Summary: You and Hotch have been hiding feelings for each other until a Cassie song somehow makes both of y'all lose control.
Content Warning: !SMUT! oral (reader receiving), Unprotected sex (wrap it up mfs), choking and spanking if you squint, praise kink, "Good girl", slight alcohol use, i think that's all of the warnings i need. i apologize if i missed anything. Case details, but not from a canon case or nothing
Word count: 5,766
Narrator Notes: Hello!! So a little bout me i guess. i used to write a LOT about 10 years ago. supernatural fanfic mainly. so don't judge me if this seems a little "outdated" or something. i also am awful at writing smut but whatever it's an idea ive been wanting someone to write and haven't seen it anywhere so i did it. If anyone can write the same kind of concept but better, i am more than willing for it!
The BAU team has been working a case in California for the last couple of days. Victims were connected through a small club on the outskirts of L.A. Married men taking home women who weren't their wives. Hotch had Spencer and Morgan going to the latest crime scene, Emily and Rossi talking to the victims wives, and you and him were going to the club to see if any bartenders or regulars saw anything suspicious.
After talking to the fifth person of the night, of course, no one noticed anything note worthy. "Okay well if anything comes to mind, please give me a call. Thank you for your time" you say to the blonde bartender as you hand her your business card. You walk over to Aaron who was finishing up with a regular customer. "Did he know anything?" You ask him, hopeful that maybe he would be the piece of the puzzle to click it all together. "No, call Garcia and see if we can't find anything through credit card sales." Hotch is frustrated. This case hasn't made any sense the moment y'all got there. You can tell he's starting to get a little aggravated by the unaligning facts but he keeps his composure extremely well.
Then you hear some familiar music starting to play. "Uh. NextSelection" it starts out and you immediately recognize the song, Me & U by Cassie. It's only been on your playlist for years. A thought to try to get a small smile from him crosses your mind. He's not really paying you any mind. Just in his head for a minute trying to think through the case. As he looks up to say something to you, you're already making eye contact with him. "You've been waiting so long I'm here to answer your call." You point to him, trying to play up the dramatics. He just stares at you for a second, taken aback for no reason other than he wasn't expecting that. "I know that I shouldn't have had you waiting at all." You run your hand down your waist and move your hips side to side, not seductively, but more unserious and you notice a small flash of something in his eyes that you weren't able to deduce. "I've been so busy but I've been thinking 'bout what I wanna do with you." He just shakes his head and gives you a smile that lasts for half a second, "We need to go. You can continue your antics at home after we find this unsub." He says in a flat and strictly professional tone.
On the drive back Hotch is unusually quiet. You brush it off as him still being frustrated. Little do you know, he is frustrated, but it has very little to do with the case. He thought you were the most beautiful, angelic woman he's got the chance to meet. Aaron would never act on it though, being your superior and all. That's a line he knows better than to cross, but damn were you making it hard not to. "If only she knew..." He thought to himself. You also had some not so safe for work thoughts about him, but like him, that's a line you'd never cross. So, you both live your lives pushing those feelings back long enough to blow some steam off in your fantasies late at night by yourselves.
"You didn't like my performance? I thought I was killing it for you." You broke the silence in the SUV, he let out a barely noticeable chuckle that could've been passed off as a sigh. "I'm just more concerned about your performance on this case, not the performance you should save for a girls night." He's starting to grip the steering wheel tighter and hope you don't notice. You do. You think to yourself that maybe you're projecting your own sexual frustration onto him and couldn't wait to get to the motel room.
"Are you implying that I've been a subpar member of the team?" You ask in a teasing way, you wanted to say something along the lines of 'I bet you'd love to see the way I dance to that song on a girls night huh?' but that is definitely not a question you have enough confidence for. "You know that's not the case." He said, never taking his eyes off the road. He's trying so hard not to imagine you in some short cocktail dress swaying your hips, a little more confident than normal due to a small amount of alcohol in your system.
A couple days later, and after you and Spencer pull an all nighter trying to piece together the profile. Everyone is finally on the plane ride back. "I think we deserve a celebratory team night out after this!" Garcia says over the laptop. "I couldn't agree more Pen." You say from behind the laptops camera. After JJ, Emily, Spencer, and Morgan agree. You look toward Hotch with your eye brows raised, inquisitively. "No. No I can't. I have paperwork I have to complete." He says, but really, it's because last time he went on a night out with the team, you wore that one red dress that almost had him slipping up without thought. It was a close call last time and he couldn't afford to have another close call. "Oh come on! That paperwork isn't going anywhere, it'll be on your desk ready for you to do Monday morning." You say. He hesitates but replies with a "We'll see what happens" and leaves it at that.
When the plane lands you follow behind Emily and JJ to hop into JJ's vehicle. Before you do, you turn around to Aaron once more "You coming?" You ask, your voice a little softer than you meant it. That did a number to his chest and he knew it'd be a mistake to say yes, but he does it anyways. After pulling up to the familiar bar JJ and Spencer go to sit at y'all's normal table. You go to the bar and order a dry martini and Hotch is behind you ordering whiskey. "And put hers on my tab." you hear come from his direction. "No! No it's okay! I can take care of my own drinks." you say with an appreciative smile. He insists and you know it's futile to argue because he'll find a way anyways. Then that song comes on again.
"NextSelection." This time, Aaron notices the song immediately and heads over to everyone else. You're right on his heel, and by the time you sit down you're grabbing Penelope's hands and playing the theatrics up again "I know them other guys they've been talking 'bout the way i do what I do." Both of y'all, and JJ have joined in and are just having fun. Spencer looks at a chuckling Derrick a little confused. Rossi? Rossi is staring Hotch down. He knows. He is an excellent profiler, even if no one else notices. He saw the way your personality bubbled the tiniest bit more around Aaron, and the way Aaron would pay the tiniest bit more to you when you did. Which is exactly what he was doing right now.
"They heard I was good they wanna see if it's true." Aaron felt a small sting in his chest as he imagined other men talking about you sexually. He excused himself from the table and went to the bathroom. Splashing some water on his face and trying to get himself together, he knew his attempts were weak. Rossi told everyone he was going to get another drink, but was actually waiting outside the door when Hotch walked out the restroom. "You know..." Rossi started off, vague acknowledgment in his voice. "Both of y'all are very talented at keeping personal and work lives separate. I'm sure you can think of a way to do that with...different relations." He said as he wiggled his eyebrows at him. "I don't know what you're referring to." Aaron replied calmly on the outside, but on the inside he was freaking. Was he being that obvious? "Just something to think about." He left it at that as he walked to the bar, he couldn't come back empty handed.
Hotch sat back down, and you were still singing along. This time pointing towards him, trying to get him involved, even though you knew 'involved' just meant a smile. "Think I wanna make that move now, baby, tell me if you like it." You made direct eye contact with Hotch. His eyes darkened, and you swear it looked like lust. "No. I'm two martinis deep, that's what it is." You thought to yourself. You coughed and started laughing, trying to hide the way his eyes sent an electric shock straight to your core. "Let's go dance!" You grab Penelope's hand and move towards the dance floor. You needed to get him out of your eyesight before slipping up.
"I was waitin' for you to tell me you were ready." You are dancing behind Penelope, swaying your hips side to side, hands on your shoulders, and looking like you had no cares in the world. Aaron couldn't keep up with the conversations at the table, his eyes and thoughts were glued to you. Watching the way your skirt rode up your legs just a little bit. You caught him, he couldn't look away. It all finally clicked in your head, all at once. The look in his eyes gave it away almost immediately. So full of lust there was absolutely no way to mistake it for the alcohol in your system.
"I know what to do if only you would let me." You mouth the lyrics directly to him. "Fuck" he thinks to himself one last time before getting up from the table without saying a word. Everyone there looked at him confused, but they are non existent in his world right now. He beelines it towards you, grabs your hand, and pulls you outside. "Do you have any idea how much attention you call to yourself?" He asks, Standing next to you with his back on the brick wall. He doesn't look at you, he's scared if he does logic will fly out the window.
"From other people? Or...from you?" You ask him, you have anxiety boiling in your chest, and sparks shooting down your stomach and in between your legs. "This is out of line. You've been drinking. I'm your boss. This is highly inappropr-" He sounded like he was trying to convince himself of his own words more than he was reprimanding you. You cut him off with a kiss. Shocked by your actions, "I guess they don't call it liquid courage for nothing." You say with a not so convincing laugh. He just stares at you in disbelief for half a second before pulling you back in for another kiss, this time sloppier, needier. A small gasp leaves your mouth and you can feel him smile against you.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that." He tells you “I think I do.” You whisper back, breathless from the kiss alone. Aaron’s hand slides around your waist, fingers pressing into your hip hard enough to make your pulse jump. The parking lot suddenly feels too open, too public, too dangerous for the way he’s looking at you. That look. Controlled restraint hanging by a thread.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice is low, rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “Right now.” Instead, you grab the front of his button up and pull him back down to your mouth. That’s all it takes. His restraint snaps clean in half. Aaron’s hand tangles into your hair immediately, tilting your head back while he kisses you harder this time it's deep, consuming, absolutely filthy in the way he swallows every little sound you make. Your back hits the brick wall with a soft gasp.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters against your lips. “You have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all week?” You shake your head slightly, already dizzy from him. His thumb drags along your jaw. “Walking around in those skirts. Looking at me like that. Singing to me in that damn club.” He kisses you once, sharp and demanding. “You’re lucky I have self control.” Your thighs press together instinctively and he notices immediately. Of course he does. Profiler.
“Cute.” His eyes flick downward. “You’re already affected and I’ve barely touched you." Heat rushes straight to your face. Aaron notices that too. “You like when I talk to you like this?” he asks quietly. You nod before you can stop yourself. “Words, sweetheart.”
“Yes.”
His expression darkens at the name sweetheart, like he enjoys the way it sounds coming out around you. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.” A car passes somewhere down the street and reality crashes back for half a second. “We can’t do this here,” you whisper. “No,” he agrees immediately. “We can’t.” But he still kisses you again. Slower this time. Meaner somehow. Like he’s savoring it.
When he finally pulls away, both of you are breathing hard. Aaron rests his forehead against yours for a moment before stepping back just enough to regain composure. Then he says, calm as ever, “Come with me." The ride to his apartment is silent except for your heartbeat trying to claw out of your chest. Aaron’s jaw stays tight the entire drive, one hand on the wheel, the other flexing occasionally like he’s trying not to touch you. You swear the tension is making the air heavy.
The second the door shuts behind you, he’s on you again. One hand grips your waist while the other locks the door without looking. “Come here.” The command sends heat straight between your legs. Aaron backs you toward the bed slowly, eyes taking in every reaction on your face like he’s memorizing them. You’ve seen him intense before, interrogations, profiles, unsub confrontations. But this is different. This intensity is entirely focused on you. “You nervous?” he asks.
“A little.”
His hand slides up your throat gently, not enough pressure to scare you, just enough to make your breath hitch. “Don’t be.” His voice softens slightly. “I’ve got you.” The reassurance nearly destroys you more than the dominance does. He kisses you again while his hands start roaming your waist, your thighs, and your back, like he’s been imagining this for years and finally gets to touch. Every movement is confident. Certain.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he mutters against your mouth. “You know that?” You whimper softly when he pulls your lower lip between his teeth. “There it is,” he says immediately. “That sound.” Your stomach flips.
Aaron guides you onto the bed and stands between your knees, looking down at you with barely contained hunger. “I need you to tell me something.”
“Okay…”
“If I tell you what to do,” he says carefully, “are you going to listen?” You nod quickly. His hand slides along your thigh, pushing your skirt higher. “Use your words.”
“Yes, sir.”
The effect those two words have on him is instant. “Fuck,” he breathes, eyes shutting briefly. Then he looks at you again with something dangerously close to possessiveness. “Good girl.” His voice drops lower. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”
Aaron’s praise goes straight to your head. You can practically feel it unraveling you already. “Look at you,” he murmurs, thumbs tracing the inside of your thighs while he stands between them. “So responsive. All because I called you a good girl?”
Your face burns and he notices immediately. “Don’t hide from me now.” He hooks two fingers under your chin, making you look up at him. “You started this, remember?” You let out a shaky laugh. “I didn’t think you’d actually—" “What?” His mouth curves slightly. “Lose control?” The honesty in his expression steals your breath.
“Neither did I.” Then he kisses you again, slower this time, but somehow even more intense. Like now that he’s finally allowing himself this, he wants to savor every second. His hands slide under your shirt, palms warm against your skin, and the little gasp you make has him smirking against your mouth. “So sensitive.”
“Aaron…”
His expression darkens immediately at the sound of his first name falling from your lips like that. “Again.”
“Aaron,” you whisper softer this time.
“Jesus.” His forehead drops briefly against yours before he straightens again, composure hanging by threads. “You keep saying my name like that and I’m not responsible for what happens next.”
Your thighs press together again instinctively. He notices. Again. “You really can’t help it, can you?” His voice is rough with amusement. “Needy already.” You bite your lip and his eyes lock onto the movement instantly. “Don’t tease me unless you’re prepared for the consequences.” The warning sends a thrill straight through you.
Aaron’s hands slide down your thighs before he slowly lowers himself to his knees in front of you. The sight alone nearly kills you. “Aaron—”
“Relax.” His hands spread your knees apart gently but firmly. “Let me take care of you.” The dominant edge in his tone leaves absolutely no room to argue. He presses a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, eyes never leaving yours, and the deliberate patience of it makes your pulse race harder than if he’d rushed.
“You know how many times I’ve thought about this?” he asks quietly. Your fingers tighten in the motel comforter beneath you. “At work,” he continues, another kiss against your skin, “in meetings,” another, “watching you walk around acting completely oblivious.”
“Aaron…” Your voice sounds embarrassingly wrecked already. His eyes flick upward. “That’s right. Say my name.” Then he moves your panties to the side and his mouth finally meets you properly and the breath leaves your body all at once. The sound you make earns a low hum of approval from him.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs against your skin, “you taste so fucking good.” Your hand flies into his hair instinctively and he groans softly at the pressure. “That’s it,” he says. “Use me.”
The praise combined with the control in his voice is overwhelming. Every movement he makes is deliberate, confident and practiced, like he’s learning exactly what pulls reactions out of you fastest and fully intends to use that knowledge against you. “You’re doing so well for me,” he says when your hips twitch toward him. “Such a good girl.”
The words hit like a spark to gasoline. He notices immediately. “Oh, you really like that.” There’s the profiler again. Calmly dismantling you piece by piece. “You like being praised while I make you fall apart?” “Yes,” you admit breathlessly. “Good.” His grip tightens slightly on your thigh. “Then let me hear every sound.”
His lips wrap around your clit and he sucks lightly, as he works his tongue around it in small circles. Moans fly from your mouth "Fuck fuck fuck."
Aaron pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips swollen, hair slightly messed up from your fingers tugging at it. The sight alone is enough to make your head spin. “There she is,” he murmurs when another shaky sound leaves your mouth. “That’s the reaction I wanted.”
You’re breathing hard, completely flushed beneath him, and the confidence in his expression grows every time he realizes how affected you are. “You’re beautiful like this.” His thumb traces along your thigh soothingly. “Completely falling apart and still trying to stay quiet.”
Another kiss against your skin. “You don’t have to do that with me.” The gentleness in that sentence mixed with the dominance in everything else nearly undoes you completely.“Aaron…” you whimper softly.
His eyes lift immediately. Focused. Attentive. “What do you need?” The question catches you off guard. Even now, even while he looks at you like he wants to ruin you, he’s still making sure you’re okay. “You,” you admit weakly.
Something possessive flashes across his face at that. “Careful,” he says quietly, standing back up slowly until he’s hovering over you again. “You keep saying things like that and I’m going to start thinking you belong to me.” The words send heat rushing through you instantly.
Aaron notices the reaction and gives a low chuckle. “Thought so.” He kisses you deeply, one hand sliding into your hair while the other grips your waist firmly enough to keep you exactly where he wants you. Every movement from him feels controlled, deliberate, but underneath it you can feel how close he is to losing composure completely.
“You’ve been driving me insane,” he admits against your lips. “Do you know how hard it’s been sitting across from you every day pretending I don’t think about this?” His forehead rests briefly against yours. “Pretending I don’t think about you.” The confession makes your chest ache in the best possible way.
You reach up instinctively, fingers brushing along his jaw, softer this time. “You hide it well.” Aaron gives you a look at that. Half amusement, half disbelief. “Apparently not well enough.” A laugh escapes you and he kisses it right out of your mouth.
