was a team effort.”

“Well, I suppose it's not really going to be my problem anymore after this week.” You exhale, resting your temple against the cold glass.

“Do you need me to stop anywhere before the hotel?”

“Yes, actually.” You turn towards him with a half-smile, because if you’re going to be forced to share the covers with Hotch again, you’re not doing it sober. “Pretty sure there’s a gas station off the next exit, if you wouldn’t mind?”

He nods, and you go back to overthinking the bane of your existence until Hotch finally pulls into the saddest-looking gas station you’ve ever seen.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, unclipping your seatbelt and letting it snap back harder than necessary, purely because you know it irritates him.

His jaw tics. “You can take it off without assaulting the mechanism, you know.”

“So nothing, then?”

“Coffee. If they have it.”

“Sure.” You pause, then grin at him. “I’ll get you a drink.” 

You’re out of the car before he can clarify that he meant just coffee. The cold air immediately slides under your coat, no matter how tightly you pull it around yourself. The rain’s turned into that annoying misty kind—so light it shouldn’t count, but somehow it still sticks to your hair and makes you feel damp and miserable. You jog the last few steps to the door.

Inside, it smells vaguely of lemon cleaning wipes, which is funny, because absolutely nothing in here looks like it’s been cleaned. You don’t bother searching for the coffee machine since technically, you’re not taking orders from your Unit Chief anymore.

You make a beeline for the back fridges instead.

Rows of cheap wine stare back at you—the kind that would give Rossi a heart attack. You pick the worst looking bottle out of pure spite, already planning on texting him a picture just to ruin his evening. Then, for insurance, you grab a few miniature bottles of whiskey. On your way to the till, you snatch a bag of popcorn. The sweet kind.

Once you’ve paid, you head back to the car. Hotch reaches across to push the door open for you, and you slide in. The bag clinks in your hands, immediately giving away your intentions—something he’s clearly clocked, judging by the look he gives you.

“Sorry. The coffee machine was broken, so I got wine instead. Or whisky. Whatever floats your boat on this fine night.”

“Please tell me there's at least water in there.”

You reach into the bag and pull out a bottle, dropping it into the cup holder between you. “Have a little faith.”

He shakes his head in that disappointed-dad way he’s perfected over the years and shifts the car back into drive. The wipers groan across the windshield, and you take the moment to pull the questionable wine out of the bag to send a picture to Rossi. 

You get a reply just as Hotch is turning into the hotel’s car park.

Rossi: Is this a cry for help? Tell me that’s not going in your body. 💀🍷

You leave him on read, taking your clinking bottles with you as you follow Hotch out of the car and into the building. The two of you are quiet as you watch him fumble with the key to your room. Yes—key, not card, because it’s that ancient. Yet, for a man who can dismantle a Glock blindfolded, he still manages to miss the hole twice.

“Any time today would be nice.”

He exhales through his nose, slotting the key in on the third try. “You could always help.”

“Sure. Usually you just line it up and get it in the hole. Works for me most of the time.”

He goes still for half a second. Then, without looking at you, “You know there are moments I genuinely regret encouraging you to speak.”

The lock finally clicks and he pushes the door open for you. 

“Would you look at that,” you say as you brush past him, “you can find the spot.”

The room is exactly as small as you remember, and somehow the freshly made bed almost makes it look worse. Hotch had made it this morning while you were brushing your teeth, tighter and straighter than housekeeping ever could. Pillows fluffed and aligned, corners tucked. True military craftsmanship from a meticulous dork. 

A meticulous dork who is now taking off his jacket and folding it neatly over his go-bag and suddenly—though not surprisingly—your eyes are glued to the way his white shirt pulls across his shoulders.

You rip your gaze away and begin unpacking your haul. 

“You want the shower first?” he asks, and you glance at him, pretending it’s the first time you’ve looked at him since walking in.

“Nope. I want alcohol.”

He shakes his head, grabs his toiletry bag, and disappears into the tiny bathroom.

You’re about to enjoy the way this glorified paint thinner will probably strip your taste buds, when you realise there’s a slight problem. It’s a corked bottle and not a twist-off. You try using your nails to get it open, and then your sheer willpower. 

Unfortunately it does not respond to either. 

You give it one more useless tug before raising your voice. 

“Hotch?”

Water is running. He does not answer. 

You try again, louder. “Hotch!”

“What?” he calls through the door, voice muffled.

“Are you decent?”

There’s the faintest pause—long enough for you to smile to yourself because you can’t help but imagine him…not decent. 

“Yes,” he says cautiously. “Why?”

“I need help.”

“With what?”

“Alcohol-related emergency.”

You hear him sigh, followed by the water shutting off. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opens and he steps out, with only his belt missing. Interesting. He’s a belt off first kind of guy. 

He looks at the bottle, then at you. “You bought wine without a corkscrew.”

You hold it out to him. “Let me take this as a moment to remind you that I never handed paperwork in late, never took a sick day, never complained about overtime. I was, arguably, the model team member. This is the least you can do to show appreciation.”

He doesn’t argue. Just takes the bottle from your hands and sits on the edge of the bed with it.

Legs spread. Grey slacks pulling just slightly at the seams. Broad thighs taking up most of the mattress. He settles the bottle between them, and you do your absolute best to focus on the glass instead of the fabric creasing over muscle and the very distracting proximity of…everything else. 

He braces the bottle with one hand around the base and you forget how to form actual sentences. With his other hand, he uses his thumb to push the cork down into the bottle, veins flexing with each movement. 

The cork gives a soft, breathy sound as it starts to sink into the neck of the bottle, and you’re just standing there—useless, wine thirsty, and uncomfortably aware of the fact that this should not be as attractive as it is. 

He pulls his hand back as soon as the cork pops and sinks into the bottle, wiping his thumb absently against his thigh and you’re pretty much drooling at the sight, while he looks up at you, unfazed. 

“Happy now?”

“Mhm. Ecstatic. Guess you’ve got just as much trouble pulling out as you do finding the hole.”

“You know I can request to have you transferred earlier than Friday.”

“Go ahead,” you say, scanning the room for glasses. “Knock yourself out.” There are none. No glasses. No mugs. Not even a questionable plastic cup.

“You want to take your wine so I can go shower?” he asks flatly.

“You’re not joining me?” 

His eyes shift between you and the bottle. “How much was this?”

“Four ninety-nine.” You scrunch your nose as he brings it to his face and smells it. “Come on, you have to toast me. Rossi denied me a leaving party because apparently switching departments doesn't count as officially leaving.”

He lets out a slow breath. “You want a toast?”

“Yes.” You nod. “Or you could list your top five things about working with me. Or both. I have time.”

“Fine,” he resigns, moving along the edge of the bed to make space for you. “One toast.”

You grin as you drop down beside him, your knees touching. You watch as he brings the bottle closer to his lips and mulls over what to say. 

“To the fact you never did anything halfway,” he says earnestly and it catches you off guard. You were fully expecting something sarcastic like to the number of sex jokes you made on federal payroll. “Cases, paperwork, people,” he continues. “You were all in. Always.”

And then he tilts the bottle back. You shouldn’t stare, but you do. The way his mouth wraps around the glass, the slow swallow, the faint scrunch of his brows as the taste hits. He pulls it away with a barely-supressed grimace. 

“That’s awful,” he scoffs, handing it to you.

Your fingers brush when you take it, and you can’t help but wonder if his thumb still tastes like wine. You lift the bottle, deliberately pressing your mouth to the exact spot his lips just were, and you catch the way his eyes flick down to follow the movement before meeting yours again.

You take a swig, more than you should because it burns. “God—that’s fucking vile.”

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Told you.”

“Now you have to help me finish it. Otherwise I’ll die, and you’ll have to do the paperwork.”

“That’s manipulative.”

You shrug. “Is it? Thought extra paperwork would be your kind of foreplay.”

His lips twitch, and you almost catch the smile he’s trying so hard to suppress it’s making him look constipated. “You have a foul mouth,” he mutters, taking the bottle back and bringing it to his lips. 

“Is that the first of the five things you like about me?”

He pauses mid-sip, lowers the bottle just enough to give you that painfully patient stare. “We are not making a list.”

“So that’s a yes?”

He takes another swig, getting him out of answering. When he hands the bottle back, you notice his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, despite you having a firm hold on it. 

“Fine. No list. I’ll just assume it’s implied.”

“It isn’t.”

“It is.”

“It really isn’t.”

You roll your eyes, taking two big gulps that almost make your eyes water. 

The back and forth continues until the bottle is completely empty, along with the mini bottles of whiskey you picked up. The popcorn is gone too, aside from the sad trail of it now crushed into the hotel carpet from your failed attempt to open the bag like a normal person.

At some point, sitting upright stopped being doable. Your backs protested, your vision began to blur at the edges, and now the two of you were lying on top of the covers, side by side, legs still hanging off the edge of the bed.

“Are you still beating yourself up about earlier?” he asks, voice softer than it was before the cheap alcohol.

“A little,” you admit with a sigh. “I wanted to do one last thing before leaving. Not hand it back to you unfinished.”

“You softened him up. Made him think he was in control. It might not seem like much, but it helped.”

You huff and push yourself up onto your elbow, turning to face him. His eyes are a little glassy, and for once he looks relaxed. “Bet you’re going to miss using me as bait.”

He shifts his head to glance at you. “You’re only moving two floors down.”

“And what if my new boss doesn’t like to share?”

“You were always mine first,” he says it so casually, you’re not entirely sure he’s processed his own wording.

“Yours?” you let out a laugh, eyebrows lifting. 

“Ours,” he corrects, a vague flick of his hand. “The BAUs”

You’re fairly certain you like the sound of mine more. You look at him again, the alcohol throwing all discreetness out your system. He smiles back up at you in a way you don’t see often. His hair is all mussed, a thin layer of sweat making his skin glow. 

“What are you thinking?” he asks, pushing up onto his elbow to mirror you. 

You grin at him and he immediately regrets asking because he knows that look. He sighs and drops back onto the bed. “Never mind.”

“I think you need a shower.” You spare him your real thoughts.

“Thanks,” he mutters. “I don’t think I could even get my tie off right now.”

“Do you need a hand?”

He laughs quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I might.”

Sitting up takes more effort than it should. The room tilts a little when you move, but you manage to get onto your knees, wobbling and swaying, before Hotch reaches out and catches your wrist, stopping you from diving face first into his chest. 

“What’re you doing?” he asks, just as you swing a knee over his hips and ungracefully settle in his lap.

“Helping you get your tie off because you need to shower.”

He goes rigid beneath you, hands hovering near your waist like he’s unsure if he has permission to rest them on you. “You’re on top of me.”

“We can do this standing if you prefer?”

His eyes close for half a second, like he’s silently begging for patience. “No. Just—”

You catch the speed of that no and can’t help but smile, settling yourself against him. “Okay,” you breathe, leaning in. “Hold still.”

You’ve never actually taken a tie off someone before. Definitely not while tipsy. Which is probably why it’s going so badly. You yank at the knot once… twice… and somehow make it worse. “Why is this thing so tight? Are you into autoerotic asphyxiation or something?”

His hands finally come to rest on your waist. “Please don’t ever say that sentence again.”

“Have we just unlocked a secret turn-on category? It’s fine, I’m very accepting.”

He lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It’s called a Windsor knot.”

“Well no wonder you’re so grumpy all the time—this Windsor knot is cutting off circulation to your brain.”

“You’re making it tighter,” he points out, voice sounding strained. He shifts, probably a poor attempt at comfort because all his movement does is press you directly against his groin.

Your fingers fumble with the fabric, because you’re too busy fighting the urge to move. To roll your hips. To test just how good the friction would feel. “Because you’re moving.”

“You’re on top of me.”

You tug at the fabric again. “I gave you the option to do this standing, didn’t I?”

His eyes shift to your lips, then slowly, he removes one hand from your waist. “Slide the narrow end through the loop,” he says, showing you. 

Fuck. He’s talking you through it. And you’re pretty sure you could get off on his voice alone, but you will yourself to focus. 

 “No—other side.”

You follow his direction, fingers brushing his throat. 

“Now loosen it,” he murmurs. His thumb presses lightly at the knot, guiding your hand. “Pull there.”

You do as you’re told, giving a gentle tug and the knot slides loosely apart. “Would you look at that! You’re tie-free.” 

You give it another tug, slipping it from his collar so you can inspect it. What you thought was just a diamond print now, up close, looks suspiciously like two Gs. You gasp. “Oh my god. You really spent two hundred dollars on a Gucci tie just to choke yourself?”

His hands are back on your waist again. “It was on sale.”

“You could’ve asked me,” you say, looping it clumsily around your neck. “I would’ve done it for free.”

“You’re wearing it backwards.”

“Well,” you breathe, setting your hands on his chest, the warmth of him not doing you any favours, “you’re the expert in expensive silk strangulation. Fix it for me.”

He looks at you intently. His pupils are blown wide, dark as ink, and you can feel exactly how hard he is beneath you. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are. Probably not—not through those overpriced, perfectly tailored slacks clearly designed to prevent situations like this from becoming obvious.

He reaches for the tie, fingers brushing your ribs as he takes each end. The back of his knuckles grazes the thin fabric of your blouse as he lifts the silk to straighten it. 

“You want it to lie like this,” he says softly. “Otherwise it twists.”

You don’t breathe. “Mhm.”

“Now it goes over and under…” His hands do exactly that, looping the fabric while all you can feel is the insistent throb between your thighs. The silk slides against you, his hands settling the knot at the top of your sternum, right between your breasts. 

“You can pull the longer end through here,” he murmurs and takes a hold of your hands, guiding them with his. His thumb presses to the knot to adjust it, dragging it higher. “See? Not that hard.”

You tilt your hips forward. “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” you whisper, fingers moving to the top button of his shirt, undoing it. You watch his Adam's apple bob around a swallow. “Do you want to know what I was really thinking about earlier?” you ask, working the second button loose, his white undershirt peeking through.

You glance up at him, and his eyes are fixed on the point where you’re straddling the hard line of his cock. “You’re going to tell me either way, aren’t you?”

“Mm,” you hum, dragging your thumb down the column of his throat, just to feel the way he swallows again. “I don’t have to.”

“But you want to.” His hands are back on your hips, fingertips pressing into your skin through your blouse.

