sooooo pls don't judge me (although you can) but would you consider writing a stepdad! hotch and the reader how a rather cheeky relationship where the lines blur and sex becomes a bit like love 🥲
pls don't write this if it makes you uncomfortable. i read a stepdad! hotch fic the other day and it left me feeling sick and now I just want more...🥲
i'm sorry if this puts you in a very uncomfortable place, that's not my intention at all and i apologize for that!🤍🥺
Training Partner 👟 A.H
pairing: StepDad! Hotch x AFAB Fem! Reader
Rating: MDNI, NSFW, If you don’t like this trope don’t read it simple as that. 18+ Smut.
synopsis: Coming home from college you finally meet your step dad, Aaron. Your mom married him quickly a spur of the moment type deal. There is an underlying tension between you both and his training sessions go from solo to you being his ‘training’ partner for the college break.
wc: 8.4k
cw: Smut | Step dad! Hotch | Forbidden relationships | Cheating (a given..?) | P in V | Reader didn’t grow up with Hotch (no no no) | Hiding | Teasing | Lying | spanking | softDom! Hotch | Creampie | age gap | Dilf hotch ;) | Triathlon hotch (hottie) | confessed feelings | public sex (at night & hidden) | touch deprived hotch
a/n: Hey!! thank you sm for the request and your so lovely and kind…i am also a sucker for this so tehe yes. Make Tumblr kinky again. Hope you enjoy and hope this is what you were after! :)) 😚🤍
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You’d been living away at college for a year now. Second year down, summer break finally here, and for the first time since you left, you felt free. Free of your small hometown. Free of living under your mom’s roof. Free of feeling like you were constantly in the middle of your parents’ long-ago divorce.
Being an only child, you knew your mom got lonely sometimes. She didn’t say it, but you could feel it in the way she texted you too often, or in the Facebook posts about things no one needed to know—her bad restaurant reviews written like essays, her blurry selfies with captions about the weather, the oversharing of things you wished you could unsee.
So, when she mentioned she was dating someone, you didn’t think much of it. The man was kept oddly secret. No photos. No cryptic captions. Nothing. For your mom, that was weird.
You assumed he was some older, boring guy who took her out to decent dinners, maybe small weekend getaways, someone safe and simple. Someone she wouldn’t brag about because there was nothing to brag about.
Then, one morning during midterms, your phone lit up with a text.
I got married! 💍
You stared at the message for a full minute before you typed back,
very funny, mom.
But she wasn’t joking.
A photo came through a moment later—her hand, the ring, a small garden behind her with folding chairs and flowers. A second photo: her and a man standing close, smiling for the camera.
Your mom looked happy.
He didn’t look like the man you’d pictured. He was… handsome.
Not just mom’s-new-husband handsome. More like this-feels-illegal handsome. Broad shoulders, dark hair, that kind of presence that made the whole picture feel heavier somehow. He looked older than her by a few years, maybe more, but not in a bad way. If anything, it made him look even better. And beside him was a boy—maybe ten or eleven—also in a little suit, holding onto the man’s hand.
Jack. Your mom said his name was Jack.
Your new stepbrother.
Your mom texted a flood of details afterward, how small and casual the ceremony was, how exams had kept you from being invited, how Aaron and Jack couldn’t wait to meet you when you came home for the summer.
And that was how you found yourself standing on your childhood porch, bag slung over your shoulder, heart thudding harder than you wanted to admit.
The door looked the same. The welcome mat, too. But when you knocked, you felt like a stranger. You shifted on your feet, counting the seconds. Then the lock clicked. The door swung open, and there he was.
Aaron.
Sweat-slicked dark hair pushed back from his forehead, workout clothes clinging in all the right ways, his expression—serious at first—softening when he realized it was you.
“Hey,” you managed, voice a little awkward, not sure what else to say.
He gave a small, polite smile. “Oh—hey. You must be-”
“Yeah,” you cut in, then wished you hadn’t. “Um. Your… stepdaughter, I guess.”
He let out the faintest breath of a laugh, almost under his breath, then opened the door wider. “Come in. Your mom’s… upstairs, I think.”
You stepped past him, the familiar smell of your childhood home hitting you immediately—laundry detergent, lemon cleaner, faint coffee from somewhere in the kitchen. He closed the door behind you, the sound final in a way that made your pulse jump.
“I’m Aaron,” he said, even though you obviously knew that. “My son Jack’s in his room. He’s eleven.” He paused, almost like he wasn’t sure how much to say. “I know this is… new.”
You looked at him properly then. Up close. Broad shoulders filling out the fitted shirt. The kind of posture that said he was used to taking up space without meaning to.
“Yeah,” you said slowly. “Fast, too.”