“God,” he mutters, eyes dragging over your face like he can’t get enough of looking at you. “You have no idea what you do to me.” Then his expression shifts again this time calmer, more controlled, but somehow more dangerous because of it.
“Sit up for me.” You obey immediately. The approval in his eyes is instant. “Good girl.” Your breath catches again and he smirks slightly. “I could get addicted to that reaction.” His hands slide along your waist slowly, grounding, possessive without being harsh. “You trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Completely?”
The certainty in your answer surprises even you. “Yes.” Aaron’s expression softens for one brief second before the intensity returns full force. He flips you over on the bed and pulls your panties off completely before latching back onto your sensitive bud. This time he inserts two thick fingers in you. Slowly pumping, you can feel yourself stretching over them. "Aaron...it feels so-" You get cut off by a nip to your thigh, immediately followed with his soft, wet tongue on that same spot. "Good girl, Let me hear you sweetheart" Your head falls back at his words and can feel your tight walls fluttering as the familiar feeling coils in your stomach "I'm about to- Aaron-" He cuts you off again "Come for me, pretty girl. Come around my fingers" And with that your vision goes white and your screaming his name.
He finger fucks you through your orgasm and when you finally come down from the euphoric release. "I've been thinking about how your face would look when you came for a long time. Now that I've seen it, I don't think I can go a single night without seeing it." He says behind you. Your pussy throbs at his words.
"Aaron...Please..." You whimper out. and you can hear him unbuckle his belt and his thick member is pressing against your opening. "Use your words sweetheart. Please what?" Your pussy throbs again. Fuck his words did something to you.
"Fuck me Aaron. I can't wait anymore" And with that he bottoms out in you and you can't control the loud moan coming from your mouth. "Do you know how beautiful you sound?" He groans out an octave lower than you've ever heard from him. His pace is hard, deep, and relentless. You know you're not gonna last long like this. "You're doing so good. Such a good girl" He says before giving you a smack on the ass. The way it jiggled back in his face almost made him come right there. "I can't- I'm gonna-" You were cut off by Aaron wrapping his hands in your hair and pulling you up towards him. "I am too sweetheart. Let it go for me. Be a good girl and come on my dick." And with that. Your vision is blurring out again, harder this time. As you're riding your orgasm out. Aaron is right behind you, his moans getting louder and louder before he finally releases inside you.
Aaron stays against your back for a second after both of you come down, his chest rising hard against your skin while he presses slow kisses along your shoulder. The room is quiet except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. Then his grip on your waist softens. Not less possessive. Just gentler. “You okay?” he asks quietly. You nod into the pillow, still completely wrecked. “More than okay.” A low chuckle leaves him and he brushes your hair away from your face before carefully pulling out of you. The loss makes you whine softly and he smirks. “Don’t start.”
“You say that like this wasn’t your fault.”
“It absolutely was my fault,” he replies calmly, completely unashamed. “And I’d do it again.” Heat rushes straight to your face. Aaron notices immediately, of course he does, and leans down beside you on the bed. For the first time all night, the intensity in his eyes eases into something softer. Something that honestly scares you more than the sex did. His fingers trace absentminded patterns against your bare hip while silence settles between you comfortably. No awkwardness. No regret. Just…warmth. You turn onto your side to look at him properly and the sight nearly steals your breath all over again. Aaron Hotchner, usually perfectly composed, has messy hair, a loosened tie hanging around his neck, and swollen lips from kissing you. And somehow he’s looking at you like you’re the one ruining him.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs.
“You’re very distracting.”
That earns you a real smile this time. Small, but genuine enough to make your chest ache. Then reality slowly creeps back in. Work. The team. Rules. Consequences. Your expression must shift because Aaron notices instantly. “Hey.” His hand moves to your jaw gently. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Start overthinking.”
You let out a soft laugh. “Profiler.”
“Occupational hazard.” His thumb brushes along your cheekbone. “We’ll figure it out.” The certainty in his voice settles something anxious inside you. Aaron had always sounded sure of himself during cases, during negotiations, during impossible situations. But hearing that same certainty directed at you feels entirely different. Your fingers curl lightly against his wrist. “This is probably a horrible idea.”
“It definitely is.”
You laugh again and he smiles against your mouth when he kisses you softly this time. No desperation. No frantic need. Just Aaron. And somehow that feels even more intimate. “I don’t think I care,” you admit quietly against his lips. His eyes search yours for a long moment like he’s trying to decide something. Then he exhales softly through his nose and rests his forehead against yours. “You make it very hard for me to care about consequences,” he says. Your heart stutters painfully in your chest at the honesty in his voice.
“Aaron…”
“I mean it.” His hand tightens slightly at your waist. “I spent months trying not to cross this line because I knew exactly what would happen if I did.” He gives a small shake of his head. “And then you looked at me tonight like that and suddenly I couldn’t remember why I was trying so hard.” Emotion swells so suddenly in your chest it catches you off guard. “I’ve wanted you for so long.” You admit quietly to him. His eyes soften instantly. “Yeah?” You nod. “I think part of me always knew it was you.” Something vulnerable flashes across his face then. Brief, but real. You don’t think many people ever get to see Aaron Hotchner look genuinely unguarded. But you do now.
“I love you.”
The words slip out before you can stop them. The second they leave your mouth your eyes widen slightly in horror. “Oh my God—” Aaron cuts you off immediately by kissing you. Slow. Firm. Certain. When he pulls back, his forehead stays against yours.
“Good,” he murmurs quietly. “Because I love you too.”
Your chest feels so full it almost hurts. “Really?” A soft huff of amusement leaves him. “You think I lose my mind over just anyone?” You laugh breathlessly and hide your face against his neck while his arms wrap around you immediately, pulling you close against him. He presses a kiss into your hair and stays there for a long moment, neither of you saying anything else. Eventually Aaron glances toward the digital clock beside the bed and sighs. “As much as I’d like to stay here with you all weekend…”
“We have work in five hours.”
“We have work in five hours,” he confirms. You groan dramatically into his shoulder. “Can’t Garcia hack the FBI system and fake our deaths?”
“She probably could.”
“And?”
“And Rossi would still call asking where the paperwork is.” That gets a laugh out of both of you.
By the time the two of you walk into Quantico Monday morning, everything appears completely normal. Aaron is back in his suit with that calm, unreadable expression. You’re carrying coffee and trying very hard not to think about the fact that less than two hours ago he kissed you breathless against his kitchen counter before work.
No one seems suspicious.
Morgan is arguing with Reid about statistics. JJ is catching Emily up on something Henry did. Garcia bursts through the bullpen doors wearing bright pink and immediately starts complaining about printer issues.
Completely normal.
Aaron walks past your desk and pauses just long enough to set a fresh coffee beside your files without looking at you. Your stomach flips anyway. “Hotch bringing you coffee now?” Morgan asks suspiciously. You recover instantly. “He lost a bet.”
“I absolutely did not,” Aaron says flatly from his office doorway before disappearing inside. Morgan snorts. “Damn, baby girl. You got the boss buying you coffee for free?” You shrug casually while trying not to smile too hard. “Maybe I’m just charming.” Across the bullpen, Rossi watches the entire interaction over the rim of his coffee mug. Smug bastard.
Later that afternoon everyone gathers in the round table room for a case briefing. Aaron is all business at the front of the room, focused and composed like always, and honestly it’s impressive considering the fact that his hand was around your throat twelve hours ago. You avoid eye contact for the sake of survival. Rossi, unfortunately, notices that too. Near the end of the meeting he leans back in his chair casually. “You know,” he says, “I always find it interesting when two people are very good at keeping secrets.” Emily looks up. “What does that even mean?”
“Experience talking.” Rossi takes a sip of coffee innocently. “Sometimes you can tell when people finally stop ignoring what’s right in front of them.” Your heart nearly stops. Aaron doesn’t react outwardly at all, but you know him well enough now to notice the tiny tightening in his jaw. Morgan points at Rossi. “See, this is why nobody understands you when you get philosophical.”
“Thank you,” Reid says seriously. “I thought I was having a stroke.” Rossi just smirks into his coffee. “Don’t worry about it.” His eyes flick briefly toward you and Aaron. “The people I’m talking about already understand me.” You choke on your coffee. Aaron slides a box of tissues toward you without looking up from the file in front of him. And somehow that only makes Rossi grin wider.
The meeting finally ends and everyone starts filing out of the room, still talking over each other about the new case. Morgan and Emily are arguing about who makes the better coffee, Reid is correcting both of them, and Garcia is already halfway out the door dramatically announcing that she refuses to look at crime scene photos without “emotional support snacks.” Normal. Completely normal. You’re gathering your files when Aaron steps beside you quietly. “A word?” he asks in that same calm unit-chief voice he always uses. Nobody bats an eye. “Uh oh,” Morgan says while walking past. “Somebody’s in trouble.”
“If I disappear,” you deadpan, “tell my mother I died brave.”
Aaron gives you the faintest unimpressed look while Rossi outright laughs from across the room. The second the office door shuts behind you, the tension snaps instantly. Aaron’s hand settles against your waist, pulling you into him before you can even speak. “You almost choked to death because Rossi can’t mind his business.”
“He absolutely knows.”
“He absolutely does.”
You laugh softly, arms sliding around his neck. “Do you think anyone else suspects anything?”
“No.” Aaron brushes his thumb along your hip absentmindedly. “And I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible.”
“That serious FBI tone shouldn’t be attractive.”
“And yet.” You grin and lean up to kiss him quickly. Soft. Familiar already somehow. When you pull away, Aaron rests his forehead against yours with a quiet exhale. The stress lines that usually sit permanently between his brows are softer now. Lighter. “You know,” you murmur, “for someone who spent months avoiding this, you seem pretty comfortable now.” His mouth twitches slightly. “That’s because the hard part was pretending I didn’t love you.” Your heart does that embarrassing fluttering thing all over again. “You keep saying stuff like that and I’m never getting work done again.”
“That sounds like a you problem.” You laugh and hide briefly against his chest while his arms wrap around you automatically. A knock suddenly sounds against the office door. Both of you jump apart like guilty teenagers. “Come in,” Aaron says immediately, voice perfectly composed. Rossi opens the door just enough to lean against the frame with far too much amusement on his face. “You two done discussing paperwork?”
“Yes,” Aaron answers instantly. “Mm.” Rossi nods slowly like he absolutely does not believe him for a second. “Well, whenever you’re finished with your…paperwork, we have a briefing in twenty.” You refuse to look at him. Rossi’s grin widens. “Oh, and Hotch?” Aaron sighs already. “What.”
“Next time you decide to fall in love with someone on the team,” Rossi says casually, “try not to stare at her like she hung the moon during meetings. Makes it very obvious.” Then he walks away before either of you can respond. Silence. You slowly turn toward Aaron. “You stared at me like I hung the moon?” Aaron looks genuinely offended. “I did not.”
“Aaron.” He adjusts his tie with complete seriousness. “Close the door on your way out, Agent.” You burst out laughing while he finally loses the fight against his own smile.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
This one is for Aaron hotchner, truly one of the most complex characters, who was bound to have a tragic life.
He is a natural leader, protector and truly a father figure and yet these are the exact roles where he fails most, as a husband and a father.
One of the earliest, most impactful scenes of Hotch is him cleaning the blood off Elle's walls. It is something he can just delegate, especially when he's already too many responsibilities, he's struggling in his personal life with his wife and child and yet he personally cleans it. Because it's a compulsion for him, he feels responsible, he takes accountability, sometimes for things which aren't even his baggage to deal with.
Hotchner is like one of the unsubs they chase, they know rationally it's not right, but they can't stop it. He knows he's wrong for whatever he's done to Haley and jack, that they deserve a present man, but he is truly incapable to let go of his job, because he cannot fathom the idea that innocent people, lives could have been saved. That is why he changed his career from a prosecutor to FBI, he did not want to deal with the after math you wanted to stop the tragedies.
His soft moments, his caring nature was always the most heartwarming thing. He's a very very stereotypical man and that included the best things. He was a protector, he held your hand when you're struggling. One of the most remarkable moments is when he holds the hand of a dying unsub who's killing men for abandoning their families. Or when he completely loses it as an innocent man burns himself alive to punish the unsub. This from a man who didn't even flinch when foyet shot him, means everything.
Pls reader who’s always wanted a baby but is too scared to ask hotch to have one with her — he’s his usual understanding self and also whipped and nearly cries cos he gets all emotional?
—you and Aaron misunderstand one another. fem, 2k
You debate yourself for weeks, on and off, alone or with company, and aided by the internet.
Is it okay to want a baby when you have a step kid? Does really wanting a baby mean I don’t like the first one? Your search engine spits out forums and web articles alike that say the same things —of course it’s okay. Wanting another kid doesn’t mean you don’t love your first; craving to be a mom to a baby doesn’t mean you don’t love Jack, even though he had his own mom when he was a youngster.
You read a little about it. Books recommended by the articles, and stories from women who became step-moms to children with mothers who had heartbreakingly passed away. It’s a guilty thing to be the mom or stepmom to a child who’s natural mom has died. You might always feel cruel for stealing her moments, for loving her ex husband, and raising her baby. But Jack isn't just someone’s baby, he’s Jack, and you don’t think you could’ve helped yourself. You would’ve loved him no matter what.
Once you’ve worked past two different types of guilt, you’re crushed by your reality. Jack is nearly nine years old. Your husband isn’t exactly spry. Like, there’s nothing wrong with him (besides a stomach full of scar tissue and partial deafness in one ear), but he’s not a spring chicken, either, and he seems content with your life. In what world would he want to change diapers again?
The same world where he gets to kiss a little cheek, you think hopefully. Where you get to make it together. Maybe… he loves you enough to try, even if it’s not something he’s pictured.
You settle, and you decide to be brave. You’ll ask Aaron to have a baby with you, and you won’t feel guilty.
You realise you can’t face the answer, is all. If he says no it’s gonna break your heart. If you never ask you’ll never get one, unless it’s an accident, and that’s not a good idea, either, you’d never purposefully want a baby to find out later on that the dad doesn’t want them, even if you’d be enough. You know you’d be a good mom, and that you could deal with things alone. There’s an avenue you could take where you have your baby no matter what, it’s your life.
If only you didn’t love Aaron as much as you do. The idea of being without him is a horror you don’t want to contend with.
Aaron can sense your constant mental back-and-forth, though he hasn’t guessed what it’s about yet. If you give him time he might get there on his own. He watches you thinking and he wraps a hand around your leg. Weird thing to do, but he’s not normal. He’s a gentleman mostly. Rare moments like this betray his character, how he loves you, pulling your leg toward him and hugging it to his chest despite a strange angle.
“Honey,” he begins softly.
“Not tonight, I have a headache.”
“That’s not funny,” he says, smiling, “you know you don’t have to say anything else besides no.”
“Can’t imagine being with someone who needs a reason,” you say, softly as he had as you lay back against a minky cushion, “‘m lucky my love’s such a gentleman.”
“You can’t deflect all night.”
“I was only kidding. Take my pants off and we’ll–” You gasp a laugh as he squeezes your thigh. “Shit, don’t do that!”
“You don’t have to be so crass about everything,” he says, joking. And people would tell you he has no sense of humour. “I’m trying to ask if you’re okay. I know you’re dodging the question, but I was gonna persuade you.”
“Oh, yeah?” you ask, letting your knees tip apart, punished by another awful squeeze.
“Honey.” He kisses your knee. Your heart is pressed on from all sides. “I just want to know what’s upsetting you lately. I can tell it’s important, but I can’t work out what it is.”
“It’s not. Not important, I mean.”
“I’ve been putting my mind to it. There aren’t many things that could take up this much of your attention. I worried you might’ve been chafing with Jack, but you’re as sweet on him as usual. I worried you might be having second thoughts about us, but you’re not. You’re too careful with your wedding ring to have me think you don’t love me, and–” He rubs at your leg. “You’re as tactile as ever. You aren’t drawing away from us. I don’t want to think about it, but I’m worried you’re sick or something similar and you aren’t telling me.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you say, startling you both, “please don’t worry, I’m not sick.“
“You’re alright?” he asks.
“I’m about as healthy as I usually am.”
“But?”
You can’t not tell him. You’re married. He loves you. While you’ve driven yourself crazy wondering how much, he’s been worrying you’re poorly. It’s unfair, and you can’t do it much longer.
“I have been thinking about something for a while,” you confess.
“And a lot.”
“Yeah. I think about it every day.”
Aaron turns your face to his. You’d have to change positions to kiss, your leg firmly locked in his grasp. He doesn’t lean in, holding your eye with a seriousness rarely given at home. He looks as though he’s had a long day. “I can’t think of anything you could say to me that I wouldn’t still love you by the end,” he says quietly.