You shrug, wetting your bottom lip. “I was thinking…whether you’ve ever actually thought about sleeping with me.” 

He stills briefly, like he remembers all the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing any of this, but also realises the two of you crossed that line half a bottle of wine ago. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

“Tonight doesn’t count. I mean before this. Have you thought about it?” There’s no shame in your voice, just curiosity.

His thumb slips beneath your blouse, making you roll your hips into him again. “Yes,” he grunts out.

“That’s it?”

“You asked a yes or no question.”

Your hand drifts lower, undoing another button on his shirt. “You could elaborate.”

“You really want me to do that right now?”

“Absolutely.” Your fingers pause, leaving his shirt half-open, and slide to the buttons of your own shirt. You toy with one absentmindedly. “Would it help if I took this off?”

His jaw flexes. He looks at your blouse. Then your mouth. Then your blouse again. “That’s not—” He cuts himself off, exhaling through his nose. 

“How about this,” you offer with a smile, “every time you tell me when you’ve thought about it, I take off a piece of clothing. Seems fair, don’t you think?”

“And if I don’t want to partake in this game?”

“Then I get off your lap, put on my most conservative pyjamas, go to sleep, you shower, and we never speak of this again.” You really, really hope that’s not the option he picks. “The choice is yours. You tell me what you want to do.”

He goes quiet, thinking—though with how hard his cock is pressing against you, practically straining in those slacks, you’re not convinced he’s capable of coherent thought. You’re hardly better. You’re fucking soaked, and technically the two of you haven’t even done anything remotely obscene. But apparently sitting on your boss’s lap counts as the world’s most effective form of foreplay.

“Rossi’s birthday last year,” he reveals. 

“I remember,” you nod and begin working your buttons down. “We stayed behind to help him clean up.”

“And you insisted on putting away the wine glasses—” He stops when your bra comes into view and swallows thickly before dragging his eyes to your face. “You climbed up onto the counter, almost fell and nearly shattered every glass in your hands.”

You laugh, shrugging your blouse off and tossing it on the floor so it can make friends with the popcorn crumbs. “I recall you having a pretty good view of my ass in the process.”

His eyes drop to the breasts spilling out your bra. “Not as good as the view I have now.”

“That’s one.” You toy with the strap of your bra. “Next.”

“The jet.”

You light up instantly.  “This’ll be good.” 

“We were coming back from Georgia and shared the sofa. You were lying on one end, I was sitting on the other.” 

“Do continue.”

“You move a lot in your sleep,” he goes on, eyes fixed on your face, though you can feel the tension in his hands at your hips. “Kept shifting… sighing… dragging the blanket up and then kicking it off again. And with every move, your skirt rode a little higher. I stopped looking when I realised I wasn’t just making sure you were covered. I was… staring.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” you coo sweetly, before attempting to climb off his lap without falling off the bed. His brows pull together as he watches you stand at the edge of the mattress, propped up on his elbows.

There’s a dark patch on his groin, and you don’t know if it’s from you, or him, or both, but it makes your stomach twist, makes you want to end this game so you could finally feel him inside you. 

But apparently you enjoy suffering—or making him suffer—especially when he’s looking up at you with his legs completely spread, those wide, helpless eyes and a face tinged pink. So you only smile, fingers sliding to the zipper of your trousers as you prompt innocently, “Did you like the tights I wore?”

“With the seam at the back,” he confirms just as you push the slacks down your thighs.

You hadn’t planned on playing strip—or confessional—poker with your Unit Chief, which is exactly why your underwear is nothing special. Plain grey cotton and embarrassingly damp. You freeze for only a second, then lift your chin like you meant for it to be this way.

“I don’t think I can keep going,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“You can’t last two more rounds?” you tease, kicking out of the fabric pooling at your ankles. “I won’t count the tie as clothing.”

His eyes drag over you like he’s in pain. “I mean if you keep this up for any longer, I’m going to finish in my pants like a teenager.”

You try very hard not to preen. “I’ll do you a deal,” you say, taking a slow step forward until you’re standing between his legs. “Make this one really good…” You lean in slightly, just enough for the tips of your fingers to brush his knee. “…and I’ll take everything off.”

He swallows.

“The last Christmas party.” His words come easily, like this specific memory had been on the edge of his mind for a while.

You nod. “You were my ride.”

“You had on that black dress with the slit up your thigh. You went upstairs to fix your lipstick and asked me to show you the bathroom.” He sits up, his hands coming to rest on the backs of your thighs. “And then your zipper conveniently decided to undo itself halfway down your spine.”

“That zip was very flimsy.”

“I put my hand on your back and you arched into it. Maybe you didn’t even realise you did it. But I did.” His thumb strokes idly against your skin, eyes half-lidded. “All I could think about was how easy it would’ve been to push that dress the rest of the way down… bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror.”

Heat pools low in your stomach. “And you didn’t.”

“You were tipsy and said you’d had too much champagne. So I zipped it back up and walked you downstairs.”

“Such a gentleman.” Your hands are already moving. You reach behind you, fingers brushing the clasp of your bra. “Well…a deal's a deal.” You take your time—partly on purpose, partly because your fingers are shaking the tiniest bit. The clasp gives, and you roll the straps lazily off your shoulders before letting fabric fall.

Hotch has gone completely still, the hands on your thighs frozen like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. The only thing moving are his eyes, dragging over your body so slowly it makes your skin burn. “You okay?”

His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip before he answers. “You know I’m not.”

“Will it make you feel better to do the honours?” Your hands cover his, guiding them up from your thighs to the waistband of your panties. 

He looks up at you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this. Wrecked and glassy-eyed. He looks like someone who’d do anything you told him to. If they handed out awards for driving tightly wound, hyper-controlled men right to the edge of composure, you’re certain you’d win.

“Go on,” you whisper softly. “You’ve earned it.”

His fingers slip beneath the waistband and his touch is gentle as he starts easing the fabric down your hips. You glance down as he drags them lower, the inside of your underwear looking far worse than the outside. When you look back up, Hotch is already watching you, mouth curved into a crooked, boyish grin, validated that he’s not the only one soaking his undergarments. 

You step out of them the moment they hit the floor.

Hotch’s hands are on you right away, sliding up the backs of your thighs until they settle at the curve of your ass, pulling you closer.  He presses a wet kiss followed by a bite to your hip, your hands finding his shoulders to steady yourself.

“I want you on my tongue.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, laying back down and the room is tilting again. Whether from the cheap wine or the intoxication of him, you’re not sure. All you can do is follow, crawling up his body until your knees bracket his head. You don’t lower yourself down just yet.

He doesn’t touch you right away. Just…looks. 

“You need instructions?” you tease, threading your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. 

The bastard only laughs, the warm puff of air against your inner thigh making your breath catch. Then he’s lifting his head, and all you can do is watch—lips parted, hand still tangled in his hair—as his tongue finally makes contact with your pussy, dragging a slow stripe up your centre that makes your hips twitch. 

He pulls back with obscene patience, and you know exactly why, because a thin, pearly string of your wetness stretches from his mouth to you, and he has the audacity to look proud of it. 

He watches the strand break and you barely have time to process what’s happening before he’s hauling you down until you’re sitting on his face. His mouth opens wider to taste more of you, his tongue flattening and dragging through you, like he’s been dying for this. He absolutely has.

“Fuck!” you choke out, yanking at his hair, only for him to groan in response. Your hips stumble forward and for a second, you fear for the man’s airway with the way you’re practically smothering him between your thighs, but you realise he’s the one that’s pulling you down against him.

“So sweet for me,” he thrums, voice buried. You feel more than hear it, a vibration of sound right where you’re most sensitive. Your thighs tremble around his ears as he licks a messy path up you, then dips lower, tongue slipping inside, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly.

A whimper spills out before you can bite it back. You rock into him without meaning to, pulse skittering like it’s trying to outrun your body, that familiar feeling already building too fast.

And that’s when he slows. Doesn’t completely stop, just changes the pace in a way that has you letting out a strangled noise. 

“Really?” you pant, trying to catch your breath. “Is this your first time?” You lift yourself enough to look down at him. 

“Ask me nicely.”

“What?”

His chin glistens and he looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. “You’re used to demanding things.” His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs. “I think it’s time you learnt to be polite.”

Asshole. 

You let out a sharp breath, giving his hair a tug. “Please,” you bite out.

He smiles smugly, and then he’s lifting his head to suck your clit into his mouth. A whole parade of curses spill out of you—creative ones too, the kind you don’t even usually say out loud—tripping over each other so fast you barely recognise your own voice. 

And then he pulls back. Again. 

“Please what?” 

Correction: he’s a vindictive asshole.

You see exactly what he’s doing. You recognise his pettiness exactly for what it is. You tormented him first, made him spell it out for you, and now he’s returning the favour. He’s a desperate, competitive perfectionist who insists on winning everything, even the art of sexual torture. 

“Sadist,” you hiss. 

“Mm.” He turns his head and sinks his teeth gently into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Now be specific.”

You give him a dry humourless smile. “Please make me come. First with your mouth and then with your cock.” You drag a thumb along his jaw tauntingly. “Is that specific enough for you?”

His mouth is back on you again in seconds. No easing in this time. 

“Jesus—” you gasp, hands bracing on the mattress above his head for balance. The sheets bunch beneath your fingers, the material scratching against your palms. 

You feel his tongue circle and suck, like he’s trying to gauge every possible sound out of you, catalogue every single nerve you possess. Your thighs tighten around his temples, the drag of his stubble scraping lightly against your skin. 

He pulls you even lower, thumbs digging into your hips, like he wants to disappear into you entirely. The movement forces you down onto his tongue, and the wet, needy sounds he’s making against your cunt are so lewd, you swear you feel them echo behind your ribs. 

“Hotch—fuck!”

He hums at the sound, and then his hands shift, big palms sliding up your back, adjusting your angle to give him better access. 

“Okay—okay—slow down—” you whimper, even though your hips are doing the exact opposite.

“You asked nicely,” he mumbles into you.

Your laugh comes out breathless and shaky, your whole body tensing under the intensity of his tongue. “I didn’t think—ah—nicely would get me this.”

He answers without words, drawing a slow circle around your clit, and another moan tumbles out of you. You’re close. You can feel it in every part of you, in your thighs trembling around his ears, in the tight pull at the base of your spine. 

You gasp, head tipping back. “I—I’m—”

“You can come,” he says headily, tugging you closer. “Go on.”

You tense and wither against him. “Say it,” you pant. “Say you want me to.”

“I want you to.”

Your body caves forward, thighs clamping his head as your orgasm pulls you under so fast you forget to breathe, forget to think, forget everything except the feeling of coming apart on his mouth, wishing you could bottle it forever. 

It takes you a few minutes to come back to Earth. Earth being a cheap hotel room in the middle of nowhere. 

The first thing you register is the way Hotch’s thumb strokes your hip, then the press of his mouth to the inside of your thigh, another kiss, then another. You manage to lift yourself, and he immediately helps you, guiding your waist tenderly, letting you settle over him in your dazed state. 

“Hi,” you croak. 

He raises a brow, amused. “Hi.”

“Your face is shiny.”

A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “That would be your fault.”

“I can help with that,” you murmur, leaning down and running your tongue along the line of his jaw, tasting yourself on his skin. Your mouth then grazes the corner of his lips, and that’s when you realise—this man has had his tongue inside you, yet…you don’t know what he tastes like. The two of you haven't actually kissed. 

He must sense something is wrong, because his brows lift slightly, like he’s puzzled by the sudden stillness in your body. “What is it?”

You huff a tiny laugh, breath ghosting his cheek. “We haven’t even kissed.” You pull back, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping across his chin to clean the shine you left there. 

“You want to?” he asks like it’s a reasonable question, like he didn’t just have his mouth on the most intimate part of your body minutes ago.

“Aaron, you just had me sitting on your face. What do you think?”

“Aaron,” he repeats.

“That’s your name isn’t it?”

“Mm.” His hands tighten at your waist. “Say it again.”

“Are you going to kiss me, Aaron?”

For a second, he just stares up at you, like you’ve asked him something sacrilegious, something he's wanted for so long he’s almost afraid it's not real. His hands slide up your bare waist, settling at your ribs, giving them a gentle squeeze.

“Come here.” 

You meet him halfway.

His lips brush yours delicately, soft enough to make your stomach lurch in anticipation.

You pull back a fraction, just to see his face, and then you’re kissing him again, deeper, tasting something you’ve both been orbiting for years. His tongue slides against yours, the kiss swallowing the moan that slips out of you. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you breathe against his mouth, the words almost a whine.

“Which ones are bothering you?”

“All of them,” you answer, fingers blindly racing to undo the rest of his shirt. “Sit up.”

He obeys with little afterthought, pushing up on his elbows so you can shove the fabric off his shoulders. You don’t bother folding it neatly, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and you catch the tiny wince he tries (and fails) to hide.

“Arms up.” You grab the hem of his undershirt, tugging, and he sits up properly this time—bringing your bare, aching centre directly against the hard line of his cock.

The sound he lets out is a half-breath, half-groan at the contact. You don’t get the chance to tease him for it. You’re too busy hauling the undershirt over his head, and he has no choice but to help you strip it off. When it joins the rest of the discarded clothes, you press your hands to his shoulders, giving him a gentle push. He falls back without resistance, molten under your touch. 

You lean down, placing a kiss under his jaw, then another just below it, relishing in the way his breath stutters each time your mouth lands on new skin. His chest is warm under your lips, rising and falling in a rhythm that’s embarrassingly close to a pant. 

“Christ,” he mutters, and you grin against him, continuing to kiss your way down.

You press another kiss just above the waistband of his trousers, moving down to nudge the bulge beneath the fabric with the bridge of your nose. His reaction is instant. His hips twitch, hands shooting to your hair.

“Want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, glancing up at him through your lashes.

He shakes his head far too quickly. “Keep going.”

So you do. You kiss along the outline of him through the slacks, the damp patch dragging faintly across your lips with each pass. His thighs flex beneath your hands, his breathing falling out in tight, rigid bursts, the fabric getting warmer and wetter under your mouth. You drag your lips along the length of him once more, slow enough to be cruel, and his whole body jolts. 

That’s when you take pity. 

Your fingers finally move to his zipper, and you feel Hotch’s eyes on you as you ease it down. He lifts his hips immediately, allowing you to roll the slacks off him. The second they hit the floor, you’re already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips again—quicker and needier—as you drag the last piece of clothing down his thighs. 

