hello?? um? universe?? u hearin me?? just letting you know i’m ready for good things to happen in my life!!!!!! i’m prepared for amazing things!!!! i think its time!!!! just putting it out to the universe.
4 times hotch acts like a father figure and the 1 time he most definitely does not.
bet u wanna meet the reader! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
pairing: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader
warnings: fem!reader, slow burn, age gap (reader is 20s, hotch is late 40s, iktr), dbf!hotch, power imbalance, boss/subordinate dynamic, mutual pining, daddy issues (reader... prob also hotch), fluff, hurt/comfort, touch starved reader, garcia sending dirty texts!!, reader having dirty thoughts!!, reader sending hotch a suggestive pic by accident whoops!!, they are sooooo down bad for each other
wc: 6.8k (shewww stfu already gurl)
1 THE NUCLEAR OPTION
Aaron Hotchner looks very, very out of place standing in your bedroom.
Not inappropriate. You want to be very clear about that. You are two fully grown adults with fully operational frontal lobes and a respectable understand of professional decorum.
There is nothing scandalous happening here beyond your own imagination, briefly supplying an image of him against your headboard before you swatted it away like a cat attempting to push a glass from a countertop.
It’s just… visually disorienting.
He’s all severity and slate-gray composure now in a room rendered in blush and cream and the kind of girlish optimism that suggests you refuse to let your job bleach the color out of you.
He doesn’t fit, to put it plainly. Not physically (the man has shoulders like a structural beam) and definitely not symbolically.
Despite this, he takes his time as he scans the space with a clinical neutrality that feels less like judgment per se and more like being positioned beneath an unforgiving forensic lamp, dusted for prints you didn’t realize you’d left behind.
Is he analyzing this? Is he building a psychological profile right now based on the chipped mug of pens beside your bed and the stuffed bear you can’t seem to get rid of? The half-burnt vanilla candle on your nightstand that, yes, you absolutely lit knowing he was coming — all of it suddenly looks childish.
Embarrassing. Juvenile.
This is how people die.
Not from shame, exactly, though that’s certainly trying its best, but from being comprehensively, devastatingly perceived by a man whose entire job is to see through facades.
He offered to wait by the door. Kindly. Considerably. With that quiet, unfussy courtesy that makes you sure, in the fullest sense of the word, he holds elevators open and always returns his shopping cart with solemn civic pride.
You should’ve let him. Really.
But no, instead of choosing the sensible option like someone who understands the boundaries of time, space, and self-preservation, you made a mistake. A fatal, irredeemable mistake.
You waved him in.
And now, instead of standing respectfully beside your umbrella stand and politely pretending that driving you to the airport isn’t already a favor beyond what his job requires, Aaron Hotchner is in your bedroom.
What did you offer in exchange for this selfless act of transportation? Not coffee or gas money. Oh, just full unfiltered access to the inner circle of your private life.
You shove another sweater into your suitcase.
“I promise I usually plan better than this,” you say, “but I got caught on a call with my landlord trying to determine whether my oven is gas or electric, which I apparently never clarified in three years of tenancy.”
You hesitate, already regretting the admission, because he is a man who knows the make and model of every government-issued vehicle he’s ever driven.
“In my defense,” you tack on quickly, “it functions. I press a button, it produces heat. We’ve maintained a very mutual, low-communication relationship.”
One of his eyebrow lifts, just enough to suggest that he has several thoughts and is choosing the kindest one.
“That’s the sort of thing you really should know,” he says, and there’s the faintest hint of dry humor threaded through the words, as if he’s allowing himself a single inch of amusement. “I can take a look when we get back.”
You let out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like nervous air leaking from a balloon you’ve been gripping too tightly.
“That’s — you don’t have to — you really don’t have to do that,” you rush out, tripping over your own politeness. “You are not responsible for my… appliance literacy. Or the alarming gaps within it.” You gesture helplessly at the room, at the half-packed suitcase. “You’re already doing so much. If I start assigning you household infrastructure, I’m pretty sure that qualifies as abuse of power.” You pause. “Not that I have any. Power, I mean. Very famously not in possession of that.”
He doesn’t bother disguising that same for of amusement this time that touches now his mouth.
“I’ve done worse favors.”
You squint at him.
“I feel like that says more about your life than it does about me.” You study him for a moment, then let your shoulders ease despite your best efforts. “Still. Thank you. I really do appreciate it.”
The words come out sincere, and for half a second the eye contact holds in a way that feels less professional and more… something else.
Which is your cue to flee into safer territory.
“Anyway, I am really excited about this conference. The keynote speaker is incredible. I’ve read three of her papers, and the case studies she’s presenting are the kind of things I used to read in grad school like they were campfire ghost stories.” You pause, reconsider. “More academic ghost stories. Less paranormal. Still pretty grim, though. Just… fascinating grim.”