You didn’t mean it to come out sharp, but it kind of did.
His mouth pressed together for a second, like he understood. “It was.” He nodded toward the staircase. “I’ll go let her know you’re here.”
He jogged up the stairs two at a time. He moved like someone who didn’t waste energy, like every motion had purpose. Nothing like your dad, who never moved faster than he had to.
You stood in the living room, eyes flicking over the walls. Some things were the same—your old photos still there—well a few—but others weren’t. New frames. Pictures you didn’t recognize yet. A life that had kept going while you were away.
When Aaron came back down, he had a towel slung around his shoulders, his hair still damp at the edges from sweat. He didn’t look winded, though.
“She’ll be down in a minute,” he said, leaning lightly against the doorframe, arms folded. Not unfriendly, just… reserved. Watching you, like he was trying to figure you out.
You nodded, gripping the strap of your bag a little tighter. “You were… running or something?”
“Training,” he said simply. “There’s a triathlon in August.”
“Oh.” You nodded like you knew what to say to that.
He gave a small smile then, just enough to be disarming. “It’s a lot of work.”
“I can tell.” The words slipped before you could stop them, eyes darting to the way the sweat darkened his shirt at the collar.
His head tilted slightly, like maybe he’d caught the tone in your voice. But before anything else could pass between you, your mom’s voice came from the stairs, bright and cheerful, pulling the moment apart.
You told yourself it was nothing. Just meeting your mom’s new husband. That was all. But it didn’t feel like just that.
Not at all.
The rest of that day passed in a blur of conversation with your mom. She was so happy to have you home again, so eager to show you the life she’d built while you’d been away. Every so often, Aaron would pass through the living room—sometimes with a glass of water in hand, sometimes checking his phone—and your mom always found a way to pull him into the conversation, bragging in that half-teasing, half-proud tone only she had.
“Aaron’s the Unit Chief of an FBI unit,” she said at one point, sipping her wine with a mischievous little grin, like she enjoyed dropping that casually into the air.
You raised your brows, looking over at him. He didn’t even look up from the coffee he was pouring. “What unit?” you asked, bringing your own wine glass to your lips.
“The Behavioral Analysis Unit,” he said, voice even, calm. “We profile serial criminals.”
You blinked, surprised. “Oh.”
It was impressive, sure—but it also made so much sense. The way his expression shifted so quickly when his phone had gone off earlier, all sharp edges and focus, his tone laced with quiet authority as he answered. The way he’d handled Jack’s sulking earlier when the kid was less than thrilled about meeting you—firm, but not unkind.
You could see how your mom fell for him. The self-control. The intelligence. The steadiness.
Your mom reached over and tapped your knee lightly, grinning. “So. College.”
You groaned a little, laughing under your breath. “Here we go.”
“How is it up in the big apple?” she asked, smiling like she already knew the answer.
“It’s… good. Really good,” you said honestly, setting your wine glass down.
“Any boyfriends?” she teased. “Girlfriends? Someone special?”
“Mom,” you cut in, giving her a look.
She laughed, too loud and too happy, maybe a little wine-drunk. Or maybe she was just thrilled to have you here.
Aaron sat on the other end of the couch, coffee cup in hand, watching the exchange quietly. You could feel his gaze flicker between you and your mom, like he was trying to read between the lines of things.
“What are you studying?” he asked finally, voice calm but curious.
“History,” you said.
He nodded, that slight furrow between his brows deepening like he was already considering what that meant. “History’s interesting,” he said simply, like he meant it.
Before he could say more, your mom was off again, talking about the city, about New York in general, asking if it was too busy, too loud, too much.
“I like the bustle,” you admitted, smiling faintly.
Aaron leaned forward slightly then, resting his forearms on his knees. “My brother, Sean… he works in New York. He runs a bar downtown.” He paused, eyes flicking to yours briefly. “If you’re ever in the area, I can give you the address.”
You nodded slowly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
He didn’t push the conversation further, but there was something in the way he said it. Like he wanted you to know, but didn’t want to give too much away.
The night wound down slowly after that. Your mom got tipsy enough to start telling embarrassing childhood stories, and Aaron listened, polite but quiet, that calm presence filling the room even when he wasn’t saying much. Eventually, you excused yourself upstairs, telling yourself the weird flutter in your stomach was just from the wine.
The next morning, sunlight crept through the curtains early, waking you before you were ready. You padded downstairs in your Hello Kitty pajama pants and an old band tee, hair still messy from sleep, heading straight for the kitchen and the promise of caffeine.
You were pouring water into the kettle when the front door opened behind you.
“Good morning,” came his voice, low and warm.
You turned, startled, then froze for a fraction of a second. Aaron stood there in running shoes, black compression shirt clinging to him, black shorts, the faint sheen of sweat already at his hairline.