“It’s not about love.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because there are things we won’t agree on.”
“I can’t agree if you don’t tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.
“I know. I’m not not telling you because you aren’t allowed to disagree with me, I’m just scared.”
“Scared?” he asks, frowning now, that square wrinkle at his brow deeply carved.
You have to build yourself up for a long time before you can say what you want to say out loud. He waits in the quiet, his expression impossible to read.
“You know how much I love Jack.”
Aaron’s hands are still on your leg. “Of course.”
“And how much I love you.”
His lips part, but he doesn’t speak. There’s a dawning understanding on his face as he stops touching you, his hands falling to his lap resoundingly. “What’s going on?” he asks.
You aren’t encouraged by his response.
He doesn’t want a baby. Saying it is admitting to a difference between you both, one that might make him angry. You’ve never had him angry with you.
Usually, if he noticed your flicker of fear, he’d have rushed to correct it, but Aaron does nothing now. He simply waits.
“I wanted to ask you to have a baby with me,” you say quietly, watching him for an emotion and finding him with a blankness he’s practised over years. You’ve no hope of discerning him. “But I don’t think you’ll say yes. I’m sorry. I just want it.”
He swallows roughly. “Oh.”
“I know it’s not something we’ve talked about much.”
His hands return. His fingers slip up your calf until it’s trapped in the hinge of your knee, pulling your thigh to his chest. Hip to hip as you are, you’d think it would be uncomfortable, but he’s gentle. He leans down to rest his cheek against your knee. For a moment, you’re his to look at, squirming with nerves and depressed to have disappointed him. You fight the urge to run.
“For a second I thought you were about to tell me you’d cheated on me,” he says under his breath.
You startle. “What?”
“You looked so sorry, my mind went straight to the worst. You looked like you knew you were about to hurt me.”
His sincerity is aching.
“I could never do that.”
“I know, I’m sorry for entertaining it…” He picks up his head. “I never thought you’d be scared to talk to me about anything. It was the only thing I could think of that you might’ve done wrong.”
“I thought you were angry about the baby.”
“Is there… a baby?” he asks tentatively.
“No.” You rub the painful throb between your eyes. “No, there isn’t a baby. I just meant you’d be angry at me for asking. Disrupting our life.”
“You think you’re disrupting us by expressing what you want?”
“It’s a big thing.”
“Can I put you out of your misery?” He turns to take your face into his hand. “I would never be angry with you for wanting something, especially a baby. And I can tell how much this has worried you, so while I can’t promise the answer is uncomplicated, I’m happy to say yes to you. If you want a baby and you want that with me, of course I’ll say yes.”
“Jack–”
“Honey, you’re thinking too much about Jack. Children have siblings. It doesn’t mean you don’t love them. Is that why you brought him up first?”
You look away, ashamed to be read. “Sometimes I wish you didn’t know everything.”
“Honey, I don’t.”
Your smile is unbidden and somehow deeply felt at the same time, chancing a happy look at him. He’s smiling too. “You’re serious? You’d have a baby with me?”
He turns into you even more, raising his remaining hand to your opposite cheek, holding you sweetly, putting you nose to nose. “I wish you’d asked me before you worried yourself sick. I would love to have a baby with you, sweetheart. I didn’t realise it was something you wanted already.”
“I want it with you,” you say, matching his low tone.
“And I want it with you. How couldn’t I?”
You fight the sudden heat of tears, your heart pounding in your ears. ”I figured Jack is growing up, you’re so busy, and things have only now calmed down–”
“Who cares?” he asks, laughing.
“I thought you might.”
“I’m sure I will, but not right now. You want a baby?” He gives your head the gentlest squeeze between his hands. “Sweetheart. You want to have a baby?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Then let’s have a baby.” Aaron’s shaking his head, pulling you in, his lips glancing off of your cheek as he hugs you tighter than he ever has. You lose all the breath in your lungs.
“Don’t hurt me,” you tease, relaxing for the first time in weeks in his arms, “or I won’t be able to have one.”
“I could never hurt you like that,” he says easily. “Oh, sweetheart.” He says your name. He says it again.
All that fuss for nothing. You confess on a high, “I want one so bad I don’t know what to do with myself half the time, I– I went to the mall a few days ago to look at the baby stuff, just to look, and I wanted to ask you when I got home but I lost my nerve.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, I even picked up this little babygrow with flowers on the feet but–” You fluster at the memory. “Sorry, that’s so weird.”
“It’s not weird.” He encourages you away with another rough swallow and scares you half to death —if he cries, you’re gonna sob. His eyes are definitely glassy. “We should go, you can show me.”
“Really?”
“We have to start preparing at some point, right?”
You climb onto your knees and vault on top of him, arms around his neck, no chance he can get away. He takes it like a champ, returning your ecstatic laughter with a more content chuckle, a big hand spreading out protectively over your shoulder.
A baby, you think, unaware that Aaron’s thinking the exact same thing, with the same reverent warmth growing in his chest. A baby.
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader
Word Count: 2530
Tags: 18+, NSFW, Established relationship, Fingering, Unprotected sex, Begging to be touched
Summary:
“It’s always the quiet ones,” you say in response to some vaguely sexual joke that’s at Spencer’s expense, but he laughs and so does everyone else.
“What do you know about quiet ones?” Derek asks with an arched brow. “I know your loud ass has never been quiet a night in your life."
Masterlist - Link to A03
It starts on the jet, as so many things do.
Sometimes, the weight of the world is so heavy after a case that all you can do is sleep, read, or ruminate. Sometimes the day is painful, and all you can do is think about how lucky you are that you’re all making it home together.
Sometimes, the team is no better than a group of college kids at a bar, oversharing and laughing and annoying Aaron and Rossi, no doubt. Sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.
“It’s always the quiet ones,” you say in response to some vaguely sexual joke that’s at Spencer’s expense, but he laughs and so does everyone else.
“What do you know about quiet ones?” Derek asks with an arched brow. “I know your loud ass has never been quiet a night in your life,” he teases, and you roll your eyes playfully, swat at his arm.
“I resent that—and you’re wrong, anyway. When it comes to sex, I’m very reserved. Vocally,” you add with an exaggerated wink. JJ shakes her head, and Derek snorts. Emily leans in, her hands clasped together.
“So you don’t run your mouth in bed? I find that kind of hard to believe, considering you do everywhere else,” she says with a grin, and you huff a laugh.
“Rude. But no, I actually don’t make much noise at all. It’s mostly just breathing. Increasingly more rapid breathing, but still just breathing.”
“Uh huh. I’m sure the right person could get you screaming,” Derek says with his usual irresistible smile; you shake your head and do your best not to look over at Aaron, because you’re sure the tips of his ears are red beneath the cover of his case file.
Aaron is very reserved when it comes to sex, and you think that could be what makes you such a good pair. The chemistry is off the charts, and when it’s just the two of you, moving and panting and moaning quietly into each other's mouths—well, there’s nothing better in the world than that.
Who needs dirty talk when there’s a big, strong man, with dark hair and serious eyes, on top of you (or behind you, or beneath you) whose only goal is to get you off?
“Many have tried. None have succeeded,” you say, thinking of ex-lovers who hated how quiet you were and weren’t shy about saying so. To each their own, but you are who you are. You love that Aaron gets that.
That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.
You can admit that some of it is… reluctance. Fear that, if you show anyone that side of you, the begging, needy, clingy mess you can be, they’ll run as far away as two legs can get them. You can’t bear that kind of rejection, never could, but if you get loud and Aaron decides it’s too much for him? You’d be absolutely devastated.
He’s the best thing to ever happen to you, and to lose him over something so simple, something you can easily control, it just doesn’t make sense. It’s not like you need to be whiny and eager, you can rein it in, so it’s just easier to do that and let a good thing stay good than to take the risk and lose it all.
Something about the conversation strikes a chord with Aaron, though, because when you get back to his place that night he maneuvers you into the shower and kisses you, hot and steamy, while he scrubs your hair and body clean. He puts on his pajamas, watches as you pull a cotton tank top over your head, but big hands on your waist and ass stop him from letting you get any further than that.
“It almost sounded like you were issuing a challenge earlier,” Aaron whispers in your ear, and you break out in goosebumps, feel your nipples harden, and clutch at his soft t-shirt, arching against him. He backs you carefully up against the bedroom wall, reaches down to rub between your legs, where you’re wet from just that sultry kissing and his groping hands.
“And if I was?” you counter, breathy, gasping softly as he presses two fingers swiftly inside you, thick and deep and delicious. You feel so unfathomably full—pussy, head, heart, it’s all Aaron, all the time, like a 24/7 news network dedicated to the only man who’s ever been able to make you weak in the knees.
“Then I accept.” He holds you around your waist, glides his fingers in and out of you; you can feel his smile against your throat, sharp and sweet, a grin and a taunt at the same time. “Baby,” he says, voice rough, stern, and you practically melt between him and the wall he’s pressed you against. “What’s my name?”
“Aaron.” It’s barely a murmur, and he tuts, pushing a third finger into you and resting his thumb on your clit. Inside, you're whining, begging for more, but outwardly you can only pant against his body and take what he gives you; he makes you feel safe, comfortable, more than anybody ever has, but you still can’t bring yourself to show him that side of you here, the part that’s loud and desperate and out of control.
“I know you can do better than that. What’s my name?” His deep, dark eyes hold your gaze as he thrusts his hand inside you; you’re impossibly wet, and it’s audible in the quiet room, filthy and obscene. “Tell me.”
“Fuck. Aaron.” It’s still soft, but needy, and he slides his free hand over the back of your thigh, encourages you to lift your leg and hook it around his hip. He pounds into you harder, faster, deeper than before with this new angle, then bends down to catch your mouth in a slow, tender kiss.
“Again, just like that,” he croons, breath against your lips, fingers stretching you open, and you twist his undershirt in your fist, tip your head back, groan softly. Sex has always been great with Aaron, more than satisfying, but tonight he is checking boxes you didn’t even know existed. He is quick, and a little rough, and it’s nearly enough to make your eyes roll back in your head.
“Aaron, Aaron.”
“Louder, baby, tell me.” He moves his hand up, still pumping the other inside you, and pushes up your tank top, bares your breasts, and leans in to suck on a nipple. It’s pure pleasure, and you’re so close, you want to give in to him, give it all to him, everything he wants.
Despite your desires, when you come it’s with a soundless intake of breath and a scrape of your nails against his waist; still, he tells you how well you did, how good you feel, how perfect you are, kisses you softly when you reach up for his face.
“I’m sorry,” you tell him when the kiss breaks, and he shakes his head, pulls the corner of his mouth up in a smile.
“You don’t have to be sorry. That was incredible; you’re incredible.” You kiss again, smile against smile, and you hop up to let him carry you over to the bed. “And I’ll keep trying, as long as it takes; if you want to be loud, I’ll make you loud,” he promises, hovering over you.
When he pushes inside, you open your mouth in a wordless moan.
It turns out, the setting doesn’t matter (hotel, motel, living room, bedroom, kitchen…) and the activity doesn’t matter either—you do it all together, some things you dream about and some things you try just to say you tried. Despite his very valiant efforts, you can’t let go, can’t give him all of you even though you want to more than anything.
And then, one day six months from that initial conversation, almost a year into your relationship, he finally cracks the code.
It’s a quick, after work date night, and you have a lovely time at your favorite restaurant, feel warm and soft and content when he walks you to the car, your hand in his, when he opens the door and leans in to kiss your lips before he closes it.
He drives you back to your place, his hand on your thigh, your gaze on his profile as the city speeds past you, and when he gets you inside, he moves slowly, but his intentions are loud and clear.
Aaron takes off your clothes first, lays you back on the bed and trails his lips over every spot he knows will drive you crazy. Then, he removes his jacket, throws it over on the corner of the bed, and just… stares down at your bare body. His expression is dark, serious, aroused, and you rub your legs together, because the focus in his eyes is just so goddamn sexy. He is so sexy, fully clothed or naked, and every step along the way from one to the other.
“Aaron,” you murmur softly, wetting your lips, and he reaches up to loosen his tie, to pull it through his collar and toss it onto the bed with his jacket. He says nothing in response, just watches you, your breathing speeding up as you watch him back.
He removes his belt, leans down to take off his shoes and socks, and you sink your teeth into your bottom lip and follow his hands with your eyes. They untuck his shirt, unbutton it slowly, lingering, his fingers dragging over fabric you know is smooth, which covers a body you know is firmer than it seems.
You run a hand through your hair and just watch him undress himself, watch him take off that shirt and his pants, watch him pull his white t-shirt over his head, push his boxers down.
His cock is hard, and you quiver thinking about it, about all the pleasure it’s guaranteed to bring.
Never once has this man left you unsatisfied, and you know there's no chance he's about to start doing it now.
“Aaron,” you whimper, because he has never been this… evil before, stripping so slowly, letting his big hands run over his hairy chest, his stomach, until he closes one around his cock.
He’s so far away, at the end of your bed, and you want him closer, need him closer. It’s always a fucking delight to watch him jerk off, but the distance, the lack of contact, it’s making you crazy.
“Aaron.” You lick your lips, swallow, push yourself up on your elbows, and he gazes at your face, strokes himself, silent. “Aaron, please.”
“Please what, baby?” he asks, running his other hand over the back of his neck, his body stretched out and on display. You’re so wet already, your fingers tingling, so desperate for his touch, and you squeeze your thighs together, your chest heaving, and moan his name.
“Aaron. Fuck, Aaron,” you whine, your voice so broken and high-pitched it’s almost a wail. “Touch–touch me. Please, please touch me.”
The words tumble out of your mouth, and when the corner of his lips curve up into a sexy smile, pleased with your rambling, it’s over.
You get on your hands and knees and crawl toward him like a kitten, begging for affection and a treat; he looks over your body as you move closer, fists his dick slowly, and you’re trembling when you pause in front of him, soaked and desperate, a horny fucking mess.
“Something you want?” he asks, his voice scraping your raw nerves like gravel, and you press your hands to your thighs, look up at him with wet, serious eyes, and nod your head. “You have to tell me. I don’t know if you don’t tell me,” he murmurs softly, reaching out to run his palm over your hair.
“I want you," you tell him, nuzzling up against his hand.
Aaron presses his lips together, shakes his head.
“That’s not enough, I’m afraid. Try again, angel.” You groan at the nickname, shift so you can bring a hand between your legs for just a little relief, and he pauses, tips your head up with a few gentle fingers under your jaw. “If you want to touch yourself, you have to tell me first.”
“Fuck,” you sigh, and he hits you with that goddamn smile again.
“If you want that, you have to tell me, too.”
“I want anything,” you say eagerly, and suddenly it’s like the floodgates have opened, and you’re wet and naked and vulnerable and exposed. You never imagined it would feel this good. “I want you, I want your cock. I want to touch it, I want to taste it, I want it inside me.”
You reach for him, and he’s no longer stoic as he grabs you, hauls you in for a messy, passionate kiss. He runs his hands over your face, down your throat, cups your breasts roughly with them, and you moan like you’re getting paid to, your hips moving against nothing in a search for delicious friction.
“Aaron, please. Fuck me, fuck me, please,” you keen, and he climbs on the bed, on his knees, and pulls you into his lap, thrusts up hard as you settle against his thighs so he’s completely sheathed inside you.
You feel your slick on your skin, on his, and you whimper and beg as he wraps his arms around you, fucks his hips up and pulls you down onto his dick again and again.
“Oh god, yes,” you moan, your voice shaking, and you put your hands on Aaron's head, in his hair, ride him like your life depends on it. “Yes, fuck, Aaron, fuck.”
“That’s it,” he grunts as your bodies slap together, his fingertips digging into your back as he bounces you in his lap. “Tell me my name, baby, scream it,” he all but growls, and you clench down around him, don’t stop yourself crying out as he wrings a frantic, shivering orgasm for your overstimulated body.
“Aaron, Aaron, oh, god!” Your breath is labored, your eyes wide as you watch him watch you come undone, as you watch his own orgasm shudder through him, as he spills inside you, hot and long.
When he lays you back, you’re as blissed out as you’ve ever been; he kisses you, and you mostly follow his lead and let him keep kissing you, so deliciously drained you can’t pull together the thought it takes to properly kiss him back.
He runs his hands over you, caresses you, murmurs praise in your ear, and when you finally feel like you’re back on earth, warm and solid in your bed, you quirk a smile he matches easily.
“Wow,” you say, because what else is there to say? Aaron leans in for a soft press of lips and nods his head.