And then he’s bare beneath you.

You sit back for a second, just to drink him in, mouth salivating at the flushed skin of his stomach, the tense lines of his abdomen, the way his cock rests hard and heavy on his stomach, precum sliding down the curve of him. You reach out without thinking, placing both hands on his thighs for balance as you crawl back up his body. Hovering over him, you lower your hips, feeling the head of his length nudge your inner thigh. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like the words slip from him before he can decide whether he’s allowed to say them. His hands trace up your sides, thumbs brushing under your breasts.

That sentence almost makes you coy. Almost. But your body apparently didn’t get the memo, because your hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and Hotch hisses through his teeth. He’s painfully hard in your palm, every throb pulsing against your grip. 

You press him back against his stomach and grind down on him.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice shaking when the slick tip knocks directly against your clit. His hands grab your hips, fingers digging in. “I’m close, and I want to feel you. All of you. I don’t think I’ll be able to last if you keep doing that.”

You roll your hips again, a trembling little slide that makes your breath catch. “You will,” you whimper, leaning forward until your lips brush his. “For me.”

His jaw goes disastrously tight, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before they find yours again, throat constricting around a swallow—and you can’t help the grin that curls up in response. You almost regret leaving the unit, because Monday’s briefing would’ve been something, watching him give orders with a straight face while knowing he couldn’t even wait until he was inside you to come.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he rasps. His hand leaves your hip, slides up your spine, and gathers a fistful of your hair. He tugs it, just enough to pull a gasp from your mouth, and then lifts his head to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against your jaw. 

You laugh, his exhale scorching against your skin. Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping around his length again, and you pull away from his mouth as you shift upright. You rise onto your knees, finally guiding his head of his cock to your entrance, his precum coating your pussy, your thighs, his own stomach. 

“I think you’re enjoying this far more than I am,” you murmur—right before you sink down on him, only a fraction, enough to make you both tense at the contact. 

“Slow—” he manages, voice breaking around it. “Go slow.”

You pause there, barely taking the head of him, but it's enough for heat and pressure to spark low in your belly. “Slow?” you echo, tilting your head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know… you weren’t exactly slow with me.”

His hands clamp down on your hips. “That was different.”

You give a faint roll of your hips, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are, how easy it would be to slide all the way down. His breath stumbles out of him, all of his authority stripped. 

“Different how?” you tease, tracing a finger down his chest, stopping right where his stomach flexes under your touch. 

His eyes flutter shut and when they open again, his pupils are blown, jaw clenching like he’s fighting the urge to thrust into you. “Different,” he repeats, “because I’ve been wanting this a long time.”

“How long?” you probe, sinking down onto him further, the stretch of him intoxicating. His head thunks back against the mattress, a groan lurching out of him. 

“Two—years,” he gets out, voice splintering as you take more of him. 

You still for a second. “Two years?”

“You’re surprised?”

“I mean… yeah? You don’t exactly flirt. You scowl. And file paperwork. And tell me I have a foul mouth.” You lower yourself another inch, slow enough to make him choke on a sound he’d absolutely murder himself for making in any other circumstance. You feel the stretch deep in your belly.

“Aaron,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Look at me.”

He does instantly. 

“You’ve been wanting this for two years?” 

He nods, and you sink down onto him, all the way, until the dark curls at the base of him brush your clit. He’s deep—too deep—in a way you’ve never felt before, his cock throbbing inside you as you bite down on a moan. 

“Don’t move yet. Just…give me a second,” he whispers, hands kneading the flesh of your ass.

Your fingers splay across his torso as you adjust to him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or do anything about it?”

“Because I was your superior. Still am. For another thirty-six hours.”

“You’re telling me you waited two years because of HR?”

“Because it was the right thing to do.”

You shake your head, lift your hips, and take him again. He fills you up completely, the tip nudging deep enough to pull a choked sound from your throat. You’d imagined him like this—God, probably longer than two years—but it still doesn’t compare. 

“You feel so fucking perfect,” he pants, his right hand guiding your roll against him. “So, so perfect,” he mutters, voice fraying as you rise off him and then sink back down. 

His spare hand comes up to palm your breast, this thumb brushing the underside before his fingers catch your nipple and pinch. Your head tips back immediately, a moan spilling from you as the pleasure arcs up your spine. 

“That’s it,” he grits. “Just like that.”

Every time you sink back down, he stretches you just a little more, hits that spot just a little harder. Your thighs start to tremble with the effort. His right hand only tightens at your hip, guiding your pace, manipulating your angle because of course he knows what feels better. But it’s his other hand, the one that’s still on your chest, that begins to slide lower, drifting over your ribs, over your stomach, the curve of your pelvis.

You don’t even realise what he’s reaching for until his thumb finds your clit.

A helpless cry breaks out of you.

“There she is…” he coaxes, thumb moving in a circle motion. “So pretty and vocal for me.”

You pick up the pace at the praise naturally. His breath falters, hips stuttering every time you grind down and meet his thumb at the same time. 

“Aaron—” 

His head tips back, a vein standing out at his neck, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps beneath his skin. His thumb slips against your clit with every shake of his body, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses harder, circles tighter, chasing you towards the edge even as he’s sliding towards his own.

“Sweetheart, slow—slow down—”

You don’t. You do the opposite, rocking into him, burying him inside of you. You feel yourself clench around him.

“Fuck!” he groans, your name following. His hands fly back to your hips, trying to hold you still, but your body squeezes around him and his own hips jerk helplessly. The sound he makes next is loud enough you’re almost certain the entire floor hears it. Every muscle in his stomach goes taut as he throbs inside you, warmth spilling in hot waves as he comes harder than you’ve ever heard him breathe. 

One of his hands drags back down to your clit, despite the fact that his whole body seems to shake and twitch. He tries to keep his eyes open—tries to keep watching you on top of him—but his lashes flutter shut as you ride out the aftershocks pulsing through him. 

You feel the warmth of his release seep out of you, ropes catching your inner thigh, clinging around the base of his still-sensitive cock. He finally forces his eyes open, his thumb still on your clit.

“Are you close?” he rasps. 

You nod, legs shaking around him, barely able to hold yourself upright.

“Okay, baby… okay.” His breath stumbles, his whole body jolting each time you move, but his thumb keeps working you. 

“Aaron—” Your voice cracks, head falling forward as a wave of heat curls deep in your stomach.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Come on.”

You grind down again, chasing the high, and he groans at the contact, but pulls you flush against his hips so you can keep moving. Your hands slide across his chest, clutching his shoulders, needing something to hold as the pressure tightens like a fist around your spine. 

Your thighs clamp around his hips, your body clenching so fiercely around him that his head falls back with a quiet whimper. He tries to thrust instinctively, but he’s too sensitive. He trembles through the shock of it anyway, jaw flexing, teeth gritted as he tries to stay still for you. 

“Sweetheart—” he gasps, “I need—you have to—please—”

And that does it. The please. Hearing him say it. 

Your release slams into you like a freight train. 

Your whole body seizes around him, your nails dragging down his chest as your vision whites out, a sharp sob catching in your throat. The orgasm tears through you in violent waves, blinding and completely overwhelming. 

Your body finally goes limp, folding over him, your hands bracing on either side of his head as you lean forward. A thin string of drool slips past your lips as you gasp for air, your pussy still pulsing around his cock in tight, involuntary aftershocks.

Hotch’s arms come up your back immediately, palms splayed, rubbing slow strokes along your spine. 

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Easy…I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

You manage a shuddering inhale against his throat, your forehead pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder. You can hear and feel his heartbeat beneath you, syncing with your own like your bodies haven’t quite figured out how to separate yet. 

His hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “There you go,” he whispers. “That’s it.”

Your lips brush the base of his throat when you exhale. “Don’t pull out just yet,” you mumble against him, wanting to keep him inside as long as you possibly can, unsure when—if—you’ll ever get this close to him again.

“I’m not going anywhere. You can have as long as you want.” 

You both go quiet for a moment, appreciating the soft ache of being filled and held at the same time. His chest rises beneath you with each slow breath, your body melting deeper into the lines of his. 

You lift your head up after a while, meeting his eyes. “Two years, huh?” 

He lets out a soft laugh. “Two years.”

“What’s the right thing to do now?” you ask, brushing the back of your knuckles along his jaw. 

“You need to go pee so I can get you cleaned up.”

You groan into his neck. “Gee, way to ruin a moment.”

“And then,” he adds, kissing your temple, “when your transfer is official… I can take you out to dinner…If you’d like that?”

“A date?” you ask quietly.

“If you want it to be.”

You pull back to look at him properly. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” he says with a smile, voice warm. “That’s what I was hoping.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley @wowitsafemale @cinnamoncunt @keiminds @iyskgd @mystic-rox @insured-by-the-mafia  @star-crossed-sephie  @2dloveshp  @lovelystrawberry @imissaaronhotchner @justyourusualash @alexxavicry @storiesofsvu @ehedrick012110 @hopelessromantic727 @piatosniathenie @averyhotchner @softtdaisy @b1tchyr1ichy @wvffles @mayhills @star-crossed-libby @sreidmia @cringeiknow  @calm-and-doctor @iloveyou2mia @casualpruneranchfire @bau-bestie @vivs30 @lovelystrawberrysblog @htchnr @sleepysongbirdsings @bookworm-in-disguise @marina468 @jjloveshotch

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[nanidotorg]

do you want me?

you know i do

[nanidotorg]

i am writing the most devastating hotch x reader situationship fic but also writing an 8000 word research paper. woman in stem 🫶🏻

[ajsbau]

I love you Kate Callahan and Alex Blake, my underrated queens 🫶

[hoe4hotchner]

can i request an aaron comfort smut fic where f reader hasnt ever and cant reach orgasm and is frustrated/upset by it so over a few weeks they try different things like positions, toys, kinks, longer foreplay, etc, aaron having very "idgaf if this takes all night" energy lol

Hotch’s Hypothesis: Pleasure Takes Time

Pairing Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader

WC: 5.8k

Warnings: MDNI! 18+, Smut, long-term anorgasmia and sexual frustration, sex, oral, sex toys, crying, emotional vulnerability and insecurity, reassurance, praise, patience.

Summary: You've never optained orgasm and despite being married to Hotch, you've never told him until the frustration bubbles over and you finally let out your shameful secret. He vows to help figure out how to draw and orgasm out of you, even if he doesn't successeed at all

A/N: This is so long over due, soooorrrryyyy! Also I hope no one ever looks into my cookies, cause I ended up on Pornhub trying to find those gifs for the graphic 😅

The light from your bedside lamp cast a warm glow across the bedroom, turning the familiar walls of your home softer.

Jack was at Jessica’s for the night, he had begged for a sleepover at his aunt’s house. And the case files that usually lived on Hotch’s nightstand had been deliberately banished to the locked drawer in his study given your first night alone in weeks.

For once, the world had paused long enough to let the two of you breathe.

You lay on your side facing away from him, the sheet pulled up to your chin, almost as if you were using it as armor. Your body still carried the pleasant ache of his hands, his mouth, the slow and deliberate way he’d moved inside you, but the afterglow of it all felt incomplete. Hollow even. The same quiet frustration that always arrived right on schedule, right when you should have been floating on cloud 9.

You could feel him watching you.

Hotch shifted behind you, the mattress dipping as he propped himself up on one elbow peeking over your shoulder. His fingers found a stray lock of hair that had fallen across your cheek and tucked it gently behind your ear. The gesture was so careful, so practiced, that it made your throat tighten.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and rough from exertion, but still so impossibly gentle. “Talk to me. You’re miles away.”

Your first instinct was to deflect. Maybe lie. To roll over and kiss him hard, whisper something about how good he felt, how much you loved him... anything to keep the conversation from going where it needed to go.

But Aaron Hotchner had spent his career reading people who lied for a living. And you were a good enough profiler to know that he would see right through it in seconds.

So you stayed still, clutching the sheet tighter.

“I…” The word cracked. You swallowed. “I enjoyed it. I really did. I love having sex with you and you’re... you always make me feel so good.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just waited, the way he did when someone on the team was about to crack open a trauma they’d buried for years.

“But?” he prompted softly when you didn’t continue, his hand settling on your hip over the sheet. His thumb began moving in slow and absent circles.

The word hung there like a door left ajar.

You rolled onto your back, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan that wasn’t spinning, trying to advoid his gaze. The blades were frozen mid-turn, and somehow that felt like the perfect metaphor to whatever it was that was wrong with you.

“I didn’t cum,” you said hurried, the admission flat, it felt factual at first, then fracturing. “I never cum. Not tonight. Not last week. Not with anyone I’ve ever been with. Not even when I’m alone.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable in the slightest. Hotch’s thumb never stopped moving and it felt like he was mulling over a reply.

You kept going before you could talk yourself out of it.

“I’ve tried everything. Every position, every toy I could find online, without dying of embarrassment. Different pressures, different rhythms. I even went to a sex therapist for six months when I was younger. She told me it was probably psychological, gave me homework. You know mindfulness, kegels, guided masturbation with candles, ocean sounds and so on. Nothing. It builds, it feels incredible, I get right to the edge…and then it just…vanishes. Like my body hits a wall and says no not for you. Every single time.”

Your voice cracked on the last word. You hated how small it sounded, how wrong and broken you felt.

“And tonight I thought... God, I really thought.... maybe it would be different. Because it’s you. Because I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone. Because when you touch me, I feel safe and wanted and seen. But it still didn’t happen. And now I feel…” You dragged in a shaky breath. “I feel broken. And I feel like I’m failing you as a wife. Like I’m taking everything you give me, and I can’t even give you the one thing that’s supposed to make it mutual.”

Tears slipped sideways into your hair before you could stop them.

Hotch didn’t flinch. Didn’t sigh. Didn’t offer platitudes.

He simply shifted closer until his chest pressed lightly against your side, one arm sliding across your waist to hold you. His lips found your temple.

“You are not broken,” he said. “And you are not failing me. Not even a little.”

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. They were steady and glistening faintly in the lamplight.

“This isn’t a performance review,” he continued quietly. “There’s no scorecard. There’s no deadline. There’s just you, and me, and whatever your body needs to feel safe enough to let go. If that takes weeks, or months, or longer... I’m here for it. All of it. I don’t care if we spend every night between now and retirement chasing your orgasm. I care that you feel good. I care that you feel wanted. I care that you know I’m not going anywhere because of something your nervous system hasn’t figured out yet.”