“Morning,” you said, a little too quickly, focusing hard on the kettle like it suddenly needed all your attention. “Going for a run?”
He glanced at your pajamas—just for a second—and you swore there was the tiniest flicker of amusement in his eyes. The corner of his mouth almost curved before he schooled it away.
“Run, yeah,” he said finally, voice casual.
You stirred sugar into your coffee, forcing your face to stay neutral even as your pulse kicked up a notch.
“Do you… run?” he asked suddenly, leaning against the counter like he had all the time in the world.
“Sometimes,” you said, not looking at him.
He nodded slowly, considering that. “Running alone can be dangerous,” he said after a moment. “Especially early in the mornings. If you want to train while you’re home… I could go with you. Just so you’re not out there by yourself.”
The words were perfectly reasonable. A normal, responsible, stepfather thing to say.
So why did they land differently?
You looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “I’ll… think about it,” you said finally.
That was when it happened—the barest smirk tugged at his mouth. Quick. Easy to miss. But you didn’t miss it. “Good,” he said simply, pushing off the counter and grabbing a water bottle from the fridge before heading for the door again.
You stood frozen for a second after the door shut, coffee mug warm in your hands, your heart thudding way too fast for what just happened.
Did Aaron Hotchner just smirk at you?
It wasn’t until the next morning that you finally took him up on the offer. You told yourself it wasn’t because of him—not really. That you wanted the exercise, the fresh air, the chance to feel like you were doing something productive over summer break.
But deep down, you knew the truth.
The glances, the faint smirks, the quiet way his eyes sometimes lingered on you like he was trying not to be obvious. It all added up to something you couldn’t quite name, something that felt dangerous to even think about too long.
So, no, you didn’t like to run. But for him? Yeah. You’d do it.
You dressed in black leggings, a white slouchy T-shirt with a sports bra underneath in case it got too hot, hair tied back. New Balance trainers. Casual. Normal. Nothing to overthink.
You told yourself that twice before going downstairs.
Aaron was already in the kitchen, standing near the fridge in another black compression shirt that did nothing to hide the shape of him. He turned when he heard you, dark eyes scanning your outfit just for a moment before a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Taking me up on the offer?” he asked, voice smooth, calm. You nodded, walking toward him as he reached into the fridge for two bottles of water. He handed one to you before taking a long sip from his own.
“Yep,” you said, forcing casualness into your voice. “I needed to start running again anyway. You just… pushed me.”
“Motivated you,” he corrected, mouth curving slightly as he snapped the lid back on the bottle.
“Right. Motivated me,” you echoed dryly.
“Let’s get going,” he said, glancing toward the door. “I usually run in the park.”
You nodded automatically, even as your chest tightened a little. That park. The one where you rode your first bike, where your mom used to take you to feed the ducks when you were small. It was big, sprawling, full of long paths that wound through trees and open grass.
The two of you fell into step together as you left the house and headed down the quiet suburban streets. Early morning sunlight spilled through the trees, the air still cool from the night before. Birds chirped. Somewhere, a lawnmower buzzed faintly.
It was peaceful.
Too peaceful for the tension curling in your stomach.
“When’s the last time you ran?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
You huffed a little laugh. “Few months,” you admitted.
His brow lifted, the corner of his mouth twitching like he already knew what that meant.
“I’ll go slow for you,” he said, voice mild but threaded with humor. You turned your head sharply toward him, mock-offended. “Ouch. I’m not slow.”
He laughed under his breath, the sound low and warm. “You’ll be slower than me. I wouldn’t want to… show off.”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head, but there was a smile tugging at your mouth. “Sure. That’s the only reason.”
His smirk deepened like he knew he’d won that round.
When you reached the park, the sun was higher now, slanting gold through the trees. Aaron stopped near one of the paths, rolling his shoulders back as he looked over at you.
“You should stretch,” he said, already bending one leg back to catch his ankle in his hand. His voice was matter-of-fact, but his eyes cut toward you briefly. “You don’t want to pull a muscle.”
You tried not to stare at the way the movement pulled his shirt across his shoulders, at the way the sunlight caught in his hair.
“I’ll be fine,” you said, though you were already stretching your arms overhead.
“Do you know how to stretch properly?” he asked then, tilting his head slightly. “To avoid injury?”
You huffed a little laugh, trying to play it off. “Are you going to show me?”
He didn’t smile this time—not fully—but there was something in his expression, a faint pull at the corner of his mouth like he was holding it back.
“I can,” he said simply, letting his leg fall back to the ground. “If you want.”
You didn’t trust your voice for a second, so you just nodded.