“Yeah. Wow.” He kisses you again, again, smooths back the hair from your forehead so he can kiss there too. “I love you loud,” he murmurs, looking over your face with such affection it makes you want him again already. “And I love you quiet. I love you every way a man can.”
You shift beneath him so you can wrap an arm around his shoulders, bring him closer for more tender, easy kisses.
“I love you,” you tell him, running your fingers over his graying temple. “Quietly and out loud.”
What starts as lunch with her husband becomes a quiet reckoning in the halls of the FBI. Faced with doubt, judgment and her own uncertainty, she is reminded that being Aaron Hotchner’s wife means never standing alone, even when she’s lost. 1.4k
I really can’t lie, these husbands pulling up for their wife scenarios will always be be my fav cause what you mean you standing up for me, staking your claim n shit hehe got me kicking my feet
As always please go into this knowing that these stories are mostly built from my maladaptive daydreams, knowing that most points that aren't described in detail are indications I didn’t fascinate on it enough and others over explained because I hyper fixated on that certain point, but most importantly please know I do use AI as my unpaid employee to fix things and act as my co reader. Enjoy!
She had been so sure this would be easy.
She’d been to Aaron’s building before, once, maybe twice, but always with him. Always with his hand warm at the small of her back, guiding her through security, murmuring where to go, who to smile at, when to wait. Today was different. Today, he’d kissed her that morning, smiled in that quiet way of his, and said, Come have lunch with me. I’ll be tied up, but come anyway.
So she did.
She pulled into the FBI parking structure with the windows cracked just enough to let the spring air drift in. Jack was already unbuckling before the engine had even shut off, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Dad’s office is upstairs,” he announced, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
She laughed, adjusting Henry in his carrier as she pulled him out of the car. “Okay, buddy, but we walk together, alright?”
Jack nodded and then immediately took off.
“Jack—!” she called, heart jumping.
He was fast. Faster than she expected. Small sneakers slapping against the concrete as he darted ahead, weaving around adults with the singular confidence of a child who knew exactly where he was going.
“Dad!” Jack shouted joyfully as the lobby doors slid open.
She hurried after him, Henry bouncing lightly against her chest, his hands fisting in her dress. By the time she reached the security desk, Jack was already halfway across the lobby and the elevator doors were closing.
“Jack!” she called again, sharper now.
The doors slid shut.
Her stomach dropped.
“Ma’am—!” a security officer said, stepping forward, but the elevator had already begun to rise.
She froze for half a second, panic blooming, then forced herself to breathe. Jack knew where he was going. Aaron was upstairs. He was safe.
I just need directions, she told herself. That’s all.
She turned toward the front desk, smoothing her dress automatically, offering the polite smile she’d worn a thousand times before.
“Hi,” she said, breath a little uneven but controlled. “My husband works upstairs — in the Behavioural Analysis Unit. My son just ran ahead, and I need to—”
The receptionist didn’t smile back.
She glanced the flustered mother up and down, the pastel dress, the baby carrier, the wide, earnest eyes, and arched a brow.
“Your husband works in the building,” she repeated slowly, like she was humouring a child. “But you don’t know where?”
She blinked. “I— I do, generally. I just don’t come alone very often, and—”
“Mmhmm,” the woman murmured, already typing something into her computer. “And you just… walked in?”
She felt heat creep into her cheeks. “I went through security. I have ID.” She reached into her bag immediately, pulling out her wallet. “Mrs. Aaron Hotchner. My husband invited me to lunch.”
The receptionist didn’t even look at the ID.
“Ma’am,” she said, tone saccharine and sharp all at once, “people don’t just wander into restricted units because they say their husband works here.”
Her smile faltered.
“I’m not wandering,” she said carefully. “I’m asking for directions. My eight year old just went upstairs alone.”
That got a glance, brief, skeptical.
“And you thought the right response was to follow him into a federal building with a baby strapped to your chest?”
She stared at her, stunned.
Henry chose that moment to squirm, a small whine building in his throat. Instinctively bouncing him, hand rubbing his back through the carrier.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice tightening despite herself. “I’m not trying to cause a problem. I just need to get to my son. Please.”
The receptionist leaned back in her chair.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said flatly. “You’ll need someone from upstairs to come escort you.”
She swallowed. “Okay. Can you call him?”
“Do you have his extension?”
“Yes,” She said quickly. “But he’s in meetings—”
“Well,” the woman interrupted, “then you’ll have to wait.”
Henry fussed louder now, unhappy with the tension, with the noise, with the unfamiliar space. Heads began to turn. A baby in the FBI lobby was not a common sight.
She felt every eye.
“I offered you my ID,” she said, frustration finally slipping through. “I told you my name. I told you my son just ran upstairs alone. What exactly do you think I’m trying to do here?”
The receptionist’s smile sharpened. “Access restricted areas under false pretences?”
That did it.
Her voice rose before she could stop it. “Oh, come on. Do I look like a security threat to you? I’m carrying a baby. I told you my unsupervised eight year old just ran upstairs. I just want to eat lunch with my husband.”
Henry startled at her raised voice, letting out a sharp cry.
Her heart clenched immediately.
“Oh— no, no, I’m sorry,” she whispered, bouncing him more urgently now, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Mama’s sorry.”
The lobby felt too big. Too loud. Too exposed.
She looked back at the desk, regret flooding her. “I’m sorry,” she said again, quieter. “I didn’t mean to snap.”
The receptionist shrugged. “Rules are rules.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, blinking rapidly.
Then the elevator doors opened behind her.
“Jack.”
Aaron’s voice cut through the space, calm, controlled, unmistakable.
She turned.
Aaron Hotchner stood there in a crisp suit, one hand resting lightly on Jack’s shoulder. Jack looked perfectly pleased with himself.
“Dad!” he said proudly. “I told you mom was fine, she’s right there.”
Aaron knelt immediately, hands firm on Jack’s arms. “You don’t do that,” he said quietly. Not angry, just absolute. “You wait for your mom.”
Jack’s smile dimmed. “I thought she was behind me.”
“She was,” Aaron said gently. “But you don’t run ahead.”
Jack nodded, chastened.
Aaron stood and his eyes found hers.
Everything in him shifted.
He crossed the lobby in long, measured strides, stopping directly in front of her. His gaze flicked to Henry first, fussing but safe, then back to her face.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly.
She nodded, throat tight. “I’m fine. I just— I forgot where to go.”
Aaron’s jaw set.
He turned slowly toward the reception desk.
“Aaron Hotchner, Behavioral Analysis Unit chief” he said evenly.
The receptionist went pale.
“I believe my wife attempted to give you her identification,” Aaron continued, voice calm but carrying unmistakable authority. “And explained that she was invited here.”
The woman stammered. “I— I didn’t realise—”
“No,” Aaron said quietly. “You made an assumption.”
Silence filled the space.
“My family does not wait in lobbies while being questioned,” he added. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Aaron nodded once. “Good. I’ll be filing a report.”
He turned back to her immediately, his expression softening in an instant. His hand came up to her back, grounding, protective.
“You did nothing wrong,” he murmured, just for her. “Not a thing.”
She exhaled shakily, leaning into him without thinking.
“Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s go eat.”
Upstairs, in Aaron’s office, she sat on the couch with Henry asleep against her chest, Jack colouring at his father’s desk nearby. Aaron set out lunch like it was the most normal thing in the world.
She watched him, something warm and surprised bubbling up in her chest.
“I didn’t know,” she said suddenly, a small laugh escaping her. “I didn’t know you had… that kind of power. I’ve got wife privilege.”
Aaron glanced at her, amused. “Yes, you do. You’re my wife.”
She giggled softly to herself, shaking her head.
“Guess I should visit more often,” she teased.
Aaron smiled, rare, real, and leaned down to kiss her forehead.
There's Something About Jack Hotchner's Dad - A.H x Reader
Tags/Warnings: Friend’s dad trope, age gap (reader is in her 20’s), sexual tension, post-BAU!Hotch, interpretation of adult Jack Hotchner, smut, protected PinV, fingering, hair-pulling, Hotch is a whimperer. Some mention of Jack and Aaron’s trauma, brief Haley mention, brief BAU mention. Second person narrative, no use of y/n.
Summary: Your best friend, Jack Hotchner, has a ridiculously hot dad that you’ve had a crush on for years. Friday night dinners with the Hotchners are becoming more and more unbearable the braver Mr Hotchner gets flirting with you.
Imagine that Aaron and Haley had Jack sliiightly younger than in the show, just to be kind to me :P
W.C: 5.3k
Author’s note: This was the winner of the poll! Thank you all so much for the love on Control Freak. I wanted to tap more into Hotch’s silly side; I’ve been watching a lot of the earlier seasons and he was just so stupidly in love with Haley that it showed a completely different side to him that we see when he’s at work. I can’t imagine the weight that was lifted off his shoulders when he left the BAU.
Happy reading! Likes and reposts are always appreciated but not expected <3
Groaning, you flopped back on the couch and buried your face in your hands, muffling out the last of the noise.
“Stop being so dramatic. You love Dad’s cooking.”
Shooting Jack an incredulous look through your fingers, you stretched your leg out across the couch and kicked him in the thigh. He clutched it in faux-agony, writhing in his seat. You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. Although he was making it impossible to weasel your way out of another painful dinner with his Dad, it was hard not to love him. Jack Hotchner had been your best friend for the better part of five years. You’d met in college and clicked almost instantly. People around you were convinced that you two were bound to be married and have hundreds of kids but you and Jack were just… never like that. He was like your brother.
You stood up, grabbing a throw cushion from the couch and raising it above your head. Yes, you had resorted to violence to get Jack to relent. It wasn’t your finest moment, but you were desperate to never be seated at a dinner table with Aaron Hotchner ever again. It was too much. The way he’d stare at you, analysing you, his foot brushing up against yours. It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy his attention, not at all. There was just something fundamentally immoral about wanting to fuck your best friend’s Dad. Sometimes, if he’d had a few too many whiskies, he’d lament about his past with the FBI, and it made him all the more attractive. You imagined him a bit like Fox Mulder, racing about in a beige trenchcoat, suit and tie. Just, instead of aliens and ghouls, it was serial killers and the like. Did that make it worse? He was technically retired. Jack had never gone into the details of why Mr Hotchner had left the FBI, so all you knew was that they went into Witness Protection for a while. Oh, and his wife was brutally murdered. A widowed FBI agent who happened to be your best friend’s Dad. What a perfect pick for a sexual partner.
“I have a date on Friday, anyway. I can’t make it,” you lied. Smirking, Jack raised an eyebrow. He looked exactly like his Dad when he did that.
“No you don’t,” he replied, still smirking. That smug Hotchner grin. “It’s illegal to lie to a cop.”
Rolling your eyes, you brought the pillow down and thumped it against your chest.
“It’s also illegal to attack one, too.”
You grinned triumphantly. “So that means you’ll have to lock me up for at least 48 hours and I’ll have to miss Friday. Tell your Dad I apologise.”
Sometimes, you’d make Jack laugh so hard he had to clutch his stomach. That was one of those times - his head tossed back, blonde locks falling over his eyes as he roared with laughter. You couldn’t help the genuine smile that crossed your face. This is why it was so hard to face Jack’s dad. Anything that had the potential to ruin a friendship this good wasn’t worth facing.
“First of all,” Jack laughed, raising the pillow up and positioning it in such a threatening way that you automatically flinched backwards, your hands covering your face. “It’s 24 hours, dumbass. Secondly, you are not missing Friday, come hell or high water.”
”Yes, I am.”
”No, you’re not.”
You glared at him. “No, I’m not.”
Jack’s aim was too good. The pillow hit you square in the face and you flopped backwards onto the floor, furious.
Clutching a cheap bouquet of flowers, you stood at the end of Aaron Hotchner’s driveway, glowering at the unassuming home.
How had Jack managed to convince you to come again? You assumed he had evil cop powers and influenced you subconsciously. Maybe that was what Mr Hotchner taught him after his time in the FBI. None of that mattered now. You were there. You’d worn an unassuming black dress and kitten heels. Everything else felt either too casual or too much. Mr Hotchner’s house really was unassuming. You always thought that, surely, after being so important in the FBI that they’d set him up with a good retirement package and he could live in some fancy town house closer to the city. No: Aaron Hotchner had chosen a one-level home with a white stucco shell and a beautiful bay window. It let so much light into the living room, which you all retired too after dinner had been eaten. The only thing alluding to any grandiosity was his accolades, that were hidden at the end of the corridor that housed his bedroom. That, and the multiple locks on his front and back doors, and the security system he set religiously every night before he went to bed.
You trudged up the driveway, taking deep breaths as you went. No touching tonight. No glancing. Sometimes, you thought you were crazy, imagining his touch. It was so light at first, but then you’d look up from your food and Mr Hotchner would be watching you with those ridiculously dark eyes. He’d poke his food and bring it to his mouth slowly, lips wrapping around the metal and slowly pulling off of it. Like he was showing you how he devours his meals. It made you so stupidly horny that you went red in the face. Jack was convinced that it was his Dad’s wine making you so red. No, Jack. It’s your damned Father. You took the last few steps up to the front door and pressed a carefully manicured finger into the doorbell.
The noise echoed inside the house, and your heartbeat rose through the roof when you heard Mr Hotchner’s footsteps approaching the door. Anticipatorily, you took a small step backwards. Mr Hotchner had a way of commanding a space, occupying it so fully that it made him seem physically bigger than he actually was, which was already tall and broad. One latch slid and jingled once it was free. Another popped open with a clang. The last slid to the side stupidly slowly. At last, the door swung open, revealing a flushed Mr Hotchner, a batter-splattered frilly apron tied around his waist and a spatula in hand. Wordlessly, he frowned at you, bringing his arm up to glance at his watch. You felt yourself begin to prickle a little. Had you come too early? Actually, where the hell was Jack? You’d been so consumed with your own thoughts that you hadn’t noticed that Jack’s car wasn’t in the drive.
“No Jack? I thought he’d come with you,” Mr Hotchner mused quietly, looking away from his watch and straight at you. You gazed back at him. Underneath his frilly apron- which, by the way, you had no idea why he had that; Jack vaguely remembered it being his Mom’s, but it fit him a little too well- he was wearing a dark polo and jeans. He looked utterly consumable. Like you could pounce on him then and there, even in his apron. That polo made his arms look unreal. They were the first thing you noticed when you first met him. How, even in retirement, his years in the FBI still showed in the shape of his body.
You shrugged, looking over your shoulder. “No, no Jack. I thought he’d be here.”
You wished he was here. It was dangerous for you to be left alone with Mr Hotchner. If the tension from across a dinner table with his son present was enough to make you squirm, the thought of what could possibly happen when alone with him… you tried not to pant. You had to be stronger than this. You had a Masters degree, for fuck’s sake. You weren’t about to let a man reduce you to liquid.
Aaron Hotchner smirked at you. You felt your legs wobble. Liquid. “I guess it’s just you and me, then. Come in, come in. I’ve just put the cake in the oven.”
He stepped back and opened the door wider so you could enter. Swallowing nervously, straightening your posture, you stepped into his house and let him close the door behind you. You stilled, clinging onto your purse like it was a lifeline. Behind you, Mr Hotchner clicked all the locks back shut, sliding the last one into place slowly, as if he was contemplating it. Breath lodged in your throat when you felt his large hand ghost along the small of your back, urging you forwards. Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head as you walked towards the kitchen down the hall, Mr Hotchner’s hand guiding you the entire way. It was so close to your ass. One wrong move, one step up, and his palm would be right on the curve of it, almost begging to knead the flesh waiting underneath.
“Sorry, Mr Hotchner,” you laughed nervously, “I don’t know why I act like I haven’t been coming here for years.”
He gave a breathy chuckle. It made the throbbing heat between your legs somehow hotter. “How many times have I told you to just call me Aaron? You’re right, though. You need to start making yourself more at home.”
Right, yeah. Aaron. It never sat on your lips right. Mr Hotchner sounded so much more fitting for a man of his stature. He guided you into the kitchen and you felt your shoulders drop when his hand retracted from your back and he stalked away from you to the hob. Why were your shoulders even raised in the first place? Had he made you that tense? Aaron turned and looked at you, asking if you wanted a drink. You nodded, and he leant down to grab a bottle of wine from the wine cabinet at the end of the breakfast bar. You glanced up at the clock above the back door. It was only half five.
“Bit early, isn’t it?” You joked, and Aaron chuckled again. It was so dark, so flirty. You imagined it tasting like maraschino cherries. If you bit into his chuckle, the juice of it would trickle down your neck and collect in your collarbones for him to dip the tip of his tongue into. The thought made you look away from him entirely.