He lets your excitement taper off unanswered, glancing down into your suitcase before lifting his eyes back to you.
“It’s going to be cold.”
You frown at derailment of the conversation. “...Yes?”
“You need a coat.”
“I have a coat,” you reply, pointing to the quilted white thing draped over your desk chair.
It has gold buttons. It is elegant. It is, admittedly, constructed with more outer-appearance than insulation.
“A real coat.”
“It is real,” you insist, because it exists, and you have worn it outside, and therefore it satisfies the basic criteria of outerwear under the laws of physics.
“You’ll freeze.”
You want to keep arguing.
You want to explain that the coat you chose is mostly warm, that it performs adequately under reasonable atmospheric conditions, that packing the bulky, government-issued tundra shield he likely considers appropriate would have required sacrificing something essential.
Like your backup flats, the only pair that doesn’t turn conference halls into endurance trials, or your travel straightener, which is less about aesthetics and more about appearing competent in harsh lighting.
But the look he gives you — so mild on the surface, so pointed beneath — drains the rebellion right out of your lungs.
Suddenly, it’s not about fashion or function. It’s about the existential need to not disappoint him.
You cannot afford to lose even a sliver of the regard he has chosen to extend to you.
You hoard his approval the way a crow gathers bright scraps of tin and glass, tucking them into the hollow spaces inside you, convinced that if you collect enough of it, it might one day harden into something sturdy enough to stand on.
So you sigh, equal parts petulance and submission, and turn back toward the closet in search of something thicker.
You sift through your wardrobe and grab a soft navy peacoat. You smooth your palm over the fabric as if presentation alone might improve its chances, then hold it up with the careful hesitation of someone submitting evidence to the court.
You don’t speak, but your eyes ask the question plainly: Is this acceptable? Does this restore confidence? Does this prove I can anticipate basic survival?
He studies it for no more than a second before the verdict arrives in the form of a single shake of his head.
You exhale slowly, already holding a small, private funeral for your pride, and reach into the back of the closet for the final option.
The nuclear choice.
The coat you swore would remain undisturbed unless meteorologists began using phrases like “artic blast” or “polar vortex.”
It’s fleece-lined. Excessively practical. It is also deeply, almost maliciously unattractive.
It swallows you whole, reduces your silhouette to an amorphous mass, and renders you less woman-on-business-trip and more sentient sleeping bag with ambition.
He nods, once. “Atta girl.”
You hate how effortlessly those two words melt down the structural integrity of your independence liquefying into dopamine-slush.
He’s an asshole, you decide.
Because you are entirely certain he knows what it does to you, how his approval lands like a controlled substance you never consented to trying, let alone craving.
Sometimes you suspect he enjoys it, just a little, watching you attempt to maintain dignity while your internal self is spinning barefoot through a field of daisies, drunk on validation.
You duck your head quickly, hiding the smile that threatens to surface, and shove the coat into your suitcase as if you can compress the feeling along with it.
“You always this stubborn?”
You wrinkle your nose.
“I prefer the word… determined,” you say, keeping your tone light, flippant even. Then you exhale. “But yes. Probably.”
“I don’t want you getting sick.”
You freeze for a second before looking at him. He’s already watching you with that stupidly hot expression that means something, but never tells you what.
Your throat tightens around something inconvenient. “Okay.”
He nods once, satisfied, like the matter has been properly resolved.
Then, almost as an afterthought, “Wear it on the plane.”
You huff a small breath through your nose.
“You’re surprisingly bossy for someone who isn’t technically supervising me right now.”
“Think of it as preventative strategy.”
You shake your head, but the smallest smile slips through despite yourself as you reach for the coat anyway. Because if his concern is the motive, then anything else suddenly feels… unnecessary.
And maybe a little unkind.
2 FORTY-TWO AND FORTY-THREE
The hotel is… not what you prepared for. You’d braced yourself for something sensible. Industrial carpet in a shade of brown that exists solely to forgive stains. The smell of disinfectant doing its honest, blue-collar best to mask a thousand anonymous overnights. Clean sheets, sure. Functional plumbing, ideally.
Maybe a little plant in the lobby that some waters too enthusiastically out of obligation rather than love.
Instead, there’s marble everywhere. Gold accents. Furniture that looks as though someone fluffs it between guests on a strict hourly rotation.
It’s almost funny, the budgetary whiplash between “active serial killer in rural nowhere” and “please observe our institutional excellence.”
Apparently, when the FBI wants to project competence, it does so in chandeliers and imported stone.
“Did you manage to sleep on the flight?” you ask, hoping it sounds completely normal coming from your overextended mouth.
Which you are, to set the record straight. Normal. Very normal. A model of composure. The very portrait of workplace appropriateness.
Not, for example, someone who, five minutes ago at the front desk, briefly entertained the likelihood of an overbooking error and the subsequent moral dilemma of one room, one bed, and a shared look of well, this is unfortunate.