You searched his face, looking for cracks, for frustration, disappointment, anything.

There was none.

“How long have you been carrying this alone?” he asked.

“Since I was old enough to understand what an orgasm was supposed to feel like and that I wasn’t feeling that,” you whispered. “I used to fake it with other partners just so they’d stop asking. I’d fake it and then cry in the shower afterward because I hated lying, but I hated the pity more. With you…I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lie to you. Not about this.”

His expression softened, but his voice stayed firm.

“Good. Don’t ever start. If you ever feel that pressure again, the need to perform, to pretend, to tell me. We stop. We talk. We try something else. Or we don’t try anything at all. But no more hiding.”

He leaned in and kissed you, slow and unhurried, less about the need he was feeling to start working out where your block was and more about the promise of figuring everything out. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“We’ll figure this out together,” he said. “No pressure. Just us. And if it never happens, if your body just decides this is how it’s wired, then that’s okay too. I still want you. Every day. Every night. Exactly as you are.”

A sob caught in your throat.

“You mean that?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean. You know that by now.” He chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. His thumb brushed another tear away. “You’re not a puzzle I need to solve so I can feel accomplished. You’re the woman I love. And loving you means wanting your pleasure, however long it takes, however we get there. Or even if we don’t.”

You let out a watery laugh, curling into his chest. Hotch’s arms locked around you instantly.

“Okay,” you whispered against the warm skin of his throat. “Together.” You nodded once as you spoke.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, letting his lips linger there.

“Together,” he echoed your words.

The first attempt began the very next evening, after the house had settled into its nighttime rhythm. Jack had been tucked in at 8:30 sharp, story read, night-light adjusted and door left cracked just enough for the hallway light to spill in. The dishwasher had finished its quick cycle, the living room lamps were confined to a single floor lamp in the corner... in case anyone thought no one was home, and the faint scent of chamomile tea Hotch had brewed earlier, in an attempt to calm your nerves, still lingered in the air.

You knew Hotch had spent the day researching whenever the opportunity presented itself. He hadn’t said it outright, but you’d caught the telltale signs. The way he stayed in his office during lunch, the faint crease between his brows when he’d closed it a little too quickly when Rossi walked in, the single bookmarked tab you’d glimpsed titled “Female Orgasmic Dysfunction: Evidence-Based Approaches” before he’d minimized the window.

He’d approached this the same way he approached profiling: methodical, thorough, and unwilling to enter the unknown unprepared.

By the time you stepped into the bedroom, nerves had coiled tight in your stomach. Hotch was already there, hair still slightly damp from the quick shower he’d taken after putting Jack down. He looked up from where he’d been straightening the pillows and immediately softened, reading your posture.

“Come here,” he said, his voice low and calm.

You crossed the room, your legs unsteady and perched on the very edge of the mattress, knees pressed together, hands twisting in the hem of your shirt. He sank to his knees in front of you, shoulders filling the space between your legs without forcing them apart... yet. His hands settled on the outsides of your knees, thumbs brushing small, soothing arcs against your skin.

“We’re starting slow,” he told you, holding your gaze. “Longer foreplay than we’ve ever done. No goal except feeling good. You tell me what you like, what you don’t, what’s too much, what’s not enough. We stop the second you want to. No questions, no guilt.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. Your heart was hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it beating in your chest.

He leaned in and kissed the inside of your left knee first, then the right. Then higher. Slow and deliberately placed open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, each one lingering long enough for you to feel the heat of his breath before his lips made contact again. He took his time, mapping every inch like he was memorizing the shape of you, the faint stretch mark, the place where your skin goosebumped when he exhaled just right, the tremor that started in your thigh when his tongue flicked out for the first time.

When he finally reached the apex of your thighs, he didn’t dive in. He pressed a single, reverent kiss to your mound, then another lower before hooking a finger in your panties and pulling them down. He slipped a thumb through your pussy, parting you gently.

Hotch’s first flick of his tongue was barely there, a flat stroke from entrance to clit, no pressure, just warmth and wetness and presence.

You gasped, fingers curling into the sheets.

He hummed against you, and you couldn’t tell if it was approval or encouragement... or maybe both to some extent. He then repeated the motion, a little firmer this time. His hands slid up to cradle the backs of your thighs, lifting them slightly so your legs draped over his shoulders, opening you more without making you feel exposed. He worked you with devastating patience. Long, languid licks, then tighter circles around your clit with the tip of his tongue, then back to broad strokes.

Every few minutes, he paused to murmur against your skin.

“Still good?”

“Yes! God, yes.”

“Tell me if you want more pressure.”

You did, eventually, whispering “a little harder”, and he adjusted instantly, sucking lightly on your clit while two fingers slid inside you, curling in a slow come-hither motion that made your hips jerk forward.

Time blurred, and your thighs started trembling around his head, breath coming in short, ragged pants. The tension coiled tighter and tighter in your stomach; it felt like a beautiful, aching pressure that felt so close, so much closer than it ever had before. You could almost taste it.

And then… nothing.

The wave crested and simply dissolved, leaving you hovering on the wrong side of the edge, body taut and frustrated and suddenly exhausted.

You gripped the sheets in frustration, voice cracking. “Aaron, I don’t think... I can’t...”

He lifted his head immediately, lips swollen and glistening, cheeks flushed from the heat of you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown with lust, but there was no frustration in them, only focus, only care for you.

“That’s okay,” he said, voice rough from use but steady. He kissed the inside of your thigh once more, softer and grounding, before easing your legs down from where they were resting on his shoulders. “We’re not chasing the finish line tonight. We’re mapping the route.”

You let out a shaky laugh that was half sob. “I was so close. I swear I was.”

“I know.” He rose to sit beside you on the bed, pulling you sideways into his lap so your head rested against his shoulder, and wrapped his arms around you. One hand splayed protectively over your stomach, the other stroking your hair. “You were shaking. Your breathing changed. Your hips were chasing my mouth. That’s not nothing. We can build onto that.”

He pressed a kiss to the side of your neck. “What felt best?”

“The... the sucking. And when you curled your fingers. It made everything… sharper, if that makes sense.”

“Noted.” His lips curved against your skin. “We start there next time. More of that. Maybe slower buildup so the edge doesn’t slip away as quickly.”

You turned in his arms, searching his face. “You’re really okay with this taking time?”

His expression didn’t waver. “I’m okay with whatever it takes. I’m not keeping score. I’m not waiting for a reward. I want you to feel good. Really good. And if that means we spend weeks learning every inch of what makes your body sing without ever reaching the crescendo, then that’s what we do. I have time. I have patience. And I have you. I just wish you would’ve told me earlier.”

Tears stung again, different this time, this time it felt like relief instead of shame.

He kissed your forehead, then your mouth, and held you until your breathing evened out.

The rest of the week followed the same pattern, each night a deliberate extension of the last.

He started with a full-body massage one time, warm oil, working knots from your shoulders, down your spine, along your thighs, until you were boneless and pliant before he ever touched you. He added whispered directions another time: “Breathe deeper. Push into my mouth when you feel it build.” You did, and the edge came closer still, close enough that your thighs clamped around his ears and your fingers tugged painfully at his hair... before receding again. He even tried a different angle: you on your back with a pillow under your hips, legs spread wide and pinned down by his hands, his mouth relentless while three fingers worked that same spot from the first night in deep strokes. He talked you through it the whole time, gentle yet filthy praise that made your cheeks burn and your pulse race. “You’re dripping for me. Feel how wet you are? That’s your body telling me it wants more. Give it to me, sweetheart. Let me hear you.”

By the end of the week, you hadn’t cum... not even once... but something fundamental had shifted.

The frustration that used to claw at you after every failed attempt had dulled, replaced by a quiet, growing trust that you would figure this out together, one way or the other. You stopped apologizing when the peak slipped away. You started asking for what you wanted without second-guessing. You started believing... really believing... that he meant it when he said there was no rush.

And every night, when you finally collapsed against his chest, sweaty and spent and still aching in the best way, he held you like you were the only thing that mattered.

By the start of the second week, the initial sharpness of frustration had dulled into something quieter, more manageable. You weren’t quite at peace with the process yet, but you were no longer bracing for disappointment every time the tension built and then ebbed away right before release. Hotch had made sure of that. His steady and unhurried presence had turned what could have felt like repeated failure and a sense of being inadequate into a slow exploration of what made you react and feel good. And somehow, that shift made all the difference from how you had felt with previous partners.

The next step started casually, over dinner.

He set his fork down, leaned back in his chair, and looked at you with that calm, assessing gaze that usually meant he’d already decided on a course of action.

“Sometimes,” he said, voice low and even, as if he were commenting on the weather forecast, “it’s about the angle. The depth and the pressure points. Different positions change how everything lines up inside. We’ve focused on buildup so far. Maybe this week we shift to trying new ways of connecting.”

Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Heat flooded your cheeks, not from embarrassment exactly, but from the sheer matter-of-factness of it. Hotch, discussing your orgasm (or lack thereof) like it was just another variable in an equation he had yet to solve.

You swallowed, and placed the fork back down on the table. “You really think that could make a difference?”

“I think it’s worth finding out.” He reached across the table and brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “Only if you want to. No pressure of course.”

You met his eyes and felt that familiar ache in your chest. The one that said you were safe here. Completely and utterly safe.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Let’s try that.”

He smiled then, not the tight and polite one he used in briefings, but the private one reserved for Jack when he scored a goal or for you when you laughed at one of his dry jokes.

It made your heart stutter every single time.

That night, after the dishes were done, he led you upstairs without fanfare.

He started with you on top, settling back against the headboard with pillows propped up behind him. You straddled his hips, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him. He was already hard, thick, throbbing, and ready beneath you, but he didn’t push; he just waited for you to make the first move, while he rested his hands lightly on the outsides of your thighs and watched you.

“Take what you need,” he murmured, voice roughened by want but held carefully in check. “Set the pace. Move however feels good.”

You lowered yourself slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you. His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before cupping them gently. He rolled your nipples between his fingers, light at first, then a little firmer when your breath hitched at the sensation.

You rocked forward experimentally, placing your hands against his chest, then rolled back, finding a slow grind that dragged the head of him against your sensitive front wall. Friction built in layers, the slide of him, the press of your clit against his pubic bone with every roll of your hips, the way his hands roamed: caressing your back, gripping your ass to help guide you, pinching your nipples again when you arched.

It felt incredible. Your nails dug into his chest slightly as you picked up speed, chasing that rising coil in your belly.

Hotch’s breathing grew ragged, but he never broke your rhythm or pushed. “That’s it,” he rasped. “Just like that. Use me, sweetheart. Ride me until you feel good.”

You did until the tension peaked again… and then, maddeningly, slipped sideways. Not gone, just… unreachable. You slowed, hips stuttering, forehead dropping to his shoulder.

“I was so close,” you breathed, half-laughing as you exhaled.

He wrapped both arms around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other stroking down your spine. “I know. I felt it, your walls were fluttering around me like a butterfly.”

He kissed your temple. “Let’s try something else.”

He eased you off him gently, helped you roll onto your stomach. You felt the mattress dip as he settled behind you, not entering right away. Instead, he kissed a slow path down your spine, vertebra by vertebra, until he reached the small of your back. Then lower. A soft bite to one cheek, a soothing lick, before he nudged your thighs apart.

His body covered yours completely, chest to your back, weight comforting rather than crushing. One forearm braced beside your head; the other slipped beneath you, fingers finding your clit with ease.

He slid in slowly from behind, this angle sheathing him deeper, pressing against places that made your toes curl. “Like this?” he asked, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot against your neck.

You moaned into the pillow, nodding frantically. He thrust in, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in, grinding at the deepest point each time. His fingers circled your clit in the same slow rhythm, never rushing, just building.

The pressure was different this time. Every forward roll of his hips nudged that spot inside while his fingers kept steady pressure outside. You clutched the sheets, hips lifting instinctively to meet him.

“God... Aaron—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, interrupting you, voice strained with his own restraint. “Let it build. Don’t chase it. Just feel.”

It climbed higher than before, higher than any night the week prior. Your body tensed, breath locking in your throat, every muscle drawing tight.

And then it plateaued again. Hovering. Teasing. Refusing to tip over.

You let out a soft, defeated groan. Hotch stilled instantly, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades before carefully withdrawing. He rolled you onto your side, pulled you back against his chest, cocooning you in his arms.

“Closer again,” he murmured against your hair. “I could feel you gripping me tighter. Your breathing changed. We’re narrowing it down now.”

You turned in his hold, searching his face for any sign of impatience. There was none.

Midweek, he suggested missionary with a modification.

He placed a thick pillow under your hips, tilting your pelvis upward. Then he guided your legs over his shoulders, folding you open in a way that felt vulnerable and exposed and strangely safe because it was him. He entered you slowly, watching your face the entire time, adjusting when your breath caught.

Deeper. So much deeper this way.

He braced himself on his forearms, caging you, and laced the fingers of one hand with yours. Palm to palm. Thumb stroking over your knuckles.

“Focus on my voice,” he instructed softly. “Breathe with me. In… out. Let everything else fall away.”

He moved in slow, rolling thrusts, pulling back until just the tip remained, then gliding forward until he bottomed out, hips circling at the end of each stroke to grind against your clit. The angle hit the spot relentlessly while the base of him pressed against your swollen bud.

The intimacy was almost too much. His eyes never left yours, full of something that looked dangerously close to reverence. Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming vulnerability of being so thoroughly seen.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he whispered. “Open for me. Trusting me. Let go, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

The coil tightened again, more insistent than ever. Your free hand clutched his bicep, nails leaving crescent marks. Your breath came in short, desperate pants.

And then… again… it hovered. Trembling on the brink. So close your thighs shook and your vision blurred.

When it receded, you didn’t cry this time. You just exhaled, long and shaky, and let him lower your legs. He gathered you close, tucking your head under his chin, one hand stroking your back in long, soothing sweeps.

“We’re getting there,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You curled tighter against him, listening to the steady thump of his heart.

“I believe you,” you whispered.

And you did.

His patience wasn’t just endurance; it was devotion. Every night he wasn’t away, he held space for your body to try, to falter, to try again.