“Why? Are you nervous about being drunk around me?” Aaron Hotchner wore the most shit-eating grin you’d ever seen him wear. Grabbing three wine glasses from the top shelf- and yes, his polo did happen to ride up, showing you the most delicious slice of his stomach, and the beginning of a deep V leading down, down down…- Aaron looked over his shoulder at you, as if he couldn’t bare the thought of looking away from you right then. It made your stomach flip.
“No,” you said, confidently. Aaron locked eyes with you, purely because you let him. “Maybe your profiling skills aren’t what they used to be, Mr Ho- Aaron.”
Aaron had to look away from you to pour the wine. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by his phone ringing in his pocket. Putting the bottle down carefully, he slid the phone from his pocket.
“Jack? Is everything- oh, alright. Yeah, I’ll tell her. Thanks for telling me, son. Get home safe. Alright, bye.” Blowing his cheeks out, Aaron put his phone back in his pocket and looked at you. “Jack won’t be here until much later, he told you not to wait up for him.”
You frowned. “Everything okay?”
Everything turned out to be fine. Jack had been held back at the station for unavoidable overtime due to seasonal sickness. So… just you and Aaron Hotchner for the night. Aaron point-blank refused that you go home. Stated that “too many cases started that way”. So you nursed your glass of red, leant against his breakfast bar, and engaged in a conversation that wasn’t as sexually charged as you expected it to be. If anything it was quite charming.
You threw your head back, laughing. “He used to say what?”
Grinning, Aaron put the spatula down and dug his thumbs into his belt, letting his shoulders slouch backwards as he looked you up and down with lowered-eyelids.
“Hey, babygirl,” he said in a poor attempt of a Chicagain accent. Slamming your hand onto the counter, you roared with laughter; it was bizarre to see somebody usually so composed as he was let himself be a bit silly. Aaron smiled at your laughter, picking the spatula back up and tossing the food one last time. “Derek Morgan was in his own league, believe me. But he was loyal to the very end.”
Laughter subsiding, you found yourself smiling as you lifted the glass to your lips again. Honestly, you didn’t even need the wine anymore. Aaron had put you completely at ease; he was a brilliant host. The food, as always, smelt amazing. Jack had told you that he learned to cook like this from Uncle Rossi, who still worked in Quantico. For a long time, they’d been dreaming up a dinner with all of Aaron’s ex-coworkers, but you always sensed a hesitation in his eyes when the discussion was brought up. Neither of them had opened up to you too much about their life pre-Witness Protection. Jack came into your life fully formed, truly imagined, just as you were to him. You met when you were eighteen, the pair of you freshly adult, new to the world. You’d had whole lives before one another and, it seemed, Aaron had had multiple. It made you feel slightly green behind the ears compared to the older man. But the conversation between the pair of you was easy, and flowing. He put the plate of steaming pasta in front of you, and you began tucking in very happily.
Aaron took a sip of wine. “So, have you ever considered my son romantically?”
What?
“What?” you spluttered, holding a napkin desperately to your face. You must have looked insane: eyes bulging, brows furrowed in shock. When the piece of pasta you’d been choking on eventually dislodged, you swallowed it down and took a deep, unladylike glug of wine. “Aaron, Jack is like a brother to me. It’s never even crossed my mind.”
You couldn’t read the way the man was looking at you. His dark eyes seemed to swirl independent of his body in the golden candlelight emanating from the table. The light licked up his face, across the light stubble on his chin, as if pointing at him. This one! This one! He didn’t talk for a minute, considering you closely. You raised your chin, almost as if you were beckoning him in. You enjoyed his eyes on you immensely.
“So you consider me a fatherly figure?”
“No.” Damn. That response was a little quick. “I flirt with you far too much for that to be appropriate.”
It was Aaron’s turn to choke. A grin curling the corners of his lips, he coughed into his own napkin, shaking his head. You tried to seem as calm as possible, but your heart was hammering so hard on the cage of your ribs that you feared he could hear it from across the table. This had gone a little 0-100, but there was no way Aaron didn’t intend for that to happen. Wiping the sides of his mouth, he eyed you. You eyed him. It was a room full of eyes, all staring at one another, all waiting for the other ball to do something, anything. You kept your eyes on him as you brought the glass of wine to your mouth again. Aaron forked pasta into his mouth. All was silent. He chewed, you swallowed.
“So what are our options?” he asked once he was finished with his mouthful. You thought for a moment before answering.
“All of our options make us bad people,” you began. Scoffing out a laugh, Aaron nodded. “Jack’s my best friend. You’re his dad.”
“And that means..?”
Pursing your lips, you flashed him an annoyed look. Was he roleplaying an interrogation with you right now? Kinky. He left his eyebrows raised in expectation, but you took a large mouthful of pasta to prevent you from speaking. You seriously, seriously had to think your next answer over. It could change everything, but it was becoming uncomfortable to sit down you were so aroused.
Aaron’s eyes never left you.
“It means that it’s technically immoral,” you replied, your breath catching in your throat when Aaron folded his napkin on the plate and stood. As he slowly made his way around the table to you, you carried on talking. “It’s stupid. We see each other every Friday. I live with Jack. I’d be carrying around this massive weight that I’d fucked his Dad, I mean, it sounds like a badly written joke, I don’t-”
“It sounds like you’ve been thinking about this for a while.”
He stopped beside you, looking down at you, amused. You could smell his aftershave. Something spicy and expensive. He was so close you could count each one of his hairs individually. It was intoxicating. Everything about Aaron Hotchner was precise, organised, specific. Despite the pure hedonism of what you were about to do, it still somehow felt calculated. Putting your napkin down, you shifted your legs so your body was facing his. He hooked a finger under your chin and made him look up at you. Your heart leapt as you stared up at him, mouth slightly ajar. His chest was rising and falling jaggedly.
“You haven’t?” you whispered, making Aaron release a breathy chuckle.
“We won’t have much time,” he hummed, stroking his thumb along your jawline. “He could be back any minute.”
You held on to the fact he called Jack “he”. Part of you felt like it was shame, perhaps avoidance. Any excuse to skirt around the topic that the mutual person bringing the pair of you together was his son. The air around you fizzed, each time your eyes met the atoms around you popped, met another again and sizzled. You could feel the heat rising slowly in your cheeks as he slid his thumb along your bottom lip, one of his fingers staying curled under your chin. He had enraptured you truly: you could only stare up at him, lip caught between your teeth. Aaron’s free hand ghosted at your side, and all you could think about was the possibility of it travelling lower down.
He leant forward, bringing you close to him with your chin, and your lips pressed together. It began gentle, almost tentative, but he grunted and the kiss deepened, tongues sliding together. You gasped into his open mouth as his fingers found their way underneath your skirt. As if he’d pressed some button, your legs fell apart instantly. You didn’t even have to think about it. He stood behind the chair, taking his hand away from your chin and letting it rest on the back of the chair as his other hand snaked back down and pulled your dress up. You shifted your hips upwards to let him pull it up your stomach. You heard his breath catch in his throat as his hand ghosted along the lace waistband of your underwear.
“Can I touch you?” he asked quietly, and you groaned in response.
“Please do, Aaron.”
His hand disappeared underneath the waistband and your whole body tensed as he ran a finger up the slit, collecting the wetness that had already been brought forth by him. He hummed in pleasure, leaning down so his mouth was at your ear.
“Did I do this to you?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Your head fell back as he let a single digit pass your lips, dragging up from your hole before circling your clit. He chuckled into your ear.
“You’ve been doing this to me for a long time,” you strained out as he pressed a second finger to your clit, making the most delicious figure eights. You’ve done this before, I see. Aaron groaned into your ear, nipping at it softly with his teeth. Aaron’s fingers slowly switched over, from his pointer and middle finger to his ring and middle finger, sliding down from your clit to your entrance. Your entire body shook with anticipation, one of your arms coming up and grabbing him by the back of his neck. Two of his thick fingers slid slowly inside of you, making you gasp out. When you stuttered his name, he only grinned into your neck.
“I thought I’d reward you for being so patient,” he hummed, making your eyes roll back as he began to pump his fingers in and out of you. Kicking your heels off, you propped yourself up on the balls of your feet, angling your hips up, allowing him a ridiculously deep angle. A swirling heat was building inside of your lower abdomen, growing from a buzzing to a maddening vibration. Your toes curled as he wrapped a hand around your neck, so gently you could barely tell it was there, his fingers curling up your jaw and holding you close to his chest as your back arched, eyes rolled like bowling balls as he brought you closer and closer to your impending orgasm…
He paused, looking at you.
“I haven’t done this in a while.”
That’s when you really took him in. Glassy-eyed, chest moving in jagged spurs, split glistening on his lips, the apples of his cheeks pinked from the effort of pleasuring you. Underneath all of that, all of that apprehension, arousal, and excitement, is a man who was worried about his performance. You could see it in the way he didn’t look at you fully. Well, he did. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. But there was something internal that was holding him back from drinking you, the sight of you on his dining room chair, skirt hitched up your legs and underwear around your ankles, completely in. It made it hard not to be annoyed at him for completely blue-balling you (can women even get blue-balled? Saying I got blue-clitted sounds vulgar and gross). Aaron removed his hands from you and took a step back, his breathing heavy. He crouched next to you, looking up at you.
You moved forward, holding his face in yours. You could feel the weight of him fully, it felt. As if he kept it all locked in there. The only thing that kept his body from blowing away in the wind was the weight he kept in his head. Underneath the rub of your thumb, his stubble poked back at you.
“We don’t have to,” you said softly, and Aaron laughed in your face.
“I want to,” he replied, reaching up to stroke your hair. “I just can’t promise I’ll last very long.”
This is quite possibly the most attractive thing a man has ever said to you, and you are quite convinced, even now, that nothing anyone says to you will ever match it. You crashed your mouth into his, dragging him to you by his polo. He broke his crouch a little, keeping your tangle of tongues attached, digging his large hands under your rear and hoisting you up and over to the breakfast bar. Ooh, kinky kitchen sex. Panting, he pulled away, standing between your open legs, one of his hands moving down to palm himself through his jeans. His eyes flicked up from your exposed pussy to your face, connecting the dots, profiling the sex. Profiling. Oh my God, I’m about to fuck an FBI agent.
“Do you have a condom?” he asked, and you cringed. Yes, in your handbag. Did it look like you came here with it because you’d been planning this? Did it make you look like you went everywhere with a condom just in case?
“Yes,” you replied, your voice small. “I keep them in my handbag.”
“That’s smart,” he replied. Giving you a quick kiss, he lifted your ass a little to put you further back on the breakfast bar. It was such a stupid thing to feel like crying over, but you seriously had to compose yourself when he turned and disappeared into the hall to your handbag. Yeah, this it it, you thought to yourself. I’m never fucking a man under the age of 40 ever again.
Aaron reappeared, condom in hand and belt unbuckled. He put the condom next to you and brought your mouths together again. You shifted your hips to feel the curve of his erection through his jeans, moaning into his mouth when he grabbed you by the waist and pushed his hips towards your searching ones.
His mouth on your neck, your hands went about unzipping his jeans, a hiss escaping your mouth as he began to nip at the taut skin along your jaw. A shove, a pull, a scramble of hands, Aaron’s cock was free. He let out a shuddering breath when your hand wrapped around it, easing a bud of precum onto your thumb and bringing it to your mouth. It dissolved into your tongue as you looked up at him. He was slack-jawed, awe written so deeply in his face it made him look stupid. You loved it. Nobody had looked at you like that before. You continued to stroke him, squeezing him at the tip, eliciting the deepest, grumbling whimpers from Aaron’s mouth. His hips jerked up in response, chasing your hand, one of his hands shooting up and gripping your arm tightly.
“Don’t-” he choked out, and you paused, snapping your hand open and looking up at him, terrified that he’d regretted his decision. He whined loudly, urging his hips towards you. “Nooo, nonononono, I didn’t mean stop- I meant- fuck- I’ll cum if you continue like that. I don’t want this to end here.”
You wanted nothing more than to pounce on him then and there. He really hadn’t had sex in a long time. Your mouths met again, Aaron palming at your hips. He gripped himself, looking up at you for permission. God, you nodded. Of course you did. You wanted to grip him and repeat the word “yes” until it was the only word you knew. Aaron lined himself up with your entrance, his jaw practically unhinging as he sank into your damp, warm heat. Eyes rolling back, you groaned, your body accommodating Aaron’s size, legs already feeling like jelly. Once he was fully sheathed, he kissed at your neck, moaning senseless words into the shiny skin, completely still inside of you.
“You’re killing me,” you groaned, shifting your hips, begging him to move. He was right there, his tip just nudging the most delicious part deep inside of you. When he drew his hips back and began moving, you moaned his name loudly, arms shooting up to grip his, digging your nails into the skin. “Oh, my God.”
Aaron hissed at the feeling of your nails, panting as he moved harder into you. Your back arched and he put one of his hands flat on your chest, pushing you back so you were flat on the counter. He was so stupidly lanky that he just made that position work. You lay back, staring at the ceiling, your entire body writing like a pit of snakes. Aaron’s hands scrambled at your chest, pulling your dress down far enough that your breasts fell out. His hand found one instantly, gripping at it, rolling your nipple between his fingers, digging them into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise. All you could do was squeak his name, eyes wide, your body shuddering. He wanted all of you. It was just pure greed.
“Is this- okay?” he panted, his hand moving up from your breast to your face. Somehow, you managed to sit yourself up on your elbows and look at him. God, he looked like a puppy. Staring at you with his big brown eyes, head dipped, hips moving without falter. “Does it feel good.”
“So fucking good,” you replied, panting. You wished you could bottle up the shy, exhausted smile he gave you. “You’re doing such a good job.”
Aaron choked out a moan, his hand going straight back to your breast as the other gripped your thigh. It was too much. His fingers groping your chest, his cock pistoning in and out of you at a sloppier and sloppier pace as he grew closer to his orgasm.
You threw your head back and groaned his name, your entire body seizing as your orgasm overpowered you. Aaron’s grip on you became bruisingly tight as he reached his own, his eyes squeezing themselves shut and a hiss of your name tumbling from his mouth. He stilled inside of you, growing soft, panting.
“I didn’t last very long,” he laughed, and you lifted your hips up and away, making him gasp softly.
“I don’t care,” you said, sitting up properly on the breakfast bar and holding his face with one hand. “Neither did I.”
You fell into a comfortable shared laughter, silence following it quite quickly. Aaron went about binning the condom and washing his hands, tucking himself back into his jeans. You sat on the breakfast bar, watching his careful movements closely. He kept himself so particular, probably after years of precise document filing, clue hunting and gun toting. You were happy to give him the outlet for that preciseness, for his disciplined life to fall apart for half an hour every now and then. You’d seen a different side to him that day, and it was a side you were willing and eager to see again. And again. And again. Aaron Hotchner was an addictive man. Fuck. This is exactly what you were worried about. Maybe this was a one time thing, then all the tension around the dinner table would stop. Yeah, that was definitely it. No more messing about. Just like a one fuck and done sort of scenario.
Simple. Right?
“... and then I pulled rank and managed to get us all to go to his mansion.”
You burst into laughter, shaking your head. Aaron’s arms were wrapped around you as you both lay naked (and slightly sweaty) in his bed. The only thing illuminating the room was a small lamp by his bedside that he’d turned all the way down. You were slightly turned towards him, your head tipped up, staring at him in admiration. It was never meant to happen like this, but you sure were happy it did.
“And what? He taught you how to make pasta?” you asked, putting a hand on his chest. Aaron looked down at the placement, smiling gently. His eyes flicked to you as he placed his own hand on top of yours, wrapping his fingers around it. You couldn’t help but smile.
He hummed in acknowledgement. “Little did I know it would lead me to cooking so good that I get to do this with you.”
Grinning, you pulled yourself up to kiss him, the duvet sliding down your body as you straddled him again. As you pulled away to say something, your phone rang loudly on the end table. Rolling your eyes, you grabbed it. It was Jack. You flashed it at Aaron, and he laughed quietly.
“It looks more suspicious if you don’t answer it,” he said quietly, and you sighed, putting a hand over his mouth as you clicked answer.
Jack spoke instantly. “Where are you?”
“I’ve gone to Amanda’s for some drinks,” you replied, trying not to laugh when Aaron’s eyebrows shot up and he stared at you, accusingly. “I’ll probably stay over the night. Why?”
Jack was quiet for a long time. Your features flicked into a frown, and Aaron moved your hand so he could mouth “What?” to you. His hands came up and held you by your waist, his thumb moving up and down the soft skin there, comforting you.
“Jack? What’s wrong?”