You did not, under any circumstances, imagine saying something graceful like, “Oh, I don’t mind the couch,” while secretly hoping there wasn’t one.
You are a rational human being, after all.
If your thoughts briefly detoured into logistical fantasy, that is simply narrative conditioning from too many romance novels dog-earred on your nightstand teaching you that proximity plus tension equals destiny.
It is not a reflection of your character.
Probably.
Although the fact that your first instinct in a crisis is self-sacrifice for the sake of optics is… interesting. Something to unpack later. Preferably never.
“Enough,” he answers. “I wanted to make sure you did.”
Your pulse somersaults. You can’t figure out why.
“Oh. I did,” you assure him.
“Good.” He inclines his head slightly. “Long day tomorrow.”
“Right,” you nod. “Can’t have me falling asleep mid-panel and drooling on a nationally recognized criminologist. That would be deeply damaging to the Bureau’s image.”
You tuck your hands into your coat pockets, hiding the nervous flex of your fingers, and lengthen your stride to keep pace with him.
He manages to walk with such an unrushed confidence that somehow never looks like an effort, and you fall into step beside him like you’ve been trained to it.
The hallway stretches ahead in muted tones and hotel anonymity, the carpet thick enough to swallow the sharp click of your heels as though it understands the value of discretion.
“I’ve reviewed your grad work,” he says calmly. “You’re more likely to correct the panel than fall asleep during it.”
You freeze.
“You have?”
It comes out before you can moderate the enthusiasm.
Of course he has, you remind yourself quickly. He does not tolerate blind spots. You are an allocation of federal resources, and he is meticulous about ensuring his investments are strategically sound.
Still, the idea of him reading your thesis — your painstakingly footnoted, cross-referenced, over-edited labor of love — feels intimate in a way you hadn’t anticipated.
You remember the nights you folded yourself around your laptop, hair twisted up, rereading paragraphs until the words blurred, muttering about theoretical frameworks and definitional clarity like they were moral obligations.
You rewrote the introduction twelve times because it didn’t sound authoritative enough. You panicked over whether your sources were recent enough. Influential enough. Impressive enough.
Did he think it was disciplined? Did he see how hard you worked to make it unimpeachable? Did he notice where you rushed the methodology section because the deadline was breathing down your neck? Did he recognize the case study you were secretly proud of, the one you worried might read as ambition masquerading as competence?
“Yes.”
He looks at you, and for one breathless, precarious second you’re convinced he’s going to add something more. A descriptor. An evaluation. Something you could cradle later in private.
A word like “impressive,” perhaps. Or even “solid.”
You’d take solid. Solid is dependable. Solid can be examined from every angle at midnight while you’re brushing your teeth, replayed and replayed until it wears smooth.
But he offers nothing else. He simply holds your gaze, and the silence lengthens until it becomes reflective, until you can see yourself inside it.
The flicker of expectation you tried to mute, the hopeful tilt of your expression, the subtle widening that betrays how badly you wanted confirmation.
You’re suddenly hyperaware of how readable you must be, how clearly you hunger for the thing he chose not to give.
He looks away first and keeps walking, and you’re left wondering whether the silence is mercy, sparing you from overinvestment, or leverage, something he’ll deploy when it serves him best.
You quicken your pace regardless, because composure feels optional and you are, inconveniently, invested in every unsaid thing.
You close the gap between you more quickly than necessary, nearly brushing his shoulder when he stops in front of two identical doors.
Forty-two and forty-three.
Twin thresholds to separate, responsibly partitioned realities, as if a number on a plaque is enough to define distance.
“Any preferences?” you ask, gesturing between the rooms.
As if you aren’t very intune with the fact that whichever number you take situates him precisely one wall away, separated by drywall, wiring, and the thinnest possible illusion of propriety.
“Take this one,” he says, already extending the keycard. Forty-three.
“Okay,” you say instantly, because apparently your default setting when he gives you direction is cheerful compliance.
Pavlov would have had a field day.
You glance toward his door, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Should I be concerned you’re assigning yourself the superior territory? Is it the presidential suite? Hidden minibar advantage?”
He nearly smiles, but it never quite materializes.
“Yours faces the main corridor and the elevators. Mine faces the exterior exit.”
You blink at him, confused by the specificity.
“If something happens,” he continues, “I want you between both access points. That gives me visibility from either direction.”
“You’re planning for something?”
“I always plan for something.”
“I suppose that shouldn’t shock me.”
And it doesn’t, not really, because this is a man who could probably draft a contingency plan for a power outage in a room full of generators, who once paused outside a crime scene long enough to reroute you around a thin patch of ice you hadn’t seen, hand hovering near your elbow, just in case gravity decided to make an example of you.
Planning is his default state, his resting pulse, his love language if he had one he’d admit to.