By the third week, the rhythm between you had settled into something almost ritualistic. Each evening followed a pattern: Jack asleep by nine or at Jessica’s depending on the day, lights dimmed, both of you near naked.

The frustration that once left you raw and defensive had mellowed into a kind of patient curiosity of what he had thought of next. You were learning your body together, piece by piece, and Hotch treated every miss like valuable intel rather than a setback like partners had done in the past.

He’d ordered the package the week before, arriving in plain brown wrapping while you were both at work. You could sense the sheer amount of excitement spilling through his rigid work personality as he brushed past your desk that day, whispering about a surprise waiting at home.

He unpacked it on the bed that night.

Inside was a small bullet vibrator, a larger wand vibrator with a soft silicone head, a vibrating plug, and a few lubricants in various sizes, brands and formulas.

“Toys can help isolate sensations,” he explained, voice even as he laid each one in line on the sheets. “Pinpoint what pressure, what vibration pattern, what combination gets the strongest response. We incorporate them gradually. No expectations beyond figuring out what feels good.”

You laughed at how clinical he sounded as he explained how the toy was supposed to help you. It somehow eased the knot in your stomach in its own weird way. “You make it sound like you’re profiling a suspect whose an orgasmic disaster.”

Hotch couldn’t help the small, crooked smile from spreading on his lips. “In a way, I am. Your pleasure is the unsub we’re chasing. We gather evidence, test theories, adjust the approach until we find your orgasm, draw it out and catch it so we know how to find it faster in the future.”

You had no idea how to respond, because it was absolute nonesense to you, yet the truest statement you’d heard in a long long time regarding your release. And that straightforwardness and his refusal to treat this as anything embarrassing or urgent to fix, made the whole experimentation feel less like a problem and more like a shared project.

He started simple that first night as he invited the toys into your love life.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t tried toys out before, you just never saw the appeal of owning or using them after several failed tries to get a release. And after that, the sight alone had frustrated you enough to throw them away.

The bullet vibrator was the first to make its apprance during foreplay.

You lay back against the pillows, your head slightly lifted against the headboard allowing you to see what he was doing. Your legs were parted and his body settled between them.

Hotch kissed you slow at first, grinding his hips against yours in a slow rhythmic motion, trying to rile you up. He then trailed the kisses down your neck, your breasts, your stomach, until his mouth hovered over you.

His eyes latched onto yours, waiting for a signal, waiting for you to tell him to continue. When you did, he switched on the bullet at its lowest setting, the faint hum filling the room. He pressed it lightly against the hood of your clit while his tongue flicked out in soft, teasing laps through the lips of your pussy.

You arched your back, pushing your pussy closer to his face and thus pressing the vibrator harder against your clit. You let out a strangled moan and winced for a split second at the new sensation.

“Too much?” he asked immediately, pausing to watch your face.

You shook your head, breath catching. “No... good. Just… stay there.”

He adjusted it slightly, keeping the vibrator steady against your clit, while his tongue circled your entrance. He dipped it in shallowly, teasing you before returning to broad, flat strokes over your folds. Hotch’s free hand slid up your thigh, fingers joining the party. He slipped two fingers inside, manoeuvring around his tongue like an expert as he curled them toward that spot against your front wall, the one he’d mapped so thoroughly the week before during another round of experimentation.

The combination felt electric, sending sparks through every single nerve in your entire system. The constant external vibration layered over the internal pressure, his warm mouth adding wet heat and suction. Minutes stretched, with the only sound being a lewd mix of your moans, the buzz of the vibrator and his tongue.

Your hips rolled instinctively, chasing the building wave as it climbed higher than toys alone ever had. Muscles tightening, breath shortening, that familiar coil winding tight in your pelvis.

Then… plateau.

Again.

You groaned in frustration, close to crying while your thighs trembled around his shoulders. “Goddamn it. So close.”

He lifted his head, lips slightly shiny from your slick and his eyes dark with pleasure and focus. “Closer than last week.” Hotch stated as if he were writing a note in a case file. “The vibration helped sustain the buildup it seems. We’ll use it again next time.”

He turned off the vibrator and threw it somewhere on the bed before he crawled up to gather you against his chest. No disappointment in his posture, no sigh, just pride and maybe a little satisfaction that he had gotten you closer than before.

The rest of the week built on that foundation. He tried every toy, twice, thrice, upside down, whatever he could think of. Wand during oral. The larger head covered more than the bullet, resulting in broader pressure. He introduced the vibrating plug. The fullness added a new layer of sensation while he fucked you like usual.

He even tried combining everything. You rode the sensations for nearly an hour, sweat-slick and trembling, voice hoarse from pleading.

Still… nothing.

By Saturday you were exhausted. Not just physically, but emotionally. The toys had amplified everything, made the misses sharper and more frustrating. You felt raw, oversensitive, and utterly defeated.

Hotch sensed it the moment you stepped into the bedroom. You were quieter, shoulders hunched, avoiding his eyes.

He didn’t push the toys.

Instead, he pulled you into his arms on the edge of the bed and kissed your forehead. “We’ve tried a lot this week,” he said softly. “Intense stuff. Maybe we dial it back. Try the old-school method again.”

You looked up, brow furrowed. “Old school?”

“Just me. My mouth. No buzz, no extras. Until you’re frustrated, really fucking frustrated, then I’ll fuck you. Slow. Deep. See if the contrast helps tip it over.”

It sounded almost too simple after weeks of experimentation. Mundane, even. But his voice held that quiet certainty that he either knew 100% it would work, or figured a slow attept might reset your systems and make you ready for a different approach in a day or two. And you trusted him completely.

“Okay,” you whispered.

He undressed you slowly and then guided you to lie back against the sheets.

No rush.

He kissed every inch on the way down to your pussy. Collarbone, breasts, ribs, the soft curve of your belly and when he settled between your thighs, he didn’t dive in immediately. He kissed the crease of your hip, nuzzled the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and let his breath ghost over you until you were squirming, wanting more than he was giving.

Then his mouth.

Long, flat licks from bottom to top. Circles around your clit, gentle suction, then release. He built it gradually, watching every twitch, every hitch in your breath. When you started rocking against his face, he added two fingers.

Minutes turned into half an hour before either of you noticed. The tension mounted steadily, no sudden spikes from vibrations, just the slow, inexorable climb you were used to before ultimately hitting a wall. Your hands fisted the sheets, hips lifting, pushing against him, pleas spilling out in broken whispers.

“Aaron... please... I’m so close... don’t stop...”

He didn’t. He hummed against you, the vibration of his voice sending sparks up your spine. Your body tightened, thighs clamping around his head, breath locking...

And still no release.

Frustration crested. You tugged at his hair, voice cracking. “I can’t... I need you inside me... now!”

He rose immediately, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes blazing. He shed his clothes in seconds, then settled over you in true old school missionary fashion.

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel every ridge and every pulse of his cock as he bottomed out. Once fully seated, he paused, forehead against yours.

“Breathe with me,” he murmured. “In… out.” You were close to snapping at him to move, to do something, but before you could manage a single word.

He moved. With a long and deep thrust, grinding his hips against yours at the end of each one so he pressed against your swollen clit. No frantic pace. Just a steady and deliberate rhythm. His hand slipped between you, fingers circling your clit in the same unhurried motion.

The buildup reignited within, faster this time, sharper, fueled by his teasing. Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back, pulling him as deep as possible.

“Fuck... right there...” you moaned.

He kept the pace, voice low against your ear. “I’ve got you. Let it happen. Just feel it wash over you.”

The coil tightened impossibly so.

Your nails scored his shoulders with long red lines, breath coming in sobs. Every thrust nudged the spot while his fingers worked your clit with the perfect pressure.

And then...

It broke free.

The wave crashed over you, hard, through your entire body, clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. You cried out, back arching off the bed, vision whiting out as pleasure ripped through you in shuddering waves.

It went on and on, longer than you’d ever imagined, until you were trembling, gasping, tears slipping down the sides of your cheeks.

Hotch followed seconds later, burying himself deep with a low groan, pulsing inside you as he came.

He didn’t pull out right away. He stayed, softening slowly, kissing the tears from your cheeks, while murmuring soft praises against your skin. “You did it. You beautiful, incredible woman! You did it!”

You laughed through the tears, shaky and disbelieving that he had actually managed to make you cum, clinging to him. “I… I came.”

“You did.” His voice cracked just slightly with pride, relief and love all tangled together. “And it was the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”

Once cleaned up, you were wrapped in each other under the covers, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your back while you whispered, “It was so… simple. After all that.”

“Sometimes the simplest things are what work best. We just had to clear the noise to hear it.”

You nestled closer, still buzzing slightly with aftershocks.

For the first time, the quiet after didn’t feel hollow.

It felt complete.

[vivienvalentino]

yes, sir 🧎‍♀️

[hotchnerbau]

[sweetheartsocks]

OF CALCULATED SINCERITY AND THE UTILITY OF VICE.

Aaron Hotchner x neighbor!reader

next part

genre : s11 hotch, very obvious fetish for dad bods and authority, politics but make it stupid and domestic, obnoxious philosophical analogies (like seriously obnoxious), bullying hotch because he's hot 

summary : Those who wish to win the favor of a man like Aaron Hotchner will generally approach him with obedience or modesty. You have among your possessions nothing that could even remotely resemble that. You find it more fitting to offer him the seat of building representative, deranged fantasies and pretentious philosophical metaphors. All things considered, not a bad price for the chance to see his tits.

notes : requested by the lovely @ssa-dado who i don't think i'll ever be able to thank enough <33 i hope it's not pretentious of me to say this story is as much yours as it's mine. fair warning, this is like if fanfiction was a badly written philosophy textbook lol

word count: 9.7k

It is simpler to agree to ambition when the difficulties haven't been made obvious. Man's inherent wariness lies dormant, waking at the first hint of misfortune. And usually too late to be useful. 

As such, you should consider the Florentine not as a mere collection of apartments, but as a small, slightly neurotic, principality. 

Partly ironic to say, as you recognize how absurdly serious this contemplation is, given how mundane its object remains. Which is to say: yes, you're aware this is demented. 

This is not conjecture. While your time in unit 122 offers ample evidence, the examples of units 113 and 125 are most preferable. 

113, peerless in his arrogance, found great satisfaction in endless late-night parties (you developed a miserable ritual of waiting for his inevitable rendition of Married With Children by Oasis. there is a bleak, private joy in hearing a man scream (sing?) that his music is shite and keeps you up all night without a single spark of self-awareness.)

You'd assume that having Hotchner from 121 sternly tell him off would suffice.

A compelling performance, you have to admit. There is something almost offensively hot about the way his features settle into a mask of pure, paternal disappointment that makes you want to either apologize or do something so egregious it forces him to actually put his hands on (in) you.

But no polite, nor impolite requests to 'please tone it down' or to 'turn that dumb fucking music off' changed 113's manner. 

Perhaps Hotchner's frown was to blame — virtue is rarely a deterrent to the truly pretentious.

Therefore, when there is no hope but in impetuous (or unhinged) methods, you should be able to act decisively. 

Sure, ‘impetuous methods’ makes it sound like some grand tactical maneuver. If we’re being honest, something like being a thoroughly ice cold bitch works just as well.

The building’s guest parking policy is usually loosely enforced. Most of the residents agree to ‘forget’ to call Arthur —the doorman— ahead of time when they’re having guests. Arthur maintains vigilant oversight naturally (as one might expect, that also includes the ‘police officers’ in inexplicably tight shirts who do house calls), though he and you have found a way of looking past certain things. 

It turns out, DC’s towing companies can be surprisingly efficient. 

The sound of chains dragging a car or of a machine printing out a parking fine is infinitely more pleasant. Once parties start coming with a ticket, people quickly get to the end of the song. Goodbye I’m going home! — and they usually mean it. 

Of course, impetuosity has its limits. You don’t necessarily have to get the big guns out every time some asshole thinks he can get laid by playing Wonderwall.

125 however, was literally wandering through the walls. 

A man’s vices are his own. If the guy wants to smoke his way to a nice woody coffin with fancy Cuban cigars, you can’t really fault him for that. 

This wasn’t an issue until the building did a steam trap maintenance in the basement and opened up the insulation jackets around the pipes. No idea what that actually means (you’re already too busy pretending to be a war general to get into architecture). 

What you do understand, is that your unit and Hotchner’s are on the same run of pipes as 125’s. And that whatever they did in the basement made it so that the scent of cigar smoke carried along the metal and pushed through the floorboards. Meaning: it smelled like a gentlemen’s club in your apartment but without the gentlemen. 

If Hotchner did try another sexy but inefficient scolding, you didn’t see him. 

You do wonder if he smokes. Probably not. He takes the whole ‘health is wealth’ thing very seriously. Plus you don’t think it’d be good for the smaller Hotchner. Still, if he smoked, you think it’d be something tedious. Like a pipe. Nice thick finger pressing the tobacco down into the bowl. 

This would have been a much more interesting set up: Hotchner and laying pipe. But alas, this is still about building pipes. 

A slight threat, delivered politely and with a pipe in hand, invites retaliation. Beating someone with it, metaphorically speaking, does not. In short, if you want to be decisive, it must be on a scale that makes vengeance impossible. 

And also, it helps if you enjoy it. 

It was easy enough to get an empty pack of 125’s cigars. And crumple it into one of the basement’s pipes. Right next to the ‘CAUTION : HIGH HEAT’ tag. 

To the insurance inspector, this ends up looking like some reckless idiot sneaked into the basement to smoke and shoved the evidence into flammable insulation. A fire safety compliance notice and a $500 fine later, you’d say all of 125’s carefulness went up in smoke but that’d be tasteless. 

From these two examples, it follows that people do not abandon indulgence because it’s inconsiderate, but because it becomes too expensive. 

Nonetheless, such corrections rarely go unnoticed by those accustomed to patterns. This isn’t to say that Hotchner doesn’t have his own indulgences. They’re simply more… agreeable. 

Namely, the too-early-in-the-morning occasional run from which he comes back sweaty and out of breath. It’s a sporadic ritual at best, usually following a particularly successful weekend in the kitchen. You suspect he views the dad bod as a failure in discipline. Which couldn’t be more idiotic. Firm where it matters (…), pleasantly soft everywhere else. A real treat. 