Aaron stepped closer, close enough that you caught the faint clean scent of his soap under the salt of sweat and the sharpness of his aftershave. He crouched slightly, one hand hovering just above your calf without quite touching.
“Here,” he said evenly, demonstrating the angle. “You’ll want to keep your knee straight. If you twist your leg wrong, you can tear the muscle.”
You shifted, copying him, trying not to feel self-conscious with him this close.
“Like that?” you asked.
“Almost,” he murmured, reaching out this time to nudge your ankle slightly inward. The touch was quick, professional even, but it sent a flicker of heat straight up your spine.
“There,” he said, straightening again. “Better.”
You swallowed, nodding like this was all normal. Like your pulse wasn’t hammering from something that had nothing to do with running.
He glanced at you once more before stepping back, voice steady. “Ready?”
You nodded again, even though you weren’t sure if you meant for the run or… whatever this was becoming.
“We start with a conversational pace run,” Aaron said, his voice even, smooth like it always was, except for the faintest edge of teasing in there somewhere. “No sprinting ahead.”
You huffed a small laugh, brushing a flyaway piece of hair out of your face. “Sprinting? Didn’t I just say I haven’t done this in months?”
He grinned faintly—just a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it was enough to make you feel like you’d said something funny when you hadn’t. “Yeah, well… you might want to show off.”
You rolled your eyes at him, though there was no heat behind it.
He gestured for you to start down the path, and when you did, he fell into an easy pace beside you, his strides long but unhurried.
“Good,” he said after a moment, nodding like he was actually assessing the way you ran.
“Thanks?” you shot back, half-laughing through the words, your sneakers smacking lightly against the pavement.
He shook his head, amused at your tone. “I’m just making sure you won’t jog wrong and get hurt. Your mother would kill me.”
That made you laugh under your breath, surprised. “She’d kill you? I highly doubt it. I’ve never even seen my mom mad. Like… ever.”
Aaron turned his head toward you slightly, one brow lifting. “Never?”
“Nope.” You looked back at the path ahead, the sun filtering through the trees above. “Do you?”
He let out a short, quiet laugh at that, the kind that didn’t sound like it left him often. “Every day.”
That made you glance at him, surprised. The controlled, serious FBI Unit Chief arguing with your mother?
“She gets mad at you?” you asked, skeptical.
He gave a small shrug, keeping his gaze ahead. “Well… actually, yeah. But I don’t see anything I’m doing wrong.”
Of course he didn’t.
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from saying that out loud.
“She’s just… expressive,” he said after a pause, his voice lower now, like the words came with some weight he didn’t usually share. “We’re opposites. And I know I work too much.”
You kept running, listening. The words almost sounded like therapy he didn’t mean to be having.
“She argues with me about it,” he admitted. “And I… I lost my first wife because of that. But I don’t argue back. I agree with her.”
You slowed a little so you could look at him, studying his profile as he spoke. The steady set of his jaw. The way his eyes stayed fixed on the path ahead, like he didn’t want to see your reaction.
“She tends to just… get lonely,” you said softly. “She feels abandoned easily. Always has.”
He nodded once, jaw tightening. “I have a job. I—”
You cut in before he could finish. “Your job is important. She knew that before she shotgun married you. She can’t expect you to change.”
That made him glance at you, and for the first time, there was something there. A flicker of surprise, maybe even gratitude. Like you were the first person to actually say it out loud to him.
“Thanks,” he said finally. “I—yeah. Thanks.”
You shrugged, eyes back on the path. “She was like that with my dad, too. He worked a lot. Not as much as you, but… she got jealous. A lot. Even though he never cheated on her. Couldn’t deal with it and left.”
He nodded like he understood, but there was a faint crease between his brows.
“I just don’t understand it,” he said after a moment, voice quieter now, clipped around the edges. “It’s not like we’re even… affectionate. Or intimate.” The words slipped out before he seemed to realize.
There was a beat of silence before he cursed under his breath. “Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.” He exhaled hard, like he was irritated at himself. “That’s… inappropriate. Forget I said anything.”
You were too stunned to even respond right away. Not because it was some huge revelation, but because he of all people hadn’t been… intimate. For what? Months? A year?
Fucking hell.
You didn’t want to know that about your mom. But you did now. Unfortunately. “I’m an adult, it’s fine,” you said carefully, but he shook his head before you even finished.
“You’re an adult, yes,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “But you don’t want to know about that stuff.”
You hummed faintly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. There was a long pause, filled only by the ragged sound of your breaths and the steady thump of both your shoes hitting the pavement.
“That’s a long time,” you said finally, not giving any context but knowing he understood exactly what you meant.
His jaw tightened, his voice clipped when he answered. “Yeah.”