But you’ve started noticing, and you wish you hadn’t, how the calculations seem to grow sharper when you’re involved, how his posture adjusts if you’re nearest to a door, how he subtly corrals space so you’re buffered from whatever could go wrong.
It’s probably subconscious. It has to be subconscious. You are not the axis around which his vigilance rotates. You are a member of the team. A junior one at that. This is leadership, not preference. Protocol, not protectiveness.
“No,” he agrees calmly. “It shouldn’t.”
You lift the keycard toward the reader, already angling yourself toward the door, but he moves a half-step ahead of you. His hand closes around the handle before yours can, body stepping between you.
You look up at him. “What are you doing?”
“Checking.”
He says it like the answer should have been self-evident, like you’re the one lagging behind for needing clarification, and then he’s stepping into your room before you are.
You watch as he moves through the space.
The deadbolt is tested. The chain latch examined. He leans in to inspect the peephole alignment, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes the doorframe, and you have the deeply inconvenient thought that this is what intimacy apparently looks like in your life — a man assessing sightlines and entry points.
His gaze tracks the ceiling corners next, scanning for blind spots. The bathroom door opens, lights flick on, the shower curtain is drawn back in one motion. Closet doors slide open and closed.
You hover near the entrance with your arms folded loosely, doing your absolute best impression of a person who is not secretly going, wow, okay, so this is what it looks like when a man is competent and terrifying and also, unfortunately, really, really attractive while doing the least romantic task imaginable.
You need to get a grip.
“It’s not exactly a cartel safehouse,” you offer.
“No,” he agrees evenly, checking the window latch. “But it’s still a point of vulnerability.”
He presses the window once more.
Satisfied with the resistance, he steps aside only then, as if you’ve been waiting for clearance.
“You can go in.”
You tilt your head. “Permission granted?”
“Recommendation,” he corrects.
“Right.”
He turns toward the hallway.
“Call me if you need me.”
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? You could call him for a hundred legitimate reasons. You could call him because the lock jams. Because the heater rattles. Because the hallway feels too quiet.
You could call him for none at all, just to hear his voice confirm that the wall between you is only drywall and not distance.
3 EFFICIENT ENERGY ALLOCATION
You know something is wrong the second you open your hotel door. Or, fine, not something. Someone. More specifically, him. Hotch.
There are two small lines gathering between his eyebrows, deepening incrementally the longer he looks at you, like he’s sketching blueprints for a cathedral of disapproval.
You know that look. You’ve built a secret mental archive of his face, categorized and cross-referenced with devotion, the way other people collect vintage wine or heirloom china.
This particular arrangement means he’s thinking too hard. Which is either excellent or catastrophic, and with him, the margin between those two things is gossamer-thin.
It’s a tell, though he would sooner walk into oncoming traffic than admit he has any.
And you would never correct him on it. You are not nearly foolish enough to forfeit your single, fragile advantage in this — whatever this is.
Because in the market of Hotch, he is always running four moves ahead on a chessboard you're still trying to locate.
And the longer he stares, the more your confidence begins to dissolve like sugar melting into coffee until you can’t even remember it once existed in defined, crystalline pieces.
Your body, traitor that it is, moves to compensate: spine straightening without permission, vertebrae aligning themselves one by one, chin tipping upward a fraction as though the geometry of good posture might function as armor.
Your hand finds your hair. Smooths it back over your shoulder. Corrects, with careful fingers, a flaw that was not there a moment ago. That would not exist at all, actually, if his eyes hadn’t passed over you and invented it.
“Is there a reason you’re looking at me like that,” you ask, attempting breezy and landing somewhere closer to ambitious intern pleading her case before a tribunal, “should I be concerned?”
He doesn’t answer right away and the silence manages to gather density. It pools in the corridor between you, thickening by the second, and you hold out for what feels like a respectable amount of time before your mouth makes a unilateral decision.
“Did something smudge? I knew I blinked weird during mascara and I made a judgment call that it was probably fine and I think we're both seeing how that turned out. This is what I get for rushing.”
For a second, something almost like disbelief crosses his features, there and gone, a brief constitutional crisis behind his eyes, as though he’s carefully sorting through his available responses and selecting the least inflammatory one.
“Your mascara is fine,” he says finally, and the economy of it, the complete lack of reassurance beyond the bare clinical fact, is so extraordinarily him that you almost want to write it down.
His eyes move downward again before finding yours again, the crease between his brows intact and now, you think, accompanied by a friend.
“I’m trying to determine,” he continues, “whether you were aware of the temperature outside when you selected that outfit.” He looks toward the end of the hallway. “It’s fourteen degrees.”
You frown and glance down at yourself, suddenly hyperaware of every seam and hem. Pencil skirt. Tailored, modest, entirely appropriate. Blouse tucked in neatly, sleeves buttoned to the wrist.