“If you’re at Amanda’s, why is your car outside my Dad’s place?”
i’m actually convinced that hotch is secretly a huge gossip. what if that’s the thing that gets him and fleabag reader to start talking? maybe it’s about one of the other pool dads ? hotch actually knows him cause his kid goes to school with jack and it’s something real scandalous. idk i just need to have hotch being nosey and spilling tea.
Pinot Grigio
triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader
Genre: 21st-century-feminist-meltdown-over-an-old-man mutual pining
Summary: It’s a party. You’re the help. He’s the Hotchner. He shows up to the gala in jeans, insults a politician for you, then stands around long enough to overshare a bunch of gossip you didn’t ask for (meaning: casually reveals he’s been tracking your poolside admirers like a repressed Victorian husband.)
Warnings: Explicit sexual language! (not graphic, it's all in reader's head and meant as a joke... for herself, apparently), alcohol use, age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch*, classism, mysogeny, unhealthy coping mechanisms (wine, gossip, Hotchner)
Word Count: 4.2k
Dado's Corner: This prompt was so juicy and triggered my brain just right, I had to fumble a lot to find the perfect setting to reveal Hotch’s true chatty grandma self hihihihi this was so funnn! (I think I wrote three different versions of it because my brain cells just refused to collaborate… but hopefully this one works.) [I didn’t end up scripting in the part where Hotch knows the dad because of Jack, butttt! trust me, it’s probably for the better.] Thank you so much for the request, marry meeee <3
masterlist(s)
Pinot Grigio.
Just a normal white wine.
Pear on the nose. Citrusy. Crisp. Innocent.
Until yesterday. 7:24 PM.
When Penelope Garcia - who you don’t know, didn’t follow, would absolutely remember if you did (because of the most adorable Lego duck earrings and blonde curls) - posted a single photo from some FBI event on Facebook.
A glass of wine in one hand. Aaron Hotchner’s shoulder in the other.
A bottle of Pinot Grigio right there on the table.
Since then, it’s been panic.
Pool moms liked. Pool moms shared. Some pool moms commented, even.
Penelope is now famous.
She’s gained at least forty new friend requests from women named Debbie (the cool-girl rebrand of Deborah), Beth (Bethany, but pretending), and Lisa (just... Lisa) - all of them hoping for fresh content.
A new Hotchner sighting. A blurry arm. The back of a head. The profile of his nose.
And now you are paying the price.
Because you’re six bottles deep into Pinot Grigio and currently opening your seventh for the Pool Extension Project Announcement Party.
(A name so thrilling it could only have been brainstormed by three men named Greg in a windowless office with beige carpets and no dreams... broken dreams, maybe.)
(Apparently they’re adding a spa? Maybe? You weren’t listening. You were too busy arranging the buffet to look “effortlessly elegant” while silently sobbing into a tray of beet hummus.)
You’re catering it. Sort of.
You were a last-minute call.
You were a desperate substitution. Someone dropped out, and they called you.
Because you are reliable.
Talented. Charming. Funny. Qualified. And – crucially - cheaper.
(Not cheap. Cheaper. Enough of a bargain to be flattering but still slightly degrading.)
And of course, you said yes. Said “I’d love to,” said “What’s the dress code?” while internally shrieking because - what if Aaron is there too? (He might be. He probably is.)
You also told yourself you weren’t dressing for him.
That you just wanted to look professional in your very black, very tailored to your body catering uniform (with a slutty apron) - but your ass looks absolutely divine in these trousers, and if it’s not captured in one of the official photos and framed in the break room, you’re suing.
Mayday. Mayday.
He’s here.
Confirmed visual.
Aaron Hotchner.
In the flesh. In the room.
Looking slightly out of place, which of course only makes him stand out more.
Navy button-up. Jeans.
(Jeans? Him? He owns a pair of jeans??? Who sold them to him? Who authorized this? Who gave this man thighs and then denim?)
(Well… apparently so. And they fit. Criminally well.)
Meanwhile, everyone else is trussed up in three-piece suits, using big grown adult vocabulary like municipal redevelopment-
(Meaning: someone’s cousin is getting paid a suspicious amount of money to plant four trees and call it urban renewal)-
and strategic infrastructure planning-
(Meaning: they’re finally going to pour some lukewarm asphalt over the holes in 45th St NW, right before election season.)
They all shake hands with fake smiles, congratulate each other on breathing, and pretend the room doesn’t still vaguely smell like feet and chlorine, despite the mountain of imported cheeses you spent hours shaping into perfect little geometric offerings to the gods of local politics.
And Aaron-
Aaron just stands there.
Not speaking. Not smiling. Not performing. Just existing.
And yet, somehow, he still looks more elegant than all of them combined.
God, what a man.
…A man you’ve had full conversations with–
in your head.
While brushing your teeth.
While shaving your legs.
While marinating chicken.
You’ve practiced your banter with him more than you’ve prepared for actual job interviews.
The fact that you’ve barely spoken to him in real life is not because you’re shy. Not because you’re afraid of rejection. Not because there’s the occasional whisper that he’s technically old enough to have fathered you if he’d started very, very young.
(Which, most of the time, only makes it more erotically confusing.)
No. (Yes.)
It’s because you lowkey hate him.
You hate him because he walked in holding his pool bag.
…He just showed up here to do his laps.
And you just know - deep in your soul, in your bloodstream, in your ovaries - that inside that bag is a navy speedo. Matching. To. His. Shirt.
A Speedo that will now never fulfill its destiny, heartlessly imprisoned, crushed by a rolled towel and - if you had to guess - a blister pack of ibuprofen (he’s old enough to break his back sneezing and still blame it on “tight hamstrings.”)
Because, clearly, judging by the way he’s confidently flipping the strap back up onto his shoulder…
He has no idea the pool is closed today.
Didn’t know there was a party. He wasn’t briefed. He didn’t glance at the laminated flyer at reception with a dolphin in a bowtie that said “Join us for the Pool Extension Gala!”
Beautiful, beautiful man. But apparently can’t read for shit.
Because he was too busy doing… FBI things.
Whatever that means.
You don’t really know what he does.
In your head it’s just a sweaty, shirt-clinging montage of him saving lives, wrestling evil, or rescuing kittens from burning houses and carrying them out in one arm while the other cradles a bleeding witness.
You just know it’s hotter than whatever the hell you do, because before he can take more than two steps into the room, he’s already being mobbed by politicians.
Actual, elected men - men with power, men with authority, men with at least three types of stress-induced hair loss and thinning temples they pretend aren’t happening.
And they know him. They recognize him.
They even lower their voices when they speak to him, they shake his hand with such reverence, you can smell their intimidation from all the way across the room.
The fear. The respect. The power. The arm veins. The way Aaron has no idea he’s the main event at a party he didn’t even know existed.
Quite ironically, on the other hand - on the small, overworked, kind of underpaid, sexually malnourished hand that is you - you haven’t slept properly in a week because of it.
Because of the stress of the endless prep and logistics and… fine, because of him too.
Sometimes at 4 a.m., you’d find yourself just… staring at the ceiling. Lying in the dark, vibrating with anxiety and something much less noble and your only two options for survival were:
Cooking. Loudly. Desperately. Whipping up reductions and spreads in your tiny kitchen, determined to perfect the fig-and-goat cheese tartlet while trying not to scream when the oven beeped and you realized the sun was already rising.
Or… Well. Let’s just say your neighbors must think you’re really, really into dental hygiene. What kind of electric toothbrush has that many vibration modes? What kind of dental tool sings at such frequency?
Answer: not a toothbrush.
It’s pink. Plastic. Takes two AA batteries and a prayer.
You may or may not bought it during a very dark week with your café tip money at 2 a.m. from the back shelf of a pharmacy, and since then it’s been the most stable relationship of your adult life.
You’ve had to steal batteries from your TV remote more than once just to get through the week.
She’s not fancy, but she gets the job done.
You’d recommend her.
You’d even recommend her to the woman now standing in front of you - if she’d stop looking at Hotchner and trying to hormonally inform him that she is, at this very moment, in the mating phase of her cycle.
It’s not even subtle - the little cleavage tug, the fluttery eyelashes, the way she’s nodding absently while you talk about acidity and finish, eyes locked on the back of his neck rolls.
You get it. You’ve been there. Last week, actually.
And even now - when you are categorically not ovulating, when you are actively trying to be a functioning member of a patriarchal society - he does, objectively, have a beautiful neck.
A neck that has almost certainly never been stressed about fig preserves or the structural integrity of a puff pastry shell.
“I’ll have that one,” she says, stopping you midway through your ramble and pointing at a bottle.
The fucking Pinot.
Of course you will.
You smile.
Because you are a professional.
Because rage doesn’t pair well with brie.
“Sure,” you say, and pour.
You handpicked twelve white wines for this event. Twelve.
Each chosen with a level of passion that should’ve been reserved for, say, human relationships or personal growth.
Some of them had to be pulled from tiny Italian cellars with shipping so disorganized you’re now on a first-name basis with a man named Lorenzo who thinks you’re unstable and possibly in love with him.
(You might be. You’ve sliced figs and cried about tannins. Your grip on reality is… soft.)
You woke up in cold sweats for a whole week wondering if the Soave made it through Zurich because Italians do not believe in emails. Or customs. Only God.
But none of it mattered, because in the end, it’s always the Pinot, for her – and all the other people that came to your stand earlier.
You call it the Aaron Hotchner Effect.
The logic goes like this:
“If in the picture, he was drinking Pinot, and I drink Pinot, then we have something in common. We can laugh. We can clink glasses.
He’d say something dry and low - “You’ve got good taste” - and brush my fingers as he takes the glass. Maybe the hand. Maybe the elbow. Maybe the fucking thigh.
We’d flirt.
And then he’d fuck me.
Some really good rough, sex up against his hardwood bed. He’d keep his tie on. Hold my wrists. Press his mouth to my shoulder to keep from making a sound, because letting go like that, making noise, would be too revealing. Too honest.
He’d fuck me until my knees gave in and my breath stuttered and my voice cracked from begging. He wouldn’t come until I had. At least three times.
And then, of course, He’d marry me.
All because I drank his wine.”
That’s the pipeline. That’s what’s happening behind their eyes.
And you can't even judge them.
You’d be doing the same, if you weren’t currently being reminded by the smell of onion jam soaked into the pocket of your apron that you’re on the job.
You’re the help, the wine girl no one listens to until the glass is already full and the flirting has failed.
But you’d do it. You would.
Just… correctly.
Because while everyone else in that cursed Facebook photo saw the bottle, you saw the glass.
His glass, the one shoved off to the side, barely in frame - because God forbid someone like Aaron Hotchner be photographed holding the fun juice. That would imply he experiences pleasure. Or whimsy. Or serotonin.
Still, you zoomed in. You don't like to admit that. You really don't. But you did.
And thanks to the course that still haunts your bank account - the one led by three men, all named Marco - you can confidently say, with devastating clarity:
That was not Pinot.
It was Verdicchio.
Lean. Salty. A little green around the edges.
The kind of wine that doesn’t care if you like it.
Citrus and sea air and something just a little bit wrong at the end, like it’s judging you.
And maybe it is.
It’s bitter. Quiet. Difficult.
Difficult also because no one knows how to properly pronounce its name - you didn’t. You butchered it every time and got scolded by each of the Marcos at least once.
(Marco One - smoking indoors in his wool turtleneck in July, would hiss, "No, no, Ver-deek-kio, not Ver-dish-ee-oh, do you want to die in shame?")
(Marco Two made you repeat it five times in a row in front of the whole class.)
(Marco Three just muttered “Madonna Santa” and poured himself another glass.)
Verdicchio doesn’t seduce.
It holds its distance, stands in the corner of the room with crossed arms, and waits for you to prove you're worth the conversation.
Half the people who taste it hate it. The other half get addicted.
It lingers. It cuts. It stays in your mouth longer than it should.
A wine with boundaries.
A wine that says: you don’t know me.
You think you do, but you don’t.
Just like Aaron.
And you tried, betraying everything the three Marcos ever taught you about integrity, balance, and correct regional pairings, to guide each of your (unwanted) patient tragically afflicted with Hotchism toward the Verdicchio.
Even when it didn’t pair with what they were eating. Even when it clashed. Even when it made your soul itch with the wrongness of a soft-rind Brie beside all that salinity.
You’re not a bitch. You don’t gatekeep. You offer your knowledge freely. Warmly. Kindly.
But you’d be lying if you said that knowing the truth didn’t make you feel good.
Smug.
A little superior.
And yes, fine, maybe that made you feel close to him.
Closer.
Maybe you are a bitch.
Because you could have said it, could have casually dropped the line - “Oh, by the way, he was drinking Verdicchio. It wasn’t the Pinot.”
You could have been generous. Transparent. Correct.
But it wouldn’t have changed anything.
You’d be out of Verdicchio instead of Pinot.
They’d still fawn.
Still flutter.
Still call him Agent Hotchner with that glazed, pseudo-coy voice like they’re already imagining what his mattress feels like.
(It’s probably very firm. Orthopedic. Recommended by his chiropractor. No softness. No give. Posture is sacred. Comfort is weakness.)
(He probably tucks the sheets so tight you’d have no choice but to scooch closer to him just to have some room to breathe. Which, obviously, is the point.)
Same thirst, different label.
Maybe you’d tell the first one who actually listens to you.
The first one who doesn’t treat you like furniture in an apron. The first one who doesn’t cut you off mid-sentence the moment they clock that the politicians are loosening their grip on him.
Maybe the reason why you have such a crush on him is because he’s everything.
And you’re- well. You’re here.
In shoes that are starting to pinch. With wine on your hands and fig paste in your hair. With bills and back pain and the slow, creeping dread that no one really sees you unless you’re holding something they want.
And even then, just barely.
He’s elegant, unreadable, capital letter Important.
You’re… nice. Warm. Cheap... cheaper.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s the whole appeal.
Maybe that’s why you keep staring at him as he’s basically dragged to your tasting stand by a small parade of men who spend their days warming seats in the Senate and collecting checks for pretending they invented civic duty.
One of the men makes the effort to squint at your name tag.
You can see the gears turning in his head as he uses it - not to address you - but to soften the blow of a condescending joke he thinks is charming, such as “how rare it is to find a young woman with taste… especially one who serves.”
You smile.
Because that’s the job.
You’re the help. The scener-
“What do you mean?” Aaron asks, turned slightly toward the man, voice flat.
He looks disgusted.
(Though, in fairness, everything he says sounds vaguely judgmental. That’s just his face.)
“Oh, no… Hotchner, don’t get me wrong. I mean it as a compliment. I admire it. Not everyone’s meant to chase titles or build a résumé, you know? And that’s not a bad thing - society only works because some people are content doing the everyday stuff. The real work.”
You’re two seconds away from breaking the last Pinot bottle over his head.
Kill two birds with one stone: one bottle, one condescending prick, and finally, blissful silence.
“…We need the people who keep the wheels turning. Mechanics. Hairdressers. Cooks…”
He gestures vaguely to you, apparently your existence is now an example. A concept. An idea. Something nice to look at when dressed in black and pouring wine.
“Really,” he adds - just in case you didn’t catch the insult the first three times - “I admire it.”
“Do you always talk to people like this?” Aaron doesn’t raise his voice - just tilts his head slightly, gaze locked on the man with a kind of stillness that, for reasons you’ve yet to comprehend, is louder than yelling.
It’s unsettling.
“What? I’m paying her a compliment.” Senator Asshole tries to laugh it off.
“You’re condescending to her. It’s not the same thing.”
“Come on,” Senator Asshole chuckles, flicking a desperate glance around, “I’m just saying she’s good at what she does.”
“And I’m saying maybe you should stop talking,” Aaron hisses.
The silence is immediate.
Aaron just stares at him – for one, two, three, four??? Seconds.
Senator Asshole, sadly, does not burst into flames. He’s stolen away by Councillor Buttchin, who probably heard everything and tries to mop it up with the limp excuse of needing to discuss “urban renewal”
(Meaning: gentrification. The rich man’s robbery.)
And so Aaron watches him leave, before he turns back to you.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “The asshole didn’t even apologise.”
(He’s very hot when he swears.)
You wave it off. “It’s alright.”
“No. It’s not. It’s disgust-”
“It’s not the first time,” you cut him off. Because you don’t want to hear it. The apology. The concern. The male guilt wrapped in decency like it's somehow revolutionary.
Yes, thank you for noticing misogyny exists. Gold star.
You’ve done the bare minimum and you’re very tall so it feels like more. Congratulations on not being a monster.
At least, that’s what the rational part of you is saying. The one with a spine. The one that reads theory and donates when she can.