To him, the run is clearly an act of penance. He seems the type of man who lives in a state of perpetual atonement. Feels guilty for things he hasn’t even done yet. Probably has a priest on speed dial: “Forgive me Father for I have found pride in my record filing system.” 

And while he asks for absolution by subjecting his joints to more friction than they can handle at his age, you’re plainly enjoying the show. T-shirt clinging to his heavy, reliable frame, his breathing shallow and labored, a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. It makes him look less like a federal agent and more like a man who has just been thoroughly undone. 

He is, after all, nailing himself to a cross of his own making. By some hidden accord between his own nature (the fact that he’s hot) and the humor of times, the older ladies on the 4th floor have started giving him and Jack baking lessons on Sundays. 

He does share his little indulgences with you. Though you had to… gently incentivize him. The first time you caught him in the elevator with a container of homemade lemon bars, he’d looked ready to guard them with his life. 

“Mister Hotchner, surely you aren’t planning on keeping all of those for yourself?” you’d remarked. A microscopic flick of amusement crossed his face before he wordlessly offered you one. 

Since then, anytime he hands you one of his still warm treats, you find yourself slipping into a very specific, very deranged fantasy. 

In your mind, you imagine coming home from a long day of conquering the world, loosening your tie, dropping your keys on the side table and calling out for your little wife. 

He’d be in the kitchen, wearing a nice floral apron, standing over a cooling cherry pie or some other time consuming desert. His eyes looking up at you, soft and glassy, from the desire to please you (and from whatever imaginary pharmaceutical miracle you’ve clearly overprescribed him in your head). 

It’s your delightful taste of male entitlement — desecrating his competence for your own indulgence. 

Fortunately, he’s not on any dosage of pharmacological domesticity. He has noticed. Not the fucked up 1950s fantasy. But your careful orchestrations of chaos for the sake of order. 

How coincidentally, towing companies started hovering like vultures around the building on Friday nights. Or how, as annoying as 125 is, he wouldn’t waste a fine Cuban cigar on a dingy basement view. 

It would be a terrible disservice to his rigor to pretend he hasn’t considered the possibility that Fortune had an accomplice. But true mastery of a principality lies not in what can be seen or what can be suspected — it’s in what cannot be traced. 

As pleasurable as it is to feel his gaze narrow at you —curiosity tempered by reluctant amusement— you know that he’s too principled to accuse you of anything without evidence. For all his perceptiveness, he’s remarkably predictable. 

Predictability is the coin of the prudent. A man who always walks the same path provides the very stones for his own stumbling. 

And yet those same stones form the foundation upon which stability can be built. Which is why anyone offering to rearrange them — talking up and down about improvement or optimization— is rarely a reformer at all, but a merchant of annoyance, eager to be paid in spectacle. 

Funnily enough, you’re just about to join the auction. Not because you enjoy throwing dollar bills on stage. But because improvement asks questions and you don’t trust anything that requires answers.   

So as you stand before the solid wood of unit 121, you adjust your expression from calculated general looking solemnly at the battlefield (wallets included) to concerned neighbor. 

You do consider the idea of leaning against the door frame and seductively greeting him with an “Aaron, why don’t you come and give daddy a big kiss?” but you don’t think he’d appreciate the joke. 

He looks exactly how you’d expect: impeccably tired. He’s taken off the suit jacket. His shirt —nice light blue cotton, likely ironed by someone who actually fears him—  stretches across his shoulders, struggling to contain the sheer width of him. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal his thick forearms and his tie is loosened just enough to say that he’s off the clock. 

Or at least, that the FBI has officially released its grip on his throat and handed him over to the custody of a fifth-grader. 

“I’m trying to decide if this is very early, very important,” he says, “or if I’ve simply lost track of when it's appropriate to knock on a neighbor’s door.”

You let your gaze linger on the open collar of his shirt, at the faint lines at his throat, just long enough to suggest insolence, before finally meeting his eyes.

“It’s important for now,” you say lightly, “but it could become inappropriate if you prefer.”

A small, dry laugh escapes him. 

“I’ll stick with important,” he replies calmly, leaning a hand against the doorframe.

It almost looks like he’s trying to slut himself out a bit. His fingers spread against the wood, his arm flexing just enough to hint at the muscle beneath the cotton without actually ripping the seams. 

It occurs to you, not for the first time, that if men like him were more ambitious, the Florentine would be a much simpler principality to govern. 

Because in here lies the premise of this entire obnoxious monologue: some grand modern cunt in 411, convinced that stability is merely a cloak for stagnation, is promising the spectacles and circuses of reform to cure the building of its boredom with order.

“What do you think of David Rosen’s campaign for building representative?” you ask simply. 

His brows furrow in their perpetual line of weary concentration before he catches himself and smooths it away, like a man remembering he’s being observed. The face he offers you instead is polite, neutral, and deeply unenthusiastic.

“I wasn’t aware we were calling it a campaign,” he answers like the distinction matters. 

To be fair, campaign might not be the most suitable term here. It’s more so Rosen’s attempt to free himself from his bleak destiny: ‘David Ro—what? who’s that? the prosecutor? never heard of him. wait, show me a picture. aaah. yeah. that guy’—sen.

He’s going in with the whole nine (inches) yards. Modernizing the building’s façade. Adding some gastronomic restaurant in the lobby. Replacing the current staff with ‘formally trained professionals’ (whatever the fuck that means). In short, the exact kind of grandiose reformist promises that require a predictable and stabilizing force: Hotchner.     

“His audition,” you offer. “Or strip show, but with clothes on. And instead of a cheap thrill, you end up with a guy following you home with a measuring tape and a construction hat.” 

“I doubt that’s part of his qualifications.” 

He briefly catches your eye as he says it. Maybe to see if you’ve caught his joke. Or maybe to defend the honor of a fellow prosecutor, who knows. 

“No?” you tilt your head. “They don't teach you how to work a pole in law school? I thought that was what the bar was for.”

The faintest trace of amusement tugs at his lips. “That wasn’t included in the exam when I took it,” he says evenly. 

“A real shame.” 

If he knew how perversely you’re imagining him throwing a bra off the stage to reveal his very nice chest, you might be looking at 30 years to life. 

Back to war, before he can sentence you with anything.

“He’s running unopposed. And I know you disagree with his proposals,” you continue. 

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he shifts his weight, sliding one hand into his pocket—a gesture that should be casual, but on him, it reads like a warning and an invitation at the same time. 

“It’s visionary. But speculative,” he begins. The way he says speculative sounds like federal speak for out-of-his-fucking-mind.  “Too many changes for the sake of change. I like things as they are. There’s no reason to invite unnecessary risks or disruptions.” 

This is exactly why predictability is the only currency that matters here. People are faithful to the benefits they know will come to them. Which is why any aspiring showgirl (such as Rosen) will always find opposition in those who grew rich under certainty, and lukewarm loyalty in those who hope for change.  

“I couldn’t agree more,” you say, letting your voice soften into something that sounds like genuine relief. You know just how much of a pain in the ass this is going to be. But now is the time to act with the boldness that ambition demands. “Which is why I think you should run against him.”

He doesn't look surprised. He’s likely seen this coming since you mentioned the 'strip show' but he does look profoundly tired. He pulls his hand from his pocket and rubs the bridge of his nose. The lines on his face somehow deepen for a second. 

“I don’t have the time for it,” he refuses, calm but firm. “Between work… and everything else, I barely see Jack during the week. My schedule isn’t exactly predictable, and the little time I do have at home, I dedicate entirely to him.”

Using his son as an argument here would be a fatal mistake. Like trying to play the violin with a sledgehammer. You can’t make him your enemy before you make him your instrument. 

“I know,” you tell him gently. You have to sound like you’re sorry to even be asking him. Because the easiest way to get to him is through his pathological sense of duty. 

“But that’s why I came to you,” you add. “This doesn’t need campaigning. It just needs someone who’s steady enough to not let it turn into a complete mess.” 

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. 

“If Rosen wins, it’ll be weeks of construction. And then, we’ll have some stupid restaurant in the lobby that charges $50 for one single pea on a plate that they’ll call ‘deconstructed greenery’. And he even wants to get rid of the staff,” you argue, watching his expression carefully. You shrug lightly. “I like Arthur.”  And then, almost as an afterthought, “And Grant.”

“Running is the smallest possible intervention to keep things from getting fucked,” you finish.  

You can see it land — the way his shoulders settle, the way his resistance shifts from no to calculating the cost.

“Why me?” he asks. 

To fully convince a man like Aaron Hotchner, you can’t simply present a logical argument. Logic invites debate. To truly disarm him, you must introduce a variable he won’t be able to categorize. 

“Because you’re hot.” 

He’s prepared for a manifesto, a comprehensive logical argument, a plea even perhaps. But he doesn’t flinch nor does he fluster. 

“I’m sorry?” 

You think he’s trying one of those profiling interrogation tactics. There’s a sudden heaviness in his posture, his voice sounds somewhat more authoritative. That might work on the damned but it certainly doesn’t on the deviant. 

“You’re significantly hotter than Rosen,” you repeat shamelessly. 

It technically isn’t a lie. He is hotter. By any reasonable metric. Measurably so. 

It’s the hands. Fine dark hairs, wide palms, thick fingers. The kind of hands that suggest a terrifying amount of … grip strength. The kind you imagine running softly along your lips before he presses his fingers inside your mouth. Pushing down lightly against your tongue. To quiet you when you’ve pushed him too far and he feels like he’s losing control. Or maybe simply because he has to maintain that impeccably suffocating composure even while you’re trying to make him come apart at the seams. 

Anyways.

Truth is, it’s more useful to let him think this is all impulsive. If you place a frivolous coin in his hand, he’ll spend more time trying to count it than closing his fingers around the truth. 

“That’s a remarkably poor reason to choose a representative,” he counters. 

Why Hotchner ? Because people already straighten their ties when he comes near. Voices lower, even slightly, when he enters a room. Chairs are nudged back into place, papers aligned, as if no one wants to even risk showing him the slightest bit of disorder. 

Rosen wants to be liked, admired, loved. Maybe because no one ever told him he was a good boy. Doesn’t matter. He’s unpredictable because he’s desperate for approval. 

“Is it?” you hum, tapping your finger on your lower lip. 

Love is a gift of the people. But fear is the tool of the ruler. As long as people fear Hotchner without hating him, they will remain too preoccupied with their own conduct to ever notice yours. 

“Honestly, I think you’d be good at it. And…,” you draw it out, letting a little faux hesitation settle in. “I really don’t like Rosen.” 

You actually don’t care that much about Rosen. Hatred would require a more noteworthy person. But his plan to modernize the building involves not only auditing the floorplans for construction but also getting rid of the current staff. 

And that’s a problem. Huge fucking one. See, there’s a forgotten pre-war mail sorting alcove tucked behind a staff door (that’s technically supposed to be shut at all times). It’s not listed anywhere as a storage unit, and no one knows about it. Or pays for it. 

You do. Well… not exactly. You pay Grant— the building manager —directly to keep it quiet. 

Rosen’s bullshit renovations, the restaurant, all of it, would warrant pulling up the blueprints. No need to further explain why that’s a nuisance. 

You can’t say you hate him but you certainly disdain him for how incontinent his audacity is turning out to be. 

“You don’t like his policies,” he clarifies. 

He studies you for a moment longer than necessary. His gaze isn’t sharp so much as deliberate — like he’s picked up a puzzle piece and is quietly deciding where it belongs.

“I don’t like him,” you repeat simply. 

He gives you a small smile. Part patronizing and part knowing. It’s probably the kind of smile he gives Jack when he tries to stay up past his bedtime with a flimsy excuse. It says that he sees your game, he finds it somewhat endearing and he’s content to let you play. Provided you stay within the lines he’s drawn. 

“Not liking someone usually isn’t enough to motivate this much effort,” he says firmly.

“Also I’m using this as an excuse to spend time with you.” (wink wink) 

A surprised little chuckle escapes him. Soft and unguarded, slipping past his usual fortress of control. 

“What ? I’m just being more honest about it than your 'baking teachers' from the 4th floor.”

He looks down for a second, shaking his head. As if he’s trying to find a way not to encourage you. 

“I’m fairly certain Mrs. Mitchell is only interested in Jack’s progress with a whisk.”

“Mrs. Mitchell is seventy two. Not blind.” 

He exhales quietly. Could be another laugh or could just be a sigh. He rests his palm on his side. Fingers settling against the slight give at his waist. Eyes still on yours.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

It’s not a compliment. It’s accounting. 

“I didn’t take you for someone so… neighborly,” he adds. 

He lets it hang for a second. In light of your history in 122, it sounds like an accusation of heresy. He tilts his head with the ghost of a smile. He’s aware you’re hiding a knight in your sleeve but he’s curious enough to let you place it on the board.

You don’t need to completely deceive him. You just need to give him a good enough reason to act. 

“I’ll think about it,” he finishes before you can find a rebuttal. 

He gives you a final, polite nod. The kind of professional dismissal he likely gives his subordinates from his big intimidating FBI office. It’s efficiently authoritative. The look of a man who’s spent more years in aseptic briefing rooms than you’ve spent in the adult world. 

It makes you feel like you’re one of his interns who’s just overstepped in a meeting about whatever it is that they do at his fancy job. It is also, in a way that would probably concern a therapist, deeply arousing. 

The door doesn’t slam. It smoothly clicks back into place. A “That will be all”  in physical form. 

Perhaps you’ve reached his limit on neighborly insubordination. 

A limit is never a wall unless you lack the will to climb it. Because power is not found within the lines, but in the act of crossing them.

Crossing 121’s threshold feels less like an innocent neighborly visit and more like you’re a diplomatic envoy entering a rival’s capital. Except the rival is wearing a black polo that nicely hugs his arms and smells faintly of laundry detergent, tonka bean and espresso. 

“Make yourself comfortable,” he tells you. His tone suggests he’s still deciding if comfortable is a state he should actually allow you within the four walls of his living room. 

You expected more… austerity. Some freakish FBI shrine with aggressively neutral furniture and a framed copy of the constitution. 

But his place looks thoughtful. Lived-in. 

Bookshelves filled with fancy leather bound hardbacks. Law, psychology, history. Biographies of old men who definitely liked hearing themselves talk a little too much.