Tights, which are admittedly optimized somewhat more for aesthetic cohesion than for any serious confrontation with polar endurance, but which are nonetheless indisputably, demonstrably present.
And the jacket he chose. You draw it closed around yourself now, pulling the lapels together with both hands, turning just slightly toward him. Here. Look. Proof. You followed the parameters. You incorporated the feedback. You are, in this moment, the living embodiment of a person who listens and learns and shows up correctly dressed, and you would like that acknowledged, please.
“I was aware.”
“Then I’m concerned about your definition of the word.”
“I’m wearing layers.”
His brown eyes drop once again. Slow with the unhurried certainty of a man who has never once been rushed by another person’s discomfort, and comes to rest at the hem of your skirt, right where it grazes your thighs, and simply remains.
Every hair on your body stands at full attention, a physiological standing ovation for the specific quality of being looked at by him. Your hands want to move — to the hem, to the lapels, to anything that might constitute a defensive action — and you refuse them, one by one, with great effort and limited success.
No. Absolutely not. You will not flinch. You will not fidget. You will not give him the satisfaction of watching you fold, because the moment you reach for that hem is the moment you've lost, and you are already losing enough in this conversation.
He exhales slowly, the kind of exhale that has a whole paragraph in it, before he speaks. “The skirt is short.”
“It’s not —” you begin, warmth rushing up your neck before you can determine whether it’s indignation or something more humiliatingly self-conscious steering the ship.
“It’s appropriate,” he says, and his voice has shifted, gone quieter, the hard edge filed down like he's recognized he's overshot and is now carefully correcting course. “I’m not criticizing it. That’s not —” He stops. Starts over. “You look exactly as you should.” He presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose. Closes his eyes for just a moment. “I’d just prefer you not be miserable on the walk over.”
You stare at him, running a rapid internal audit of your available emotional responses and finding the inventory deeply unhelpful. Mortification is one option. Gratitude is another. They are not, as far as you can tell, mutually exclusive, which is its own problem entirely.
You shouldn’t have to feel both things simultaneously before eight in the morning, that seems like a violation of something, some basic covenant between a person and their day.
You are going to need significantly more caffeine before you can be expected to feel things correctly.
“I am aware of how temperature works,” you reply, gently defensive but not sharp, “and I do, in fact, possess the ability to identify discomfort before it becomes life-threatening.”
“I don’t doubt your ability to recognize discomfort,” he says. “I doubt your inclination to admit it when you’re experiencing it.” The brow tightens, just slightly, just enough. “You have a habit of tolerating more than you need to.”
There's nothing wrong with what he said.
That's the problem with what he said. You recognize yourself in it with the specific, sinking clarity of someone who has just been handed a mirror they weren't expecting.
You reach for your smile. The reliable one, the soft, deflecting smile you've been deploying since approximately the third grade, and let it do what it's always done. Cover the crack. Keep the walls presentable. Move things along before anyone gets a good look at the load-bearing ones.
“I wouldn’t call it a habit,” you reply carefully. “More like… efficient energy allocation.”
“Is that what we’re calling it.” It isn’t a question. A hint of dry amusement surfaces in his expression, not a smile exactly, just the suggestion of one, the ghost of one haunting the corner of his mouth, as he relents. “All right.” His tone softens. “I’ll defer to your… methodology.”
You beam at him with a brightness that is frankly disproportionate to the exchange. Wildly, embarrassingly disproportionate. You don't care even a little.
“Great. Perfect. Wonderful.”
He is, unfortunately, completely correct.
Fifteen minutes later, the wind finds you like it has a personal grievance, carving straight through your layered confidence, making a thorough and public mockery of your efficient energy allocation.
You keep your chin up and your expression neutral because you would genuinely rather fossilize in place than give him the satisfaction.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t point, doesn’t raise an eyebrow, doesn’t deploy a single syllable of the told-you-so he has absolutely, irrefutably earned.
He simply pauses mid-stride, unwinds the scarf from his own neck and wraps it around you with both hands.
You try not to kiss him.
4 HIS FLOOR OR YOURS
The conference has been going on for three hours and forty minutes, which feels less like a span of time and more like a psychological experiment designed to test how long a human being can remain upright while their soul quietly slips through their ears. Two hours and forty minutes beyond what your attention span contractually agreed to when you walked in with your notebook.
During the break, Hotch had taken one look at you, at the restless rotation of plastic between your hands, at the brittle way you were holding yourself together, and said, in the tone of a man who had already made the decision and was merely informing you of it rather than requesting your input, come on.
So now you’re walking to get lunch, which would have been entirely pleasant, almost restorative, even, sunlight, fresh air, the gentle reward of carbohydrates after too much bureaucratic endurance, if Garcia hadn’t chosen this exact moment to text you something that demands both your full visual attention and the majority of your remaining cognitive function.