He sounded frustrated. Like he didn’t want to be having this conversation at all, but the words had already escaped. You wanted to ask then why the hell are you with her? Why get married so fast if there were already cracks in the foundation?
But you didn’t.
Not yet.
By the time you and Aaron made it back to the start of the path after the first run, the sky had shifted from soft morning gray to that washed-out blue that meant the rest of the world was waking up.
You were sore, faintly sweating, the kind of ache you’d feel later in your thighs and calves, but right now it was your lower back that betrayed you.
He noticed immediately. Of course he did. “Sore?” His voice was calm, but his eyes flicked to the way you shifted your weight.
You shook your head, automatically denying it. “No… it’s fine.”
Because seriously—who the hell gets injured after a slow jog? Apparently, you did.
Aaron didn’t look like he believed you for a second. He took a sip of his water, then closed the distance between you, the faint crunch of gravel under his shoes somehow sounding louder in the quiet park.
“Where?” he asked simply.
You hesitated, then gestured vaguely to your lower back, expecting him to just nod and tell you to stretch better next time.
Instead, his hand hovered there for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he could—like he was weighing something—and then he set it there lightly, the warm press of his palm through your T-shirt.
“Here?” he asked, fingers pressing gently.
“Yeah,” you said, barely above a whisper.
He worked at the tight muscle slowly, thumb moving in small circles, the heat of his hand through the thin cotton making you hyperaware of everything. The sounds of the park. The air cooling against your sweat. The way his touch didn’t feel casual, even though it looked it.
He didn’t say anything, just focused, and maybe to anyone else this would look like the most normal thing in the world. Workout partner helps the other with an ache. Completely innocent.
Except you could feel your pulse in your throat. You cursed your own body, praying he didn’t notice how stiff you’d gone under his hand.
Eventually, he pulled back, wiping his palm subtly on the leg of his running shorts like nothing had happened. “Ice it,” he said simply. “And no running until it’s better.”
You almost laughed at that. No running? “I’ll be fine,” you said quickly, already knowing you wanted to go tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.
He just shook his head like he knew exactly what you were thinking, and the two of you started walking back through the quiet streets. Halfway home, he spoke again, voice lower this time.“Hey… about what I said earlier,” he said. “About your mom and me… can we not… tell her that?”
You shot him a look, incredulous. “You think I’d tell her?”
His brow furrowed like he didn’t get why you wouldn’t.“You wouldn’t?” he asked carefully.
You huffed out a small laugh. “No. I won’t tell her. I don’t run and tell my mom everything.”
He was quiet for a second. Then he nodded once, almost like the answer pleased him in some way you didn’t want to think about too hard.
That ended up being the first training day of what turned into a routine. Every morning, you ran. Or cycled. Sometimes weights if the weather was crap. You grew closer to him in ways you couldn’t explain. He was easy to talk to when it was just the two of you. Maybe because he wasn’t trying to be your stepdad or your mom’s husband when you were running; he was just… Aaron.
Your mom noticed how well you got on with him and smiled about it, telling you how much she loved that you two had bonded.
If only she knew.
It had all stayed innocent. Technically. But sometimes topics got… strange. Sometimes his eyes lingered on yours for a second too long. Sometimes he stretched you properly after a run, hands firm on your calves, your shoulders, the small of your back, and neither of you said anything about the fact that it didn’t feel like a stepdad thing to do.
Sometimes you caught him looking. Sometimes he caught you looking.
And then you’d both step back like nothing had happened, like the air between you wasn’t humming with something you couldn’t name.
You told yourself it was fine. You told yourself that thing he’d admitted—about not being intimate with your mom at all—explained why he always seemed so close to snapping lately.
Until tonight.
He knocked on your bedroom door, knuckles rapping lightly.
“Wanna come for a run?” His voice was casual, but there was something under it. Something tight. “I’m feeling… restless.”
You looked up from your phone, hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “Sure. Give me five?”
He nodded once, then closed your door softly. You heard his footsteps down the hall, the faint click of the door he shared with your mom shutting.
You changed fast, pulling on leggings and a tank top, tying your hair up. A night run. This was new.
When you stepped onto the porch, he was already there, arms crossed, dark T-shirt clinging faintly to his chest. Streetlights lit the quiet road beyond him, everything tinged orange.
“Let’s go,” he said simply, gesturing for you to follow.
You fell into stride beside him. He was quieter than usual, jaw set, shoulders tight. Restless was one word for it. Bothered might have been a better one.
The walk to the park was quiet. Not awkward quiet, not exactly. Just… thick. Weighted. The only sounds were the faint hum of streetlights, the dull scrape of your shoes on pavement, your own pulse in your ears. No cars passed. No voices. Just the two of you moving through the neighborhood like you weren’t supposed to be there at this hour.