Framed photos. Of his kid. Grinning, asleep, playing soccer, wearing a suit (which you suppose answers the question of whether Hotchner’s compulsion toward ties is genetic or simply contagious). 

And drawings. Framed as carefully as the photos. Crayon suns. Lopsided houses. Stick figures with names written too large. And also for some reason, one of the US flag with parachutes and a bald eagle.

You’re fairly certain he supervised that one. You hope he doesn’t make his kid sing the national anthem before eating breakfast. 

You’re looking for a crack, a secret vice, a hidden stack of trashy smutty novels. But it all looks like the living room of a man in his early fifties. Work, kid, dinner, sleep, repeat. Thrill-seeking not included. He probably keeps his porn in the bedroom. 

You’re running your finger along the edge of the shelf, half-hoping to find a fine layer of dust you can use as leverage when you hear him clearing his throat. 

He’s clearly been standing there for at least a minute, carrying a small tray with 2 cups of coffee and a plate of cookies. He doesn’t look annoyed, necessarily. He looks like he’s just finished reading a particularly predictable file. 

You don’t pretend you weren’t snooping around gathering information.

“So, when can I see your bedroom?” you ask with a shameless grin. 

“When you have a warrant.”

He sets the tray on the coffee table and gestures for you to sit back down. 

You pick up a cookie and inspect it for store-bought mediocrity just to spite him.

He slides a neatly printed sheet of paper toward you. Bullet points, clear headings, a few handwritten notes. Predictable. Efficient. Erotically bureaucratic. 

“I’ve put together some ideas for the campaign,” he explains. “I thought we could start with the things that matter most to the residents. Safety, maintenance, community programs. I’ve outlined a rough plan.” 

What he calls a rough plan is in fact already operational. You look back at him with a little smile. 

This reads less like a draft and more like something a very particular type of old school Republican homemaker would apologize for, lamenting the ‘disastrous mess’ while adjusting her pearls, meanwhile her couch pillows look like they've been positioned using a calibrator.  

It’s not an apology, it’s a subtle power play. He’s saying that even his rough is infinitely better than what others consider finished. 

“This is solid,” you tell him honestly. 

He prepares like someone who expects consequences. Like someone who has learned that being thorough is the only way to keep things from slipping through his fingers. Except he’s planned for resistance without assuming malice. 

He clearly has all the command of authority but lacks the ruthlessness to use it. 

“Walk me through it.”

He takes a sip of his coffee. His tongue slips past his way-too-pink lips while he puts down his cup. Then he shifts closer, turning the page so it faces you properly. 

“Most people here don’t want big changes. They want things to run smoothly,” he begins quietly. “They want to know that when they come home, the elevator works, the halls are quiet, and the temperature is exactly what they set it to.”

He runs his finger over the bullet points. 

You nod along attentively. He’s basically pitching an utopian vision of boredom.

“I want it to be comfortable,” he adds. There’s something unguarded about him when he speaks. “Not just for anyone. But for Jack. This is where he lives. Where he should feel safe, where things should just… work. That’s important to me.”

It’s hard to stay a cynic when you’re faced with a man who treats a building representative role like a sacred oath to his son. 

“I don’t think it needs to be complicated,” he continues. “If day to day life feels easier, people notice. That’s enough.”

It’s surprising how he plans as though people will behave like rational adults. He plans for systems, not appetites. Which is virtuous… in theory. 

“What if people don’t notice?” you ask. 

He looks up at you calmly. “I know they might not. That doesn’t change what needs to be done.”

You watch him for a moment. He looks absolutely resolute. So utterly and unshakably devoted to doing the right thing, whether people thank him or not, that you feel compelled to be completely honest with him for once. 

“I get it. Really. But that’s not how you win an election. People are fickle and ungrateful. They only vote for what they see.”  

You let your gaze linger on his handwritten comments.  

“I don’t want your vision to go unnoticed just because people can’t see it.” 

He looks at you wordlessly. There’s a certain… softness? in his eyes that wasn’t there before. He gives you a small smile. Real. Uncalculated. It feels foreign but somehow you don’t mind it. 

“I appreciate that,” he says. “I’m willing to listen. I just need to know we’re doing this cleanly.” 

He tilts his head at you pointedly but not unkindly. Like he’s about to scold you for a behavior he’s already forgiven. 

“No dirty tricks.” 

A man who makes a profession of goodness in all things will come to grief among so many who are not good. Therefore if he is to remain the face of virtue, you’ll have to become the hand of necessity. 

“No dirty tricks,” you repeat. 

You lift your coffee cup towards him. He hesitates for a second before raising his own cup. Porcelain tapping porcelain. 

“That would actually make a great slogan,” you joke lightly. “Down and dirty with Hotchner. What do you think?” 

He lets out a sigh. 

“We’re not calling it that.” 

“What about Let’s erect a better future ?” 

“Absolutely not.”

You take a bite out of your cookie. 

“What would you call it then?” 

He doesn’t answer immediately. He glances back down at the page, as if the slogan has been sitting there the whole time, filed neatly alongside the rest.

“Something straightforward.” He softly taps his lower lip with his index. “Doing things the right way.” 

The cookie tastes great. You chew it carefully. Because it’s clearly homemade and because he definitely uses nice chocolate. And also because you’re trying to keep yourself from laughing. 

In your head, you can almost hear the faint, crackling audio of a 1980s campaign ad. Pure Reagan. Morning in America for people who consider a perfectly organized filing cabinet a spiritual triumph.

“Hotchner,” you say firmly. “This type of thing used to work in the 80s. People want sex now.” 

He stiffens ever so slightly, a faint crease appearing between his brows. There’s a flash of pink in his ears.

“Mrs. Harrison has been a respectable building administrator for more than 30 years and she’s never had to resort to—”

“When did she first run?”

He stays quiet for a moment. Looks down at his campaign notes, then back at his coffee, as if history might have rearranged itself to be more convenient for his argument. It hasn’t.

“1984,” he admits sheepishly. 

See ? You’re not being pretentious just for the sake of it. The world seems to enjoy proving you right. 

“Do you think there’s a way to get Mrs. Harrison to endorse you?” you ask. 

He shakes his head. “She believes in letting the election run its course without interference. She won’t endorse anyone.” 

“Or maybe she told you that because she doesn’t like you.”

He blinks, caught-off guard. The idea that that old hag of an administrator might harbor a secret grudge against him seems to rattle his fundamental understanding of the building’s ecosystem. “Where did you get that idea?”

“I heard it’s because you tried to sleep with her husband.” 

He stares at you blankly. His brows furrowed. His eyes narrowed. As if processing the unmitigated lunacy of what you just said requires the full cooperation of his entire face. 

Then it happens. 

A sharp, sudden giggle escapes him. He ducks his head, a hand coming up to cover his mouth but he can’t stop it. His shoulders shake and his laugh sounds way higher pitched than you expected but painfully sincere. 

When he looks back at you, eyes bright and still crinkled at the corners, you think that he’s really beautiful. It selfishly makes you want to corrupt him.

“How do you even come up with stuff like this?” he asks, voice laced with amusement. 

“Divine inspiration,” you answer with a proud grin. 

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. Endearingly dramatic. How he treats building gossip with the same level of operational security as a national secret. Also… there’s only the two of you in his apartment. 

“This stays between us but I think she and her husband are getting a divorce. That’s why she’s not running again.” 

The sudden proximity might be a tactical error on his part. Or perhaps a calculated risk. You can feel the heat radiating off him. The steady solidness of his frame next to you. His thigh pressing against yours.

“Don’t tell me you actually slept with her husband.” 

He chuckles again. “I don’t think I’m his type.” 

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. You wonder how he’d react if you told him that about 40% of the building (and that’s a conservative estimate) wants to fuck him. 

Your thigh brushes against his — a small, calculated nudge. Nothing overt, but enough.

You might be the first general to zest a lemon. Strangely, there’s no exceptionally meritorious flour-sifting in a duty of great responsibility medal. 

Which there should be. It’s a high-stakes chemistry operation performed in a cloud of fine white powder (not the fun kind) with no laboratory equipment. 

This speaks volumes about the level of masochism Hotchner hides under those pressed shirts. It’s his government sanctioned place of controlled suffering. That’s why he pretends not to notice the way Mrs. Mitchell or even Mrs. Dillon look at him like he’s proofed just right. He’s too busy imagining getting whipped with a whisk (until stiff peaks form). 

You glare at the counter. Flour everywhere. Sugar places it has no business being. A sink full of dishes that will still be there when you get back from your diplomatic visits. So much for doing this ‘the clean way’. 

This is, in a very roundabout way, Hotchner’s fault. It makes you want to drag him into your kitchen by his leash tie and scold him, “Kneel. And explain the flour”. 

Unfortunately, Hotchner doesn’t bend. He endures. Which means you’re the one who has to do the bending (…). 

You must bend your mind to see the shadow before the blade. If you wait for the steel to bite, you are no longer a strategist but merely a casualty of your own blindness.

That is to say, the surest way to lose an election, is to wait for loyalties to step into the light, instead of seeking them out while they still hide in the shadows.

Most people do not know why they support something. They mistake momentum for conviction. Enthusiasm for foresight. 

That is why you do not begin by asking people what they believe. Belief is ornamental. You begin by observing what makes them nervous. 

If power has a natural enemy, it’s scrutiny. Consequently, it must be exercised through gestures that appear generous and conversations that seem incidental. Hence the baking. No one expects consequences to come wrapped in parchment paper and powdered sugar. 

War, after all, is not only fought with weapons (though you think KitchenAids could be classified as small siege engines). It’s fought with timing. With preparation. With knowing which doors to knock on and which ones to leave closed until you know what waits behind them. 

Take Mr. Haldeman in 314. Senior white house consultant. He’s so nervous about property value he’s currently trying to sell his own mother for a 7% increase in equity (call 1-800-MOM-FOR-CASH ! supplies limited — buy now, pay later!). Though to be fair, he’s always been really nice to you.

Or Mr. Agnew in 211. Rosen’s closest buddy (no homoerotic situation here you think. but then again who knows. Rosen’s allegedly married but no one has ever seen his wife). He’s the one who secured the restaurant deal. He most likely hopes no one is looking too closely at the fine print of the contract. 

And of course, Hotchner’s 4th floor fanclub. Mrs. Dillon and Mrs. Mitchell. They’re probably nervous that Hotchner might one day stop wearing his tight suits that leave nothing to the imagination (so are you).

Mrs. Mitchell is that brand of particularly delightful old woman: she stares at his chest unashamedly while her husband glares at him like he’s the guy who’s going to steal his pension. At this point, Mr. Mitchell’s hatred of Hotchner might be the only thing keeping his heart beating. 

Treating them the same would be inefficient. Efficiency requires classification (if Hotchner knew you’re applying federal-level organizational rigor to a plate of muffins, he’d probably whip his cream. you can almost see him, brows furrowed in concentrated approval, letting out breathless sighs of pleasure at your color coded spreadsheet of the building’s residents). 

So you sort.

Not by conviction.

Not by enthusiasm.

But by vulnerability.

Because people are so governed by the urgency of their appetites, if you craft a sweet enough illusion, you will always find a victim ready to fall upon your blade. 

You start with Agnew. Not everything he says is useful. Matter of fact, most of it is fluff. He thinks you’re still undecided so he’s trying to sway you. He doesn’t give you any campaign secrets—he’s too well-trained for that—but pride is a loud mistress. 

“We’re thinking once we get the constructions started, it might do the building good to renovate the entire thing. Not just the façade. Don’t get me wrong, it has its charm, I’m not talking about getting rid of everything. Just… give it a fresher look. We’re still discussing things.” 

‘The entire thing’ doesn’t mean just paint and lighting. It means assessments. Special fees. Emails with numbers bolded for emphasis. 

In theory, it sounds like a great idea. Improve the building, raise the standards. Common mistake but no less forgiving. People rarely open their wallets without resentment. That’s probably why it’s still a discussion. 

For a moment, it feels like striking gold. If you so much as utter the word ‘money’, Haldeman is already on his knees, tongue out, waiting for the check to clear. 

You expect eagerness. Or at least something you can press on. Instead, when he opens the door, he's polite. Cordial. And completely closed. 

You try the innocent approach. You let him explain things to you. You insist he take another muffin. You nod in the right places. 

He’s pleasant. Generous with his time. What he isn’t is curious. 

Curiosity belongs to the undecided. Haldeman is not undecided. He has already discussed things. 

By the time you leave 314, you understand your mistake. 

You’re not early. You’re late. If you’re too late here… you must also be too late elsewhere. You should’ve just gotten store-bought muffins.

You take the stairs to the 4th floor. You pass by 411, Rosen’s door, flip it off and mutter a quiet and petty “suck my dick” as professional courtesy. Then you keep going. Mrs. Dillon is down the hall. 

Mrs Dillon’s gaze lingers long enough on the crumb of your muffins to tell you she knows exactly what temperature you baked these at, and that it was wrong. 

While she dishonorably discharges you for your baking skills (she probably means well. she’s giving you advice on how to make them better next time. there won’t be a next time. the pastries taste better when you extort them from Hotchner anyway), you notice a framed picture of her late husband surrounded by a concerning number of doilies. 

“He had a sweet tooth,” she says gently. “When we lived in our old house, I’d let pies cool on the window sills. By the time I came back from the garden, the edges were already gone. He had to taste, couldn’t help himself.” She shakes her head fondly at the memory. 

You can almost see it: the sun on the windowsill, the little golden edges disappearing before the pie even had a chance to rest. Funny how something so small can leave a mark. And somehow, you can’t help but think of the building, its own aging façade waiting for care, the same way a neglected pie cools too long in the sun.

If anyone were going to notice a change in the building, it would be her. A whispered comment here, a casual remark there. Mrs. Dillon has been doing this for decades. She gossips not out of malice, but out of habit. 

That makes her the perfect carrier for a little strategic information about renovations.

You give her a small smile. 

“Are those for my dad?”

You consider your options carefully.

Too carefully. 

Children are volatile. They do not respond to precedent, leverage or subtle intimidation. They do not reliably understand irony. And worst of all, they possess a disturbing loyalty to their parents that borders on fanaticism.

You run through scenarios. 

If you speak to him like an adult, he’ll think you’re trying too hard.

If you speak to him like a child, he’ll think you’re weird.

If you ignore him, he’ll remember it forever and make your life hell. 