The text reads, in its entirety:
how’s the conference bestie!!!!! followed immediately, without waiting by: and before you say “informative” or productive” or any other word that means you’re reflecting… i want to know about the OTHER curriculum. the one where it’s just you and hotch and a hotel and no rossi chaperoning.
Your face heats to 380 degrees, a temperature at which most metals would begin to warp. You type with your thumb as you walk, squinting against the glare on your screen.
garcia.
A breath.
GARCIA.
You delete that. Too much.
the conference is going fine, there is no other curriculum, we are colleagues attending a professional development event and i would like you to reflect on what you've said.
You pause. Add:
also rossi wasn't chaperoning he was just. present. there's a difference.
You read it back. Delete it because now you sound like someone with something to prove. Add it back because you do, in fact, have something to prove. Mainly your innocence. Allegedly.
Hotch shifts slightly closer to navigate a narrow patch of sidewalk and you physically rotate your entire torso away from him like a sunflower turning from the light, except the opposite of that, and hit send.
The response comes through in the time it takes you to exhale.
there's a difference !!! yeah the difference is whether or not you end up on his floor or your floor tonight babe
You read it twice. You read it twice because the first time your brain just skips, like a record catching on something, and the second time it processes it fully and that is infinitely worse.
Because now you’re thinking about it. Now the thought has a foothold and it is making itself at home, spreading out, getting comfortable, putting its feet up, and your imagination, which we’ve already covered is your most disloyal organ, starts filling in details you did not ask for.
Carpet burn. His chest pressed flat against your back, his rough breath against your ear, telling you what to do, how to do it, what to feel.
You guillotine the thought before it can finish forming. You do. You absolutely do. You are doing it right now.
You type back one handed, the response dissolving and reforming as your fingers fumble, something about how Garcia is clinically unwell and should be investigated by her own team, your attention fractured by the screen and the pavement you assume will continue existing beneath your feet.
You don’t see the curb.
You don’t see the car.
You don’t see anything at all until Hotch’s hand finds your arm and the world snaps back into focus all at once, as the vehicle tears through the space you’d been about to occupy.
The wind of it grazes your knees.
You look up at him because you don't know what else to do and immediately wish you'd looked literally anywhere else.
His eyes darken and move over your face with the rapid, assessing quality of someone running a systems check.
Pupils. Color. Responsiveness.
And when he’s satisfied that you are intact and present and not currently dying, something shifts.
Hotch doesn’t soften exactly, that’s not the right word for it, more like reconfiguration. A rearrangement of something that had gone momentarily, dangerously loose. The aftermath of relief rather than relief itself.
His thumb moves once against your arm. Small. Probably involuntary.
“Are you all right.” Once again not quite a question. The tone of a man who needs confirmation of a thing he's already determined to be true.
“Yes,” you say, which comes out smaller than you intended.
His hand finally releases your arm.
“Put your phone away.”
You do as you're told. Immediately, without deliberation, without the small internal debate you’d normally stage on principle.
It disappears into your pocket with the speed of someone who has just been reminded that the universe has consequences.
Garcia can wait. Garcia, in fact, has forfeited her right to immediacy, because Garcia and her terrible timing almost got you killed, and she is going to receive a text later when you are safe and stationary and no longer shaking slightly in a way you hope isn’t visible.
“You sound like my fa —” you start, because apparently you are constitutionally incapable of letting a silence exist peacefully, and then your brain catches up to your mouth approximately three words too late and the sentence just stops.
You don't finish it. You can't finish it, actually, because finishing it would require you to say out loud the thing you were about to say out loud, which was to compare hotch to your father, which you were apparently fully prepared to do two seconds ago and are now prepared to die before doing.
You swallow the rest of it. Redirect your gaze to the middle distance, to some fixed and blameless point that isn't his face, and devote every remaining resource you have to convincing your expression to do literally anything other than what it's currently doing, which is, you are fairly certain, everything.
You feel him look at you. There’s a particular quality of his attention when he’s already understood something and is giving you the grace of not saying it out loud.
He knows. He absolutely knows.
Neither of you says anything. You keep walking.
+1 FOR SCIENCE
The scolding had gone well, you think. You’d communicated the full extent of your feelings about Garcia’s role in the near-death-by-crosswalk incident with clarity, and she had said okay you’re right i’m sorry in the sincere tone she reserves for when she actually means it, and that should have been the end of it.
That was the natural ending. But then, approximately four seconds later, as if the apology had simply been a brief administrative detour:
but do you even own any lingerie just in case… this is a completely unrelated question, purely for science.
And somehow, through a conversational sequence that had felt, step by step, almost reasonable, that is how you have arrived at this.
Hotel bed. Nearly eleven. Cross-legged in your white lace pajames with your hair loose and your phone held aloft at an angle you’ve adjusted three times now, trying to produce a photograph that communicates see, I have perfectly good taste, this is both comfortable AND attractive for the benefit of a woman who treats every piece of information she receives as a potential future weapon.