When you reached the start of the trail, he stopped.
Aaron always stopped here—probably waiting for you to stretch first because he cared, because that’s what he does. He doesn’t miss things. He doesn’t let people get hurt if he can help it.
He stretched his legs out, calm, composed, like usual. You mirrored him, holding your ankle behind you, pulling the muscles tight, eyes on him.
“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” you asked finally.
He didn’t look at you. “Can’t sleep,” he said simply, voice low. But you knew that wasn’t true.
You’d heard him before. At two in the morning. At three. The floor creaking faintly in the hall, the sound of a cabinet door in the kitchen, his footsteps in the home office that used to be the guest room. He didn’t run to get tired. He didn’t run to sleep.
He just stayed awake.
You let it slide, though. You both started jogging, slow at first, the air cool on your face.
It was silent. The kind of silence that stretched, made you feel every breath, every step. The only light was the occasional streetlamp cutting through the dark.
After a while, you tried again. “Seriously,” you said between breaths, “what’s up?”
He exhaled hard through his nose, like the words cost him something. “I’m… stressed,” he said finally, voice rough.
Stressed. Right.
Stressed = touch deprived. At least, that’s what you thought when you saw the tightness in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. The way he looked like someone keeping a hundred things locked behind his ribs.
He spoke like he was trying to keep it all under control and just couldn’t. “It’s hard,” he said finally. “I just… need a distraction.”
A distraction. That word landed heavier than it should have.
You nodded once. “Okay… then we’ll run, I guess.”
You didn’t push. Didn’t tease. But you felt it. The frustration coming off him like heat. The way he kept his eyes forward, mouth in a tight line, shoulders moving with that coiled energy that didn’t belong to someone out for a casual jog.
And maybe it wasn’t just frustration with work or life or whatever the hell was happening in his marriage.
Maybe he didn’t want her. Maybe he wanted something—or someone—else.
Halfway around the loop, he finally spoke again.
“Your mom thinks I’m cold,” he said abruptly, like the words slipped out before he could catch them.
You glanced at him. “Are you?”
“No,” he said sharply, then sighed. “I don’t think so. I’m just… careful. I’ve always been careful.”
You thought about what he’d admitted before—that they hadn’t been intimate. At all.
“is that why you can’t sleep?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
He shot you a look. Sharp. Then back at the path.
“That’s part of it,” he said after a long moment.
You slowed a little, trying to read him. He looked… different tonight. Tighter. Like the careful, measured Aaron Hotchner was cracking right in front of you.
And then he said it.
“we haven’t touched in almost a year.”
It came out clipped. Rough. Like he hated admitting it but couldn’t stop himself.
You swallowed hard, pulse kicking up. “Oh.”
“She doesn’t… want me,” he said, voice low, almost like he was talking to himself now. “Or maybe she does and I just don’t want her back. I don’t even know anymore.”
You didn’t say anything.
“She doesn’t even notice,” he muttered. “That I’m losing my fucking mind.”
There it was. The slip. Because Aaron doesn’t talk like that. He doesn’t swear like that, not when he’s in control.
But he wasn’t in control tonight. And then, quieter “I can’t remember the last time someone even… touched me.”
The words landed like a punch.
You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if you were supposed to say anything. He huffed out a humorless laugh, shaking his head like he regretted every word already. “Shit,” he muttered. “Forget I said that. I shouldn’t have—I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me tonight.”
But you didn’t forget.
You couldn’t.
Because that was the moment you realized he wasn’t just restless.
He was unraveling. You saw it happen in real time—Aaron unraveling right in front of you.
He wasn’t even trying to hold it together anymore.
The words just poured out of him, his voice low but tight, like everything he’d been shoving down for months was clawing its way out whether he wanted it to or not.
“We got married too fast,” he muttered, the first crack in his composure. “I fucked up on that.”
You didn’t move. You just stood there, breath visible in the cool air, watching him admit things you knew he didn’t admit to anyone else.
He kept going, couldn’t seem to stop.
“Because I have nothing in common with her,” he said, shaking his head, eyes on the ground like he didn’t want to see your face when he said it. “Not really. She’s… she’s lovely, she’s kind, she’s attractive, I just—”His jaw worked, like the words got stuck there.
And then his eyes lifted to yours.
“I’ve enjoyed our training,” he said finally, voice quieter now, “more than I’ve enjoyed most of my relationship. And that is…”
He laughed once under his breath, but it wasn’t even close to funny. It was bitter. Self-directed.
You should have been shocked. Hell, you wanted to be shocked. But you weren’t. Because the Aaron standing here in the dark with you was not the man you saw in the house with your mom. He was wound too tight, holding too much back.