The other part – the one currently regulating the lubrication levels of a certain region of your body that apparently believes being mildly defended by a man with forearms like that is enough to justify reproduction - has… other thoughts.
Darwin would call it natural selection.
You’d call it bringing feminism back fifty years in one pelvic pulse.
But maybe your body’s oh-so-romantically prepping for insemination because he doesn’t make a speech.
He doesn’t continue to perform, doesn’t launch into a well-rehearsed monologue about respect, social or say something like “I have a lot of female friends, my mom is a woman, for instance.”
He doesn’t explain how decent he is.
He just… nods. Gives you a flicker of a concerned half-smile (because he’s a dad, and concern is hardwired into his frontal cortex, right between disapproval and knows best.)
But it’s quiet. Undramatic.
Like he saw it. Heard it. Filed it.
And now he’s moving on. Not because it didn’t matter. But because it did.
And not just emotionally, physically. Actually moving-moving.
Shifts halfway down the shorter end of your stand - not technically in your area, but just close enough that if he got any nearer, people might start asking him what cheese pairs with a Chablis.
(Which would be a disaster, because he looks like he’d say “cheddar” and then stare you down until you corrected him.)
Close enough to feel like a choice.
He doesn’t look at you. Scans the room instead, until his gaze lands on something. Someone.
“See that guy?” he says, nodding subtly toward ‘that guy’ across the room.
You follow the gesture.
Ah. That guy.
Mid-thirties.
You don’t know his name.
You just know he’s always suspiciously nearby. Hovering. Lurking. Casually orbiting the table where you sit every week in the pool cafeteria while waiting for your friend to finish her laps.
Objectively hot - if your type is broad shoulders, hollow eyes, and a divorce lawyer in waiting (and it pretty much is, unfortunately.)
He has a kid, you’re pretty sure. And a wedding ring he forgets to forget.
The kind of man who blames his wife’s headaches instead of confronting the fact he thinks the clitoris was a Greek philosopher.
(“Clitoris? He makes an appearance in Plato’s Symposium, doesn’t he?”)
“He’s been battling with himself over asking for your number for about a month,” Aaron says. “Still hasn’t managed it.”
Oooooooooooooookay.
Weird. Unexpected. Also deeply awkward.
(How strange that it’s not you making things weird for once.)
“And…” you trail off, because you’re too distracted by how he looks like he’s regretting it all - what a loser. “You’re saying this because you want me to hand it to him directly?”
“Oh, not at all.” Boy. That was fast. Too fast. “…he’s married.” You knew that already. “…You shouldn’t-”
“I shouldn’t?” You blink.
“Um, you…” He shakes his head, “You should… just… know this.”
…Right.
Aaron’s wife definitely cheated on him. Or maybe he’s just a prude. Or a control freak.
All possible. All extremely inconvenient. Poor him. Or maybe he deserved it, who knows.
“…Thanks,” you say flatly. “You… want something to drink?”
You ask because it’s polite… and also because he’s technically clogging the line forming behind him (all faint whiffs of Pinot settling directly into your nostrils from people pretending they need a refill, when really, they just want to stand near him.)
(Mr. very-much-returning-to-the-place-he’s-meant-to-be, mr. Aaron.)
(Mr. leaning-in-to-read-the-wine-list, mr. Aaron.)
(Mr-)
“How did you know about the guy?” slips out of you, as you’re already pouring something into an empty glass just to keep moving… you don’t even look at the bottle.
No pear. So, not Pinot. (Small victories.)
“He always sits on the side of the table facing you, instead of watching his son’s swimming lesson like the rest of the parents.”
Yeah, okay, that guy is a bit way too obvious, but the problem only continues to be him.
Aaron.
“He straightens his posture every time you laugh.”
Aaron, who shouldn’t have time to notice these things. Who stops by every other week, maybe. Maybe less. Always suited. Always in a rush. Always delivering the same three lines.
“Americano, no sugar.”
“Card.”
“Have a nice day.”
He never lingers. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t even stir the coffee. Just takes it and goes. Gone before the register beeps. FBI stuff awaiting for him.
“He ordered the same drink as you twice. Didn’t drink it. He doesn’t like cappuccino, he only did that because he thought you’d notice him”
So, how the hell does Aaron know? How does he notice you? Because he must have.
Somewhere in those two-minute drop-ins. In the blur between Card and Have a nice day. In the handful of seconds he’s ever been within ten feet of you.
Unless…
“Puts his phone down when you walk in. Doesn’t check it again until you’re gone.”
Unless he did look. Unless he looked specifically at you. Out of all the people. All the tables. All the parents and staff and regulars.
“His son finishes swimming before your friend. He doesn’t leave. Doesn’t talk to anyone else. Always finds something to do. Phone. Book. Pretending to read the sign about pool shoes.”
He saw you. And he remembered.
Which means…
“Always leaves five minutes after you. Never before. Never with anyone else.”
He’s either been paying attention. Or this big, terrifying federal agent is actually just… a massive gossip.
You freeze, because he picks up the glass you poured.
It wasn’t meant for him. You didn’t even know what it was.
Aaron swirls it once.
Leans in. Smells it.
Then brings it to his lips-
And hums.
A low, pleased little sound that settles right between your legs lungs, ergo straight to your heart. Because you’re a professional. And you take the sommelier thing very seriously.
You’re just passionate about your craft.
Especially about praise.
You love being praised.
On the job.
For the wine.
“People give a lot of themselves away when they want someone,” he says softly, almost kind.
Then he licks his lips. Just to clean the red off.
But it’s slow. Thoughtless. (Only makes it worse for you, honestly.)
You’re magnetically locked onto that smart mouth, so it’s easy to catch the small smile he gives you before turning and walking away.
Still with that soggy pool bag slung over his shoulder.
Fuck.
The things you wouldn’t do to that man.
“Can I have what he just had?” the next woman in line asks, already stepping up.
Of course you can.
That’s the point of lines, isn’t it? You wait your turn, you get what you want, and you leave. No lingering. No swooning. No involuntary pelvic lurches.
Survival.
Even if the sommelier - oh, that’s you! What a coincidence - would swear to drink Pinot for an entire godforsaken month just for five more seconds with that huge, handsome, back in that goddamn navy shirt… and that mouth too.
You glance at the bottle in your hand.
What did you even pour?
Oh. Of course.
It’s that wine.
The one you only open on nights when you’re either crying or coming.
The one that tasted like a mistake the first time and like a need every time after.
Aglianico.
Black fruit. Smoke. Leather.
Earthy. Dense. A little savage around the edges.
Unapologetic.
Masculine.
Slow to open.
Demands patience.
Tastes better if you wait for it.
Like all the worst things.
And all the best ones.
What a coincidence, really.
Phi's Corner: requests for fleabag!reader x Hotch are (wide) open(ed)!
I am genuinely concerned you don't know how funny you actually are. Because I wasn't at all prepared, and nearly fell off of my bed once I read this part:
--------
…A man you’ve had full conversations with–
in your head.
While brushing your teeth.
While shaving your legs.
While marinating chicken.
--------
What kind of brilliant mind even thinks of things like that? This work of art gave me the deepest belly laugh I've had all year. I'm in genuine pain. I wish I was exaggerating. There's so many other parts I want to point out, but this already forced me to pull out my laptop (after I gathered myself together), and that core workout that came with this exhausted me. I'm going to take a nap now. And probably re-read this when I wake up.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA this was so cuteeeee I can't. I'm blushing in the middle of a public bus at my screen. Old lady next to me is ab to call the authorities (I hope it's Aaron Hotchner). It's all your fault.
...Jokes apart, thank you so so so so much for reading :333
what if fleabag reader has to get a new vibrator 'cause her old one died on her or she's just getting one for her friend as a gag gift, and she runs into hotch in the process ? also i didn't know you could get them at pharmacies, but i guess that's a more realistic place for hotch to be (old back and everything).
For a Friend
triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader
Genre: 21st-century-feminist-meltdown-over-an-old-man and pre-relationship mutual pining
Summary: You just wanted a new vibrator. Instead, you bump into Aaron Hotchner at 2 a.m., holding six modes of clitoral suction technology and a G-spot stimulator in a paper bag. Now he’s offering you a ride, a jacket, and possibly his number. You’re doing great.
Warnings: Sexual themes & imagery (non-explicit but VERY suggestive), age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch* with *pearl clutch pt.2* sex toys, objectification of the Hotchner body, reader calls Hotch out for not having an ass, grief (your last vibrator died)
Word Count: 4.7k
Dado's Corner: Thanks for the request, dearest!! Sorry it took me forever, I hope you enjoy itttt!!! Special thanks to @hotchology for the free psychological counseling
masterlist(s)
Experts say it’s healthy to walk at least seven minutes a day, so here you are - taking your medically-recommended stroll at 2:06 a.m., in the direction of a 24-hour pharmacy, because you care about your health.
Deeply.
You really care about your health especially now that your vibrator has officially died in your hand right in the middle of what was shaping up to be a perfectly respectable late-night fantasy involving you, a locked door, and the tall, emotionally unavailable federal agent with zero small talk skills you’ve been mentally undressing since the first time you saw him do a butterfly stroke at the Y.
…It’s not like you always picture Aaron Hotchner.
You’re not that far gone.
You do have range.
You’ve gotten off to strangers.
To that chief of trauma doctor from Chicago Hope.
To the hot background guy from the Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas who had two lines and really great hair.
You are complex. You contain multitudes.
It’s just that Aaron Hotchner is… convenient. Reliable.
He’s easy.
Not easy-easy.
Cognitively easy. Low effort. High reward.
You don’t have to invent a man from scratch. Don’t have to mentally composite three mediocre exes and C-list celebrity actors into a half-decent fuck-doll when he already exists fully formed and fully clothed (barely.)
You don’t even have to think.
He’s basically a mental shortcut to climax, muscle memory with forearms, a comfort fantasy - like soup for the soul, if soup were six feet tall and weekly served wet at your local pool.
…And also dripping, practically naked.
All yours, at least visually.
You’ve memorized the way his thighs flex when he pushes off the wall, that split second of coiled power, the twitch of his calves, the ripple up to his glutes as he launches forward.
Perfect form. Perfect technique. Perfect… well.
Not a lot of meat back there.
Not exactly the kind of ass you’d grab with both hands and sink your teeth into.
No jiggle. No fluff.
Just… deeply respectable glutes.
Taut. Efficient. Compact.
An ass with more function than fat.
An ass that clocks in at the crack of dawn, files a huge pile of case reports, tackles a serial killer or two, then goes home and makes dinner for his kid.
An ass that probably says “thank you” when it finishes and then folds the towel neatly afterward.
Toned, athletic. Not juicy.
You wouldn’t bite it. (Lie.) You wouldn’t slap it. (Another lie.)
(Because you’d absolutely slap it. If he walked past you up a flight of stairs in those tight trousers he insists on wearing - pleated, no less - you’d black out and wake up with a stinging palm, your handprint on him and a federal restraining order in the mail.)
You wouldn’t grope it. You’d shake its hand. A gentleman’s ass. Very in-character kind of ass.
…You’d still let it rail you against a doorframe, obviously.
You’re not an idiot. You have eyes.
And that’s how you know the way his back arches (yes, arches) when he does a lazy freestyle turn. That smooth, arrogant curve of his spine as he rotates, like the water exists solely to show him off.
You’d say he looks graceful, but that feels too innocent.
He’s obscene.
You know everything about his body. Everything except for one crucial part.
The only piece he hasn’t offered up for public consumption.
The mystery.
And yet… is it really?
Because thanks to the tight speedos he wears you’ve done more visual math in that pool cafeteria than you ever did in school.
Circumference. Vein definition. Drop. Girth. Angle. Hinge theory. Left or right lean.
You’ve factored in mass, blood flow, gravitational pull, and fabric stretch.
At this point, it’s not even fantasy, it’s field research. All you have to do is mentally rotate, enlarge by 37%, adjust for arousal, and boom - there it is.
You’ve seen that dick. You know that dick.
If it ever revealed itself in real life, you’d probably just nod.
Like, yes. Correct. That’s the dick I’ve been using. Thank you for confirming.
Your brain barely breaks a sweat.
Which is more than can be said for you, as you’re currently trying to act normal in front of a just-graduated baby pharmacist who definitely still gets ID’d at bars, while heading for the forbidden shelf.
The one that doesn’t technically exist, but everyone knows does.
You make the turn casually.
Like you’re browsing.
Like you’re not here to buy a vibrator at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday only because for some reason, buying it here - in a pharmacy - makes it feel... medical.
Like a wellness thing. Like vitamins, floss, or calcium chews.
Like a very modern, battery-operated form of hormone regulation.
Not pleasure. No, no, no, God forbid.
This is for health, for stress relief. This is for preventing female rage and preserving the social fabric of your household.
Also, it’s very, very late - which is strategic.
No lines. No witnesses.
No grandmas behind you buying Werther’s Originals and silently judging your rotating G-spot stimulator with ergonomic grip.
You tell yourself that’s why you’re here at this hour.
Not because, despite all the feminist essays and body-positive podcasts, you still get flustered at the thought of being seen in public holding a brightly colored orgasm machine.
No. Absolutely not.
You’re here because you swore - never again.
Never again would you endure the trauma of your vibrator dying mid-session and having to switch to manual mode like it was the Middle Ages just to finish.
(And worst of all, it didn’t even work. You dried up. Mood ruined. You just laid there, staring at the ceiling for fifteen full minutes before sighing, getting dressed, and deciding - once again, ironically - to take matters into your own hands.)
You’re a modern woman.
Sexually free modern woman living in a free country that still accounts for death penalty for some of their states. Nothing is more free than this freedom.
You can vote.
You can buy a dual-stimulation, six-mode, energy-efficient G-spot massager - (at least according to the box, which proudly claims it uses fewer batteries than your last one. And you believe it. You trust boxes. You’re loyal like that.)
Right next to the hemorrhoid cream. In the middle of the night.
And you can replace a fallen comrade - RIP to the last one. Gone, but not forgotten - and now, here you are, holding its shiny successor the way you’ve seen people hold babies in movie posters. (Tender. Hopeful. A little overwhelmed.)
Nothing says freedom like that.
Stars. Stripes. Clitoral suction technology.
God bless America.
…Maybe not.
Because just as you take a step back, you collide – directly -with someone you didn’t even hear approach.
“I’m so sorry,” you blurt, right as a much deeper, much more male voice says the exact same thing.
A voice your brain knows very well.
Because not even an hour ago it was busy fabricating that same voice whispering “You’re taking me so well,” and - though you'd never admit this part - also: “Sweetheart.”
(Ew.)
Aaron Hotchner is now standing right there in front of you - real, breathing, and terrifyingly three-dimensional in a full three-piece suit – and is trying so hard not to look at the aggressively pink vibrator box clenched in your hand.
But he saw it. Oh, he saw it.
He’s a profiler. He’s trained to notice things.
(Or at least that’s what your late-night Google search said back when you first typed: “aaron hotchner fbi real???”)
(Which quickly devolved into a behavioral analysis rabbit hole run by people with usernames like @wifeofunitchief69 and @peter-rhea. All of them openly thirsting after him.)
(Especially this Peter guy - who you’re 85% sure is real, 15% convinced was a hallucination - kept posting photos a few years ago that looked… suspiciously intimate. Like “taken through the blinds” intimate. You don’t know how he got them. You don’t want to know. He hasn’t posted since.)
(Guess it was just a phase.)
Aaron’s locking eyes with you. Terrifying. Unfairly hazel, thanks to the pharmacy’s aggressive overhead lighting.
He’s focused on your face. Just your face.
(You are maybe a little flustered by this.)
(You bet all the serial killers he interrogates fall in love with him, too. You bet they get weird about it. Understandable, this man definitely knows how to hold eye contact.)
But you don’t buy it.
There is no way he didn’t read the full headline: “CLITORAL SUCTION + G-SPOT STIMULATION - NOW QUIETER!” (Ironically printed in all caps. For maximum discretion. Obviously.)
You are so incredibly fucked.
Unfortunately, only metaphorically.
Also, the silence is not helping. Not even a little.
…This feels like a crime.
(It’s not. Not technically. You can’t terminate a pregnancy in half the country, but you can buy a dual-motor vibrator next to the Tylenol. It’s somewhere in the Declaration of Independence - just after “life, liberty,” and right before “All men are created equal,” [*except slaves and women].”)
Still.
You are now committing an obscene act of self-service capitalism directly in front of a federal agent.
And some small, awful corner of your brain - the one with leftover shame and badly wired internalized misogyny, inherited from a cocktail of bad parenting and several seasons of Law & Order – fully believes this is the part where he arrests you.