Garcia had said prove it with the energy of someone issuing a formal declaration of war and you had, apparently, accepted the terms without reading them.
The fourth attempt is the one.
You know it immediately. The angle is right, the light is doing exactly what you wanted it to do, the lace sits exactly as it should and you look, if you’re being objective about it, genuinely pretty.
Soft and warm and settled in yourself in a way that doesn't always come naturally, in a way you don't always feel entitled to, and something about the photograph catches it, holds it still, makes it documentable.
You open the conversation. Tap the photo. Hit send. Set the phone face down on the duvet with the kind of pleased energy of someone closing a chapter, pouring yourself a glass of water from the sink, taking a sip, allowing yourself eight whole seconds of serenity.
Then you pick the phone back up because Garcia hasn't responded and this is wrong, this is factually incorrect behavior for Garcia, who has never in the entire history of your friendship allowed more than thirty seconds to pass without a reply, whose response time is frankly less a reflection of effort than of some innate physiological gift, and you look at the screen and —
The background of the conversation is wrong.
The contact picture is wrong.
Something is wrong with the name at the top of the conversation in a way that your brain, in an act of profound self-protection, declines to process for three full seconds.
Sits there cycling through increasingly implausible alternatives, searching for any exit ramp from the conclusion that is, despite everything, the only one available.
And then it arrives. All at once, the way bad things do, complete and total and horribly clear.
Hotch.
Garcia.
Recent conversations, right next to each other, because they would be, because why wouldn't they be, because the universe has a personal investment in your suffering and an excellent sense of comedic structure.
The photo is delivered.
For science sits beneath it.
And you sent it to your boss.
You make a sound that has no letter equivalent, something that exists purely in the register of visceral horror, and you are off the bed before the sound has finished leaving you.
Think, you need to think.
Option one: he's asleep. It's late. Hotch is a disciplined, regimented person who almost certainly has a consistent sleep schedule because of course he does, because he is Hotch, and maybe, maybe, he'd put his phone on silent and gone to bed and hasn't seen it and won't see it until morning at which point you will have already faked your own death and started a new life somewhere without extradition.
Option two: his phone. You could get to his phone. His room is right beside yours. You could be there in twenty-two seconds, and hotel door locks are — okay you don't actually know how to pick a hotel door lock but you could figure it out, probably, under sufficient duress, and this qualifies as sufficient duress —
A knock sounds at your door.
You stand in the center of the hotel room and you do not move, do not breathe, do not produce any sound or evidence of biological function whatsoever, because if you are very still and very quiet then perhaps the universe will lose interest and move on to someone else.
Maybe it's not him. Maybe it's housekeeping, at eleven at night, which, yes, is not when housekeeping comes, but hotels are unpredictable, stranger things have happened, you are not ruling anything out.
Maybe it's the person in the next room who miscounted doors, maybe it's someone who has the wrong floor entirely, maybe it's — your phone screen lights up.
Open the door.
You stare at it. It stares back.
You open the door and immediately wish with every fiber of your being that you hadn’t.
Not because of the expression on his face, though that’s — that’s a lot, that’s an entire situation, his jaw tight and his eyes doing something you’ve never seen them do before, moving over you in a way that starts at your face and doesn’t stay there and snaps back up with the control of a man making a conscious decision.
Not even because of the grey t-shirt. The sweatpants. The fact that Hotch, your Unit Chief, apparently exists in soft cotton after hours like a normal person, which is information you are placing in a box, sealing the box, and sliding the box to the very back of a shelf you will not be visiting tonight.
No. It’s the silence that does it.
He just looks at you. Says absolutely nothing, makes no move to explain himself or fill the space or give you anything to work with. It presses on you with considerable force.
“It was an accident.” The words come out before you've decided to produce them, falling over each other with the graceless urgency of someone trying to outrun a consequence. “I love this job. I'm good at it, I mean, I think I'm good at it, I hope you think I’m good at it, and I know this looks insane, it is insane, but please — please don't make this into something that ends my career, I was just trying to win an argument with Garcia about whether I owned ling — Uh, nice pajamas and —”
“Garcia,” he interrupts.
You blink. “What?”
“The argument.” His words are careful. Doing a great deal of structural work beneath the surface. “It was with Garcia.”
“Yes,” you say. “About whether I — yes.”
“About the pajamas.”
“About whether I owned any.” You are aware you’re not improving the situation. “Nice ones. She implied I didn’t and I — it was a matter of principle.”
He looks at you for long enough that you become acutely, specifically, inventory-level aware of every square inch of white lace currently within his line of sight.
And the awareness moves over you in real time, square inch by square inch, because he is. He is doing exactly that. Looking at the neckline and the hem and everything the light is enthusiastically illuminating and then looking at more of it, and you stand very still in the doorway of your hotel room and breathe very carefully and wait for him to say something, and he doesn't, and the looking continues, and it has a temperature.