You stepped closer before you could stop yourself. Close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him in the cool night air.
He didn’t step back.
Didn’t even flinch.
He just kept going, maybe because at this point, if you went home and told your mom everything, it wouldn’t even matter. Maybe that’s what he wanted—some kind of ending.
“I’m frustrated,” he said finally, his voice rough now, “not because she won’t touch me, but because I don’t—”
He cut himself off, jaw tight, breath fogging in front of him. “Fuck,” he ground out finally, his control slipping one brutal inch at a time. “I don’t want her. I want you.”
The words hit you square in the chest.
“Me?” you asked softly, like maybe you’d misheard.
But he nodded, eyes on yours now, like he needed you to know he meant it. “You,” he said again, lower this time. Like a confession. Like a sin.
“Fuck, it’s wrong. I know it’s wrong.” He ran a hand down his face, breath ragged, like he hated himself even as he said it. But he was so, so wound up. So desperate.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admitted finally, voice breaking over the words, “and it’s tearing me the fuck up.”
Your chest felt tight. Your thoughts messy.
Because you didn’t like how fast your brain went there—the image of him at night, the house quiet, his hand shoved down into sweats, thinking about you.
You swallowed hard.
“Y-you want me?” Your voice cracked faintly. “Like…?”
His gaze was steady. Intense.
“Want,” he said roughly. “Yeah.”
It wasn’t enough. Not for you. Not now.
“No,” you pushed, needing it spelled out, vulgar and raw, because if he was going to break, you wanted to hear it.
His jaw worked, his control hanging by a thread. Finally, low enough that you almost didn’t hear it “I want to fuck you.”
The words hit like a physical thing.
Your knees felt unsteady, your pulse hammering in your throat.
He swore under his breath the second it left him, like he hadn’t meant to go that far, like he could take it back if he just stayed quiet long enough.
But you didn’t back away.
You didn’t run.
You just nodded once, the tiniest movement, and it undid him. The consent that you’d thought about it too.
He groaned, quiet and low, like it had been ripped out of him—and then his mouth was on yours.
It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t tentative.
It was starved.
One hand in your hair, the other braced on your hip, pulling you closer like he’d been dying of thirst and just found water.
You kissed him back, the heat slamming through you so fast it made your head spin.
The middle of a dark, empty park. No one around. Just him, finally breaking. When he pulled back, barely an inch, his breathing was rough.
“I shouldn’t…” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
But his hand didn’t move. Neither did yours. And you both knew this wasn’t stopping here.
He kissed you again like he had to—like he didn’t even have a choice in the matter anymore.
You kissed him back, feeling every ounce of the restraint he was trying—and failing—to hang on to. When he pulled back, the look in his eyes was dark and low and so, so hungry.
“Where?” was the only thing you said, soft but clear.
The question hit him like a fist to the gut. He made a sound—half groan, half curse—because you wanting this, asking him that, was undoing him faster than anything else tonight.
He grabbed your hand, tight, almost desperate. “I can’t wait,” he muttered like it was ripping out of him, like he hated himself for how badly he meant it.
You both glanced around instinctively, like two teenagers sneaking off—but this wasn’t innocent. This was depraved.
His eyes landed on the strip of trees just off the path. The dense patch of woods swallowed in night. No lights. No paths. Just darkness and the sound of crickets and your pulse hammering in your ears.
A patch of soft grass behind a massive oak, shielded by low-hanging branches.
You huffed a faint laugh, the sound shaky with adrenaline. “Really?”
He nodded immediately, jaw tight, eyes never leaving yours. “If it was up to me,” he said, voice low and rough, “I wouldn’t have even moved from the damn path. So yes. Really.”
You laughed again, softer this time, nerves tangling with heat.
“Is this okay?” he added suddenly, voice breaking through the air like he needed to force himself to ask. “We can stop. I mean it.”
You nodded once, certain. “It’s okay.”
That was all it took.
His hands found your waist like he couldn’t stop himself anymore, big palms sliding under your hoodie, fingers curling against warm skin. He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower, backing you up until your spine hit rough bark.
And then he broke the kiss just long enough to spin you gently so you were facing the tree, your palms braced against the trunk for balance.
“You’re sure?” His voice was lower now, frayed around the edges.
“Yes,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”
That shattered him.
Completely.
He yanked your leggings and underwear down in one swift motion, the cool air rushing over heated skin making you gasp. His fingers found you immediately, slipping between your thighs, and he moaned under his breath when he felt how wet you were.
“Shit…” He groaned like he hadn’t even expected it. “Soaked for me already.”
His voice cracked faintly on the last word, like he hadn’t been touched in so long he didn’t even know what to do with himself now that he had this.