Pushes you against the KY shelf.
Pins you with his full body weight.
Snaps cold real handcuffs around your wrists and whispers, “You have the right to remain silent…”
Which you clearly don’t.
Because your mouth opens before your brain can file an objection.
“…It’s for a gift.” WHY. WHY DID YOU SAY THAT. “…For my friend,” you add… as if that helps. (It doesn’t.)
He nods. Polite. Awkward.
…Too bad his ears are starting to match the exact pink of the vibrator.
Goddammit, he’s a prude.
One of those soft-spoken, morally burdened types who probably says “intercourse” and excuses himself when a condom commercial comes on.
Oh no.
What if this is his first time seeing one up close?
What if you just popped his sex toy cherry?
What if he goes home, locks the door, and has a slow, shameful jerk thinking about you in CVS with a 6-mode clitoral suction wand?
(…You wish.)
No. Worse. Because now he’s staring at you like he wants to ask, “What kind of friend buys a vibrator at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday?”
But won’t.
And since you are a mature, well-educated, emotionally intelligent woman - and not, say, a liar desperately trying to salvage a crumbling cover story – you say:
“Her birthday’s tomorrow.”
(It’s not. It’s in three days. But the product needs testing. Obviously. You’re not going to spend that much money again unless you know it delivers. That’s not selfishness. That’s friendship. That’s quality control.)
“Well… technically today. Midnight and all,” you add, even smiling. So bright. So natural. So deeply suspicious.
“It’s alr-” he starts, finally working up the courage to glance down-
…Only to be slapped – hard - right between the shoulder blades by very enthusiastic, very just-graduated-and-finally-making-big-boy-money night-shift pharmacist who materializes out of nowhere behind him.
Ouch.
Now - to be fair - the pharmacist doesn’t see it. (You do. Unfortunately. In high-definition, too.)
Because Aaron Hotchner is currently holding a box of ThermaCare HeatWraps and naproxen sodium - both of which are for his back.
He jolts forward on impact, barely, and then freezes.
Just enough to make you worry that’s it, that’s the final blow. That he’s going to stay like that forever, just slightly curved, permanently bent.
Italic Hotchner.
“My man,” the pharmacist beams. “Everything alright?”
By the look on Aaron’s face, you can tell he has never seen this person before in his life. Never. Not once.
But Aaron nods - tight, polite, already calculating the minimum number of words required to exit the conversation without triggering a background check or losing his license to carry a firearm.
“Just wanted to say, I really admire you.” The pharmacist grins, still holding Aaron’s shoulder, “Not every guy’s open-minded enough to use toys in the bedroom with their girl.”
…Oh. Oh, fuck.
You should say something. Anything. Correct him. Laugh, even.
But you’re too distracted by the fact that Aaron isn’t saying a word either.
He’s just… frowning. Not full frown, just pulling his eyebrows closer together.
Which, in Hotchner language, could mean anything from “I’m flattered” or “You could’ve handled it differently” to “I’m about to shoot you.”
It’s impossible to tell. You’re not fluent yet. (You need more fieldwork. Preferably hands-on.)
“Damn, look at that,” the pharmacist chuckles, nodding at Aaron’s little arthritis starter pack.
Then turns. To you.
“Is this your fault?”
Ha.
Ha ha.
How adorable.
You wish. God, you wish.
You’d rail him into a herniated disc so bad he’d have to wear a brace for three months and think of you every time he reached for the cereal shelf.
But no.
“Um…” you manage, shaking your head. “We’re not-”
Fucking. Sexually intimate.
Connected in any capacity beyond weekly pool glances and intrusive masturbation thoughts.
(And it’s not like he seems like the type to just have a casual “friend.” No, he seems like the kind of man who'd call a hookup a regrettable lapse in judgment and then spend six months punishing himself for it.)
And so, in doubt? You flee.
A timeless tactic.
You did the same thing when your therapist asked, “Why do you think you’re so attracted to older men?” and you suddenly remembered - oh no! You didn’t lock the café.
“I think I’m just gonna…” you gesture - vague, noncommittal, something in the direction of the register - and after a short, awkwardly graceful round of people-pleasing Olympics with the vibrator-pink-faced pharmacist-
(something between “Sorry if I misunderstood, I’ve been here since 6 p.m. and I’m on my third energy drink,” and “It’s okay, no really, it’s my fault” [for what? unclear])-
You’re outside.
Alive.
Vibrator in a paper bag and…
…It’s pouring.
Not only do you not have a significant other to kiss in the rain like a scene from one of those movies you only watch when you’re actively trying to remember how alone you truly are, but your car is enjoying an extended, all-inclusive, paid-for-by-you vacation at the mechanic.
Great.
“Miss.”
You physically jolt. Because:
1. That voice.
And
2. Miss?! Hello???
Aaron is standing just behind you, yet again.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
“Oh, yes.” You are soaked. And flustered. And holding a fucking vibrator in a paper bag while the hottest man in federal law enforcement addresses you like a schoolgirl who dropped her books in a rainstorm. “Yes. Alright.”
He looks at you with that stupidly concerned face - the one where his brows pull just slightly together.
It lasts a second.
Feels like a week.
“You’ve been standing here for a few minutes…”
…Apparently, the old man’s been watching you contemplate your entire existence under the sad little pharmacy awning while he casually stocked up on meds for his fucked-up joints.
How romantic.
“Oh… I was-” Nope. Nope, you were not anything. You have no explanation.
“Do you need a ride?” he asks.
Oh. Fuck. “Don’t worry,” you blurt. “I live close by.”
Feminism is a beautiful thing.
Except right now.
Right now, feminism is cockblocking you.
Aaron hums - hums?! - already pulling his phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and it’s… it’s the smallest iPhone you’ve ever seen.
Probably an iPhone 4, but in his hand - his massive hand - it looks like he’s stolen it from a dollhouse.
He swipes the screen (with his very thick thumb), squints just enough to tell you he’s absolutely in denial about needing reading glasses, then turns the phone toward you:
“99% chance of hard rain until 7 a.m.”
…Unfortunately, you’re far too distracted by his hands to verify the evidence. Especially that thumb, still hovering near the screen like it’s not the most erotic thing you’ve seen all week.
(And speaking of data - there is a study. Something about men with very large hands also having very large-)
Without hesitation, Aaron just shrugs off his suit jacket. “Put it over your head,” then he hands it to you. “Don’t want you to get wet...”
Too late.
Not only because you're touching his very warm, very expensive, very tailored, very smells-so-much-like-him jacket, but because he didn’t even flinch.
Not at the acid rain.
Not at the dry-cleaning bill.
Not at the fact that he doesn’t have an umbrella for himself.
Not even at the fact that he’s now just standing there in a white shirt.
A white shirt. In the rain.
(You pray that he’s not wearing an undershirt.)
(You pray this turns into an unofficial Aaron Hotchner Wet T-Shirt Contest…Wet shirt. Wet dress shirt.)
“…You’re the one holding the electronics,” he adds, tilting his head toward the bag.
Ah. There it is. Thank you, Aaron, for making it weird. Again.
He sort of redeems himself by opening the door of his very shiny, very hot-dad black car like it’s the 1950s. (You hate how much you love it.)
…He even closes the door for you.
There are a few immediate observations that need to be made about Aaron Hotchner’s car:
• It smells divine. Like clean leather, big paycheck, small emotional availability and a touch of lavender, too.
• It’s spotless. Not a crumb. Not a fingerprint. There’s not a speck of dust anywhere.
• There are superhero comics tucked into the seat pocket. Jack’s, obviously. Unless… they’re his. Which would be - God. A brooding man with a soft spot for two-dimensional justice and emotionally stunted men in capes. Fatherhood and projection, hand in hand. Amazing.
But what really grabs your attention is the seating.
Full black leather.
Sleek. Cold enough to sting if your thighs were bare. Soft enough to leave marks if you were sitting on his lap instead.
Easy to wipe down. Easy to grip.
A car designed to be fucked in.
The hottest thing inside it, though? Probably the fact that it takes a few soft Are you alrights and Do you need anythings before Aaron finally starts the engine.
And it’s… quiet. Disturbingly quiet. No coughing. No sputtering. No “please God start” noises.
Just… starts.
“It’s such a cool car,” you blurt.
Fifty percent because you mean it.
Fifty percent because the silence is killing you and that’s literally the first thing your brain offered up as a conversation starter. You’re not even sure what you’re complimenting. Just that it has… technology.
You’re genuinely impressed. There’s literally a screen. A touchscreen. With sensors. A built-in navigator.
Meanwhile, your car still has a cassette slot, three loose aux cables, a suspicious stain that doesn’t want to come off, and a radio that only plays static unless you hit it twice.
“It’s a good car,” he replies, completely unbothered. Literally just a man stating a fact. About his vehicle. And yet, your brain shuts off.
You’re hot under the collar because Aaron Hotchner said something true… in a nice voice.
That’s it. That’s the bar.
And to make it worse, he doesn’t follow it up. No “Do you drive much?” No “What year is yours?”
Nothing. Just those three words and then silence.
He's the worst small talker you've ever met and now you have no idea how to keep this going.
You consider asking him about… tires. Or gas mileage. Or how long it took him to sell his soul to become this repressed.
Pathetic.
You’re even more pathetic when he does that thing. The hot thing. The driving thing.
Where he turns around to check behind him - one hand on the back of your seat, other on the wheel - torso twisting, shirt clinging, full neck exposure.
Basically porn.
You try so hard not to spontaneously combust.
Not just because you’re pressed into his personal space, or because his white dress shirt is completely see-through now after all that rain and you can see where his spine ends, or because he’s absolutely not wearing an undershirt and is one unexpected pothole away from full nipple contact.
No. It’s the tongue.
The tiny flick. Just a flash. Quick. Absent. Almost innocent.
His tongue darts out - just a little - as he focuses, like it helps him steer straighter. Nothing but a reflex. He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it.
You, however, are acutely aware-
Just as aware as you are of the fact that the two of you are sitting in near silence. Almost comfortable.
If not for the small detail that you’re horny and holding a vibrator in a paper bag. The only sound is the rain-
And the soft, awkward half-comment he lets slip when you tell him your address:
“Oh. You were right. It is really… close.”
No shit, Sherlock.
If you had even an ounce of courage, this would be the most satisfying “told you so” of your life - because not even four minutes in, he’s already pulling into the cracked little square that overlooks your apartment complex.
“Where’s the entrance?” he asks, squinting at the very charming, definitely-not-a-fire-hazard 1970s architecture. “It’s barely lit here.”
He’s right, though.
There’s a little pedestrian alley that leads to your stairwell, and it’s lit by what is essentially half a lightbulb and probably one moth if you’re lucky.
“I can’t leave you here,” he says, already switching off the engine.
“It’s fine, don’t worry, I’ve done it alone a thousand times.”
You get The Look™.
The full Dad Look™.
Eyebrows lowered. Mouth set. Silent moral judgment loading. Which, naturally, makes you blurt out something helpful:
“I swear. Even at 3 a.m. When I was blackout drunk.”
He looks horrified.
Which is… great. Exactly the vibe you were going for on this totally unromantic, emotionally neutral, post-pharmacy ride home.
“Well, you’re not walking alone all the way there today,” then he proceeds to open the driver’s door before you can even object.
“Wait- really, you don’t have to-”
“Stay here,” he cuts in, already halfway out before you can finish.
Then suddenly, he’s at your door. Umbrella overhead.
Like some man from a black-and-white movie who has no idea you’re holding a vibrator in your bag and have a sink full of crusted risotto waiting at home.
Chivalry.
That’s what it should be called. But that word feels too… medieval. Too knight-in-shining-armor.
Too “written by robed men who thought ankles were sinful and menstruation was the devil’s piss.”
No.
From him, this isn’t chivalry. It’s something else.
Not performance. Not politeness.
Just… kindness.
Offensively tender, nonverbal, soak-himself-in-the-rain kind of kindness.
And so the two of you walk under the same umbrella together, arms brushing every other step.
You try to create distance. He scoots closer.
Adjusts the umbrella to keep you dry.
Prioritizes your dry head over his own sopping suit.
Kind of romantic.
You could kiss him here.
Right now.
Under this umbrella. In the rain. In front of your depressing 70s concrete box of an apartment.
You could just… do it.
Lean in. Shut him up. See what that mouth actually feels like.
If it weren’t for the very inconvenient fact that you are juuuuuust a bit terrified of rejection.
Terrified in the “ha-ha I’ll never date again if someone even slightly hesitates when I flirt” way.
In the “I’ll replay the rejection in the shower for the next ten years, write five alternate endings, and mentally workshop comebacks well into menopause” kind of way.
In the “what if he says no and then I have to move to Vermont” way.
Also, you are currently holding a vibrator in a paper bag. So. There’s that.
Still, Temptation is real.
Even because Aaron is still mid-monologue about street lighting standards. Turning his head every few steps. Gesturing with one hand like a man who has read far too many municipal codes for someone this hot.
The idea of shutting him up for good with a kiss is honestly starting to sound like a public service.
“It’s barely visible here,” he mutters, scanning the alley. “No signage. No reflective paint. Anyone could-”
“Trip?” you offer.
“Worse.” He deadpans, then turns toward you, “Are you humoring me?”
“A little,” you shrug (he’s pathetic.)
He stops. Looks at you. “I’m being serious.”
…Ah, the dad voice. Firm. Slightly patronizing. Delicious.
“I know,” you smile. “That’s what makes it so fun.”
By the time he’s done glaring, you’re already at your building entrance, heart stupidly tight.
Saved. Almost.
“Well… this is me.” You pull out your keys to prove to him you’ve got your shit together. “Um… thanks for the ride. And the walk, of course.” (What is this, Pride & Prejudice?) “I think I’m good from here.”
You say it lightly, casual, because if you don’t end it now, you’re 100% sure he’ll keep going.
He’ll follow you to your door.
To your kitchen. To your hallway. Maybe even your bedroom.
Not for sex. God, no.
Just to make sure you’re safely tucked in.
That your bedroom window locks properly.
That the shadow outside was just a tree and not a threat (more likely, the stray cat you and two old ladies keep over-feeding.)
He’d stand there - in the doorway, quiet, stiff, arms crossed - and wait until you hit REM sleep before silently excusing himself.
The worst part? He’d make it feel horribly sweet.
And the much, much worse part? To do that, he’d have to walk through the disaster zone you call home.
The crusty risotto bowls still soaking in the sink. Three wine glasses, none of which match. A fork in a mug.
He’d pass your roommate mid-makeout with a “friend” who’s definitely not wearing pants and is probably sitting on your throw blanket.
He’d see the takeout containers on the counter.
The mystery stain on the wall you keep forgetting to Google.
The chair you keep meaning to fix but now just refer to as “decorative.”
He’d see you. As you are.
And you can’t be the reason this man actively re-dyes his greys by Wednesday. You’d love to be. You really would.
But not like this.
Also, you’re just really tired and you’ve got… things to test.
And, if you’re honest, some things are better when they stay in your head. Untouched. Untried. Safely fantasized.
So you smile.
“I’ll be fine.”
He nods. Doesn’t argue.
But doesn’t leave, either.
Instead, he pulls something from his coat pocket.
His business card.
“Text me when you’re inside,” he says, dead serious.
You blink at it.
The paper is thick. Embossed.
Feels like you’re holding a warrant.
“Oh wow,” you murmur, trying not to smile. “This is the smoothest way I’ve ever gotten someone’s number.”
He straightens slightly. “It’s my work phone.” Still serious, but fumbling.
(He’s so bad at this. It’s almost adorable.)
You nod, suppressing the second smile in a row. “Of course.”
He looks at you for a moment - too long, maybe, or maybe it’s just your perception that’s a bit fucked up - and says, “Goodnight, miss.”
You pause.
“It’s-” You tell him your name.
He nods. Revises. And repeats it. A little too careful. A little too gentle.
You might actually pass out.
Not just from the emotional whiplash, but also because your apartment has too many goddamn stairs and your legs were not built for this level of cardio or romantic tension.
You stumble inside, safe. Unmurdered. Emotionally unstable. Immediately grab your phone and text the number printed in the most intimidating Arial you’ve ever seen.
made it still alive
didn’t get murdered
not even a little bit
He replies almost instantly.
(Almost, because he’s an old man with disproportionately large thumbs and the texting accuracy of someone whose phone autocorrects “fine” to “filing.”)
aaron hotchner (work, no nudes):
This is a work number. Please be mindful.
– A.H.
…He signs his own texts. Oh fucking hell.
aaron hotchner (work, no nudes):
But I’m glad to hear it.
Goodnight, miss.
– A.H.
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