“You’re not losing your job,” he says. His voice has done something you can't quite name. The professional remove still present but thinner somehow, like fabric that's been washed too many times. “That was never —” He stops. Edits. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“I really am sorry,” you say, which is true, which is entirely true, which is also complicated by the fact that he’s standing in your doorway and you have now run out of layers to hide behind, literally and figuratively.
“I know.” He says. “I came because I wanted to make sure you were —” a pause, brief and loaded, “ — all right.”
“I’m glad you did,” you say, which comes out quieter and more honest than you intended, stripped of the deflection you’d normally wrap around something like that. “Come, I mean. I’m glad you came.”
You become very interested in a point just past his shoulder and then make yourself look back.
“For the record,” he says, “you won the argument.”
“Hotch —” His name comes out barely a whisper.
“You did.”
“That’s not —” you start, “I don’t need you to —”
“I know you don’t need me to,” he says. “That’s not why I said it.”
“Why did you say it?”
He moves first.
Or maybe you do.
Or the wanting does, finally, after months of being firmly managed.
Later you might look for the beginning and find only that the distance was there and then wasn’t. His hand comes up to your face with that steadiness, that particular Hotch steadiness that you have been watching without permission since the day you met him, the kind that says I have considered this and I am not afraid of it, tilting your chin up.
And then his mouth is on yours.
And here is what you were not prepared for: that it would feel like being returned to you. Not given, returned.
Like something you’d been missing your whole life without knowing what it was called, without having a word for the specific absence of it.
Your father’s approval delivered at arm’s length, your college boyfriend who never quite saw you, every authority figure you’ve ever rearranged yourself for in hopes that this time, this time, it would be enough.
And Hotch, who has been watching you with those eyes for months, who has noticed the necklace-tugging and the over-apologizing and the way you look at him when you think no one’s looking, who has known, who has known —
It is nothing like what your imagination built. Your imagination was not working with sufficient information.
It is exactly like the thing you've been most terrified of wanting, because wanting things this much has historically been the setup for not getting them, and you are so tired of not getting them, and for a moment, for this moment, there is only his mouth and yours and the feeling moving through you in waves you can’t name and don’t need to.
Finally.
You lean into it with everything you have. Every feeling you've filed under inadvisable. Every careful professional distance you've maintained. Every time you looked away first. You stop looking away. You give him all of it, and he makes a sound low in his throat, vibrating through you.
Then he stops.
Goes still first, and then pulls back by degrees. Slow, almost reluctant, like something being peeled away rather than removed.
His forehead drops to yours just for a moment, his eyes closed and his breath uneven and his hand still at your jaw.
You don't move. You barely breathe. You are terrified of breaking it and equally terrified of what exists on the other side of it, and so you stay very still in the small sacred space of his forehead against yours and try not to want more than you're being given.
What comes next is his eyes opening. Finding yours. And in them, underneath the want that he’s no longer quite managing to conceal, something older settling back into place like sediment after a disturbance.
You can see it.
Something that was always going to come back. Responsibility settling through him like silt after a tremor, like a tide reasserting itself, the accumulated weight of everything he is and everything he thinks you deserve and every reason he has been filing this under don't from the very beginning.
You can see exactly where it lives. In the careful way his jaw sets. In the incremental straightening of his posture, degree by degree, a man rebuilding his architecture in real time, becoming your Unit Chief again by visible effort.
His hand leaves your face last.
“I’m sorry.” His voice has gone hard again, a professional distance reassembling itself word by word. “That wasn’t —” a pause in which several things clearly occur to him and are discarded — “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“It's okay,” you say, which is both completely true and completely insufficient. “I'm — please don't apologize, I —” you hear yourself, recalibrate, attempt something in the vicinity of normal. "I'm sorry too. For the photo. For all of —” another vague gesture, this one encompassing roughly the last hour of your life — “this.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“Okay,” you say, because what else is there.
You both stand in it for a moment that lasts too long.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says finally.
“Yeah.” Your voice is remarkably steady. You’re proud of it. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
You stand in the doorway until the corridor is empty and then you close the door and press your back against it and stare at the ceiling of a hotel room that feels entirely different than it did an hour ago.
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.
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.
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.
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
PLEASEE I need a better job with higher pay, no OT, no add on work responsibilities that outside my scope, no boss that changes targets every other week. Please I’m been apply for months
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
PLEASEE I need a better job with higher pay, no OT, no add on work responsibilities that outside my scope, no boss that changes targets every other week. Please I’m been apply for months
thank you ao3 for being an archive and not an algorithm. thank you for letting me like things without consequences, thank you for being free with no ads, thank you for having lawyers to defend our freedom of speech. thank you tag wranglers. thank you to all authors and thank you ao3
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