Bribery briefly crosses your mind. Candy?  Stickers? Something bright and untraceable. But then you picture it. Jack Hotchner, 10 (? or is it 11?) years old, sitting at the dinner table across from his father, calmly reporting how he made his first ever arrest while presenting the 5 dollar bill you tried to slip him as Exhibit A. 

“Yes,” you say finally. “Is he home?” 

“He’s in the kitchen.”

That’s it. 

You stand there, papers in hand, as your brain immediately begins a frantic, high-speed autopsy of the interaction. You're searching for the subtext, but there is no subtext.

He’s in the kitchen. Is that a statement of fact or a territorial boundary? Does it mean ‘Go find him yourself’ or ‘Wait here until I’ve cleared you’?

“Can I come in?” 

“Yeah.”

He just walks back inside, leaving the door open for you. 

The scent of garlic and something dangerously good wafts through the air. Jack sits at the counter, colored pencils splayed like an assault formation, focused on coloring something. 

Hotchner stands at the stove, sleeves rolled up, a dark apron tied loosely around his waist. He looks completely at ease. Competent. Precise. And yet entirely unbothered by the growing chaos of dirty dishes around him. 

His forearms look so— okay no. You can’t do this in front of his kid. He looks very handsome while cooking. Let’s keep it at that. 

His eyes flick over to you, catching you staring. He notices your little stack of papers. 

“Are you staying for dinner?” 

You barely have time to nod before Jack looks up from the counter and asks you “Can you help me with this?” waving a half-colored in ‘Vote for my dad’ poster. 

You sit beside Jack, picking up a blue crayon. You don’t talk much. You don’t have to (thank god). Jack is a silent, focused worker (his little concentration frown-pout makes him look like his dad). You find yourself falling into a rhythm of filling in the block letters he’s outlined. 

Dinner goes well. You listen to them talk about Jack’s science project and the puppies he saw at the park yesterday. 

“Bedtime,” Hotchner says eventually. 

There’s what you think is the usual half-hearted protest, a quick “it was nice to see you” from Jack and then the apartment goes quiet. 

He returns a few minutes later, sleeves still rolled up and top button of his shirt (that you’re sure was buttoned) undone. He’s carrying two glasses of wine. He sets one in front of you and motions toward the stack of papers you’ve been protecting all evening.

The wine tastes nice. Red, deep, and expensive (or at least, more expensive than the ‘I need to get fucked up but vodka feels too hardcore’  blend you usually use to drown your tactical sorrows). 

You find yourself swirling the liquid in the glass, watching it cling to the crystal. It’s a stupid gesture (pretentious and largely useless. maybe that’s rich coming from you. but hypocrisy is only embarrassing when it’s accidental). Still, it gives you an excuse to look at your own hands, and then, inevitably, at his.

It appears force is the most effective when it follows mercy. The world judges by the eye and not the touch, and while many witness the mask of your clemency, few ever feel the weight of your hand.

He’s absentmindedly tapping his index on his glass. 

“So.. what’s all this?” he asks. 

You let your eyes flick down to the stack of papers, then back to him. It’s a printed copy of the building’s amenity hours with several blocks of time highlighted in what you consider a persuasive shade of neon pink. 

“The pool schedule,” you say. 

He raises an eyebrow. Slips his tongue between his lips, wetting them with a slow, unconscious (he puts his kid to sleep and instantly dials up the whorishness?) deliberation.  

“I’m not sure I’m qualified to give swimming lessons,” he says, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You don’t bother with the preamble about civic duty and all that jazz.

“I’m not looking for lessons. I’m looking for a show.” You take a sip of your wine, watching him over the rim. “You go in the pool, you swim and you look… hot while doing it.” 

He blinks. “I already run. I don’t see how changing my cardio routine affects the building’s administrative future.”

Truth is a fine wine served to a crowd that only craves volume. So as long as the cup is full, the few who taste the vinegar will be ignored. 

“Because nobody sees you run,” you explain. “It’s about how you look doing it. You keep your lane, you pace yourself, you follow the rules. People will watch and think ‘if he cares this much about the pH levels of the pool, imagine how diligently he’ll handle the building’s affairs... and he has a nice butt’.” 

He stares at you blankly. Like he’s magnanimously giving you the opportunity to retract your statement. If you go down for solicitation of a hot single dad, so be it. 

He answers carefully, each word measured. Like he’s reading from a moral ledger no one asked him to consult. Firm but not angry (yet). There’s a trace of exasperation in the tilt of his head. A faint tightening at the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve decided to do this for the good of the building’s residents,” he begins. “Not to promote indecent behavior.” 

 He takes a sip of wine before he speaks. As if to help himself endure your frivolity. “My son lives here.”

What a fucking prude. The point is to make him look reliable, disciplined. 

Hair slicked back, dark strands clinging to his forehead. Swim trunks hugging him just right. The reliable shape of his shoulders and thighs. Arms flexing with each stroke. Chest rising and falling from the effort. 

The fact that he’d look sexy doing it is just a bonus. 

“You’re never going to make it in politics like this. If you just show a bit of skin we’re guaranteed at least 7 votes.”

He sets down his glass, and leans back slightly. His fingers drum lightly on the table. His jaw tightens. His eyes narrow, thoughtful, scanning the papers again before flicking up to you. 

For a long moment he says nothing. You watch the way his hands flex as he rests them on the table. The deliberate, measured way he exhales. Even in stillness, there’s tension in the line of his shoulders. The kind of quiet control that makes it obvious he’s weighing the absurdity of your plan against his own standards. 

His lips part then close. You wonder for a second if you’ve finally broken his federal-software. You haven’t even said anything that outrageous. Maybe it’s the first time anyone’s told him he has a nice ass. 

He tilts his head back, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. The slow calculations of his mind written in the crease between his brows. 

“Okay,” he finally decides. Flat but confident. Not a concession but a choice. “I’ll swim.”

Oh you’re about to get the show of a lifetime.

“Drop the shirt, let’s get to work.” You don’t even try to hide your excitement. It would go against your morals to pretend you’re not thrilled you finally get to see his tits. You’re already trying to calculate the exact refractive index of his skin under water.

“Drop the shirt?” he repeats dryly. He sounds vaguely threatening. His gaze flickers briefly to the shirt you're referring to, then back at you, his lips pressed into a thin line. 

There is a certain perverse delight in knowing that while you’re mentally dressing him in too few square inches of high-performance Lycra and a strategic layer of chlorine, he’s building a case against you.

“You can’t just pick a lane and hope for the best. We need to go down to the pool.”

He glances down at his watch. Metal sitting nicely against his wrist, catching the light in a way that screams ‘I have a very healthy retirement fund’. 

“It’s nearly eleven.”

“Exactly,” you counter. “No one will be there and we can properly check out which lane makes your arms look the best.”

He gives you a look that is terrifyingly steady—the kind of look that usually precedes a confession in a small, windowless room. It’s no wonder he’s getting paid the big bucks at his FBI job, he could probably get you to confess to assassinating JFK himself. 

“You want to go to the pool. Now,” he summarizes, his voice dropping to a skeptical rumble. “To check… the lighting on my arms.”

“You said you were willing to listen.”

He sets his wine glass down on the table. Looks like he’s finally decided to stop entertaining your nonsense. He leans forward, closing the gap between you until you can see the slight amber flecks in his brown eyes. 

“Do you actually expect me to believe this is about the campaign?” he asks. “Or are you just testing to see how much of your antics I’m willing to endure before I show you out?”

If you dip your hand into the waters of ambition, you must be prepared to plunge your whole body — the middle way leads only to ruin.

“Both,” you say.

The silence stretches. You’re half-expecting a metronome to start ticking somewhere, just to really commit to the tension.

He doesn’t break eye contact. Doesn’t argue. That’s how you know he’s past skepticism and into assessment.

His gaze drops to his watch again. A reflex. Time, consequences, exits. 

He turns his wrist slightly, as if confirming something only he can see, then looks back at you.

“You’re aware it’s late,” he says. Not a protest. A parameter.

You nod.

He exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. The kind of breath he takes before stepping into a situation he already suspects he’ll have to control.

“All right,” he says at last. Calm. Decided. “We’ll take a look.”

Not because you’ve convinced him but because he’s decided to follow you far enough to find out what you’re actually after.

“Five minutes,” he adds. 

The consistency is almost impressive. Even his exceptions obey rules. He isn’t giving in. He’s simply factored in your bullshit into his protocol. Made a slot for your chaos in his schedule, tucked neatly between put Jack to bed and maintain national security.

Chlorine-induced neurosis is an established inevitability, like gravity or your inability to behave around authority figures.

There’s something about pools at night. The chemical bite at the back of your throat (reminiscent of  other things that could also hit the back of your throat), the echoing stillness, the way every sound feels amplified and slightly wrong. 

The overhead lights hum softly, casting pale reflections across the water. Long white bands rippling over the tiled floors, broken only by the gentle bob of lane dividers floating in disciplined rows, like polite boundaries no one expects you to cross. 

Hotchner steps in first. He pauses, assessing the place, to make sure nothing has gone sideways without his permission. 

Then he takes off his shirt. 

His chest is broad and solid. There’s a slight give to it. Faint freckles dot his skin, easy to miss unless you’re paying attention (which you are. unreasonably so). A few silver hairs at the centre of his chest catch the light when he shifts. 

His shoulders roll once, muscle moving with quiet efficiency. He looks warm under the lights. Real. Inconveniently human. 

You briefly think that  the building should consider switching pool disinfectants. Chlorine feels… excessive. There must be gentler options. Ones that don’t immediately cause lapses in judgment and moral decay. 

Your eyes drop. And that’s when you see the swim trunks. 

They’re unmistakably old. Dark, utilitarian, cut to survive training. Time has not been kind to them. Or maybe it’s actually been too kind. They sit low on his hips, snug around his thighs in a way that feels unreasonably provocative for a man who insists on virtue and modesty in all things. 

“Please tell me those aren’t government issued.”

He pauses, his hand hovering near the draw string. He clears his throat, a faint, uncharacteristic flush creeping up his neck.

Do they give out standardized ‘New Agent’ kits when you graduate from the Academy ? Gun, badge, handcuffs, swim trunks and maybe a box of FBI-issued condoms. The packaging might even say: Property of the FBI. For tactical use only. Every drop of you belongs to the federal government. 

“They are,” he admits resignedly. He looks down at the faded fabric for a moment, his thumb brushing the hem, as if he's mentally calculating the decades since he last stood on a Quantico pool deck. “These might actually be older than you are,” he adds in a low mutter, more to himself than to you. 

“That’s so hot,” you blurt out. 

He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his otherwise controlled expression. No comment. Just a subtle shake of his head before he steps to the edge and slides into the water.

He pushes off the wall, water hissing around him, and glides forward. 

Each stroke is precise and deliberate. His forearms tighten as his hands slice through the water, veins catching the light. His chest rises and falls. His wet hair clings to his forehead and temples, the ends occasionally brushing the back of his neck as he turns to breathe. His calves flex with each push, sending tiny waves across the lane. 

He breathes with deliberate timing, neck stretching smoothly as he tilts his head, lips parting just enough to draw in air. Every rotation of his torso is economical, calculated. No wasted movement, no strain, just absolute command of his body.

With each stroke, the water sprays lightly across his torso. You notice the subtle curve of his abdomen. The way his shoulders shift with effort, his arms cut through the water with effortless authority, his back fans out with every stroke. The deep groove of his spine acting as a shoreline for the water racing over his skin.

He swims a clean, powerful crawl. Watching Aaron Hotchner exert himself is like stumbling upon a highly specific, high-budget fetish porn: ‘Busty competent dad in skimpy swimsuit’.

He finally drifts to the edge, arms resting on the tile, water dripping from his shoulders. “Well?” he asks. “How’s this lane?”

You perch on the edge of the pool, leaning forward slightly. Honestly, you were more busy picturing him in less chlorinated contexts than paying attention to the lights and shadows. 

“The lane is fine,” you murmur, your gaze dropping to the water beaded on his collarbone. 

You lean just an inch too far.

A splash. 

Water envelops you. 

He catches you instinctively, one arm on your back, and you emerge drenched, your face inches from his.

He brushes your hair away from your face. You briefly consider pretending to drown. Maybe that could get him to give you mouth-to-mouth. And also, it’d be dramatic enough to make him forget how cliché this is. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

You nod quickly. The war general in your head is being court-martialed. This is basically a death sentence for your credibility. 

He doesn't move to let you go. If anything, his grip tightens. Your hand clings to his shoulder. Might as well seize the opportunity to fondle him a bit while you can. 

“Was that on purpose?” 

Your chest is brushing against his, water dripping between you, and it’s impossible to say no without sounding ridiculous. 

“What do you think?” 

He runs his thumb across your lips. You feel the way his hand cradles your face. 

“I think you’re playing some kind of perverted game,” he whispers.

He leans in until your nose brushes against his. His eyes drop to your mouth with a look that is equal parts clinical and starved.

“I’ve handled people more… inventive than you, sweetheart,” he adds quietly. “I’ll find out what you’re up to eventually.”

You don’t let him interrogate you further. 

The kiss is bruising.

He isn’t gentle. He handles you with the same crushing efficiency he used to cut through the water. His hands remain locked on your face, his fingers threading into your wet hair to tilt your head back. Claiming every inch of space you’ve tried to occupy all night. 

His weight pins you firmly against the tiled edge of the pool. You feel the grit of the grout against your back. And the unyielding soft expanse of his chest against your front. 

He groans into your mouth. Your lungs start to burn. 

His lips are firm, slick with chlorine. You vaguely think that he’s trying to devour you. His tongue traces the seam of your lips. 

Every time you try to pull him closer, his grip on your face tightens, his thumbs anchored firmly at your jaw to keep you exactly where he wants. 

He shifts, his thigh slipping between yours to hold you steady against the tile. Just as you reach for the hem of his stupid FBI trunks, he pulls back. 

His forehead rests against yours, his breathing ragged. He lets his hand drop from your face, though his thumb lingers for one last stroke across your swollen lips. 

“This lane seems good enough to me,” he rasps. 

He lets go of you and begins to swim away. Entirely unbothered. 

Kiss the hand of a new prince to raise him to power, and you have only marked your own cheek for the executioner.

You stay anchored to the tile, shivering as the cold air hits your soaked skin.

Fuck this fucking loser.