He gave your ass a quick, teasing slap that made you jolt against the tree, the sharp sound lost in the night air.
By then he was shoving his own running shorts down, his breathing heavy, ragged, like he was fighting every last scrap of self-control not to just take you right there without a word.
“Been thinkin’ about this,” he muttered under his breath, running the blunt tip of his cock through your slickness, making you shiver. “Every night. Fuck.”
Your breath hitched when his hand slid to your lower back, firm, forcing you to arch the way he wanted you to. You obeyed without even thinking about it, fingers digging into rough bark for balance.
Then he pushed in.
All the way.
You moaned, high and broken. He groaned, low and guttural, forehead dropping against your shoulder for a second like he needed the grounding.
He was big. The stretch was sharp, toe-curling, something you felt all the way up your spine.
He stayed still, breath ragged, one hand gripping your hip hard like he needed to hang on for dear life.
Because if he moved too soon, he was going to lose it completely.
“Y-you can move,” you whispered finally, voice catching.
That was all it took. He didn’t have to be told twice. He started slow, long, dragging thrusts that made your knees shake, then faster, harder, until your body was jolting forward with each one.
“O-oh my fucking god,” he groaned, rough and hoarse, holding your hips tight enough to bruise. “Tight—so fucking tight.”
You whimpered, knuckles white where you clutched the tree.
“You like that?” His voice was strained, almost a growl. “You like me fucking you out here like this?”
“Y-yes…” You gasped, voice breaking.
His control snapped another inch.
“Christ—been so long,” he muttered like he couldn’t stop the words now that they were spilling out. “Touching myself thinking about this—about you. Shouldn’t say that, fuck—”
Your pulse spiked at that, heat flooding low in your stomach.
He bent over you suddenly, chest against your back, mouth right next to your ear.
“Couldn’t stop thinking about how you’d sound,” he rasped. “How you’d feel. Wrapped around me like this.”
A broken moan left you, his words making you clench around him.
“Oh, you like that,” he said roughly, hips snapping faster. “Like me telling you how fucking badly I wanted this?”
“Yes,” you gasped, voice shaking.
His mouth found your shoulder, hot kisses dragging along heated skin, teeth scraping faintly before his lips soothed the mark.
“Not gonna last,” he groaned against your skin, hips driving harder now. “Not when you feel this good. Not when you sound like that.”
Your body burned. Your pulse roared.
And you both knew you were right on the edge.
His control was shot. Completely gone.
He slapped your ass lightly first, testing, like maybe you’d flinch or tell him to stop.
But you didn’t.
You moaned. A sound that ripped right out of your throat and went straight to his head.
“Fuck…” His voice was strained, breaking, as if that tiny sound from you had just snapped the last bit of composure he had left.
The next slap was harder. Sharp. The crack echoed faintly through the dark trees.
You cried out, arching into it before you even realized you were doing it.
“Yeah,” he muttered under his breath, hips snapping forward into you harder now, rougher. “Knew you’d like that.”
His other hand slid to your waist, big palm gripping tight, pulling you back to meet each thrust so you were both moving in sync, the obscene sound of your bodies slamming together louder than it should’ve been out here in the dark.
He was fucking you like he needed it to survive.
“Come for me,” he groaned, voice low and almost shaking, his mouth so close to your ear you could feel his breath. “God, please… wanna feel you squeeze me. Wanna see how much tighter you can get around my cock.”
The words shot through you like fire.
You were already close, the fast snap of his hips, the filthy way he was talking to you when usually he was so careful, so controlled—it was too much.
You came hard, walls clamping around him with a loud, broken moan you couldn’t have bitten back if you tried.
He groaned the second he felt you, forehead dropping against your shoulder, his thrusts faltering for half a heartbeat before slamming harder, rougher, chasing his own release.
“Jesus Christ—” he muttered through gritted teeth, hand tightening on your hip as your pussy milked him. “You feel that? Fuck—you’re wringing me dry.”
Another slap to your ass, harder this time, the sting mixing with the overwhelming heat between your legs.
You clenched again from the sensation, and he lost it.
Completely.
“Gonna fill you up—” The words slipped out, low and ragged. “Fuck—been thinkin’ about it all week. How good you’d look full of me.”
He slammed into you once, twice, groaning your name like it was punched out of him, and then he was coming hard, hot and deep, buried to the hilt as his cock pulsed inside you.
A rough, low moan left him, raw and unfiltered, as he gripped your hip like he didn’t want to let go, like he was barely holding himself up.
You felt every twitch, every warm spill of him filling you, and it had your legs shaking.
He stayed there, chest heaving against your back, his mouth pressed to the shell of your ear, breathing you in like he didn’t know how to stop.
Neither of you spoke for a long moment, the only sounds the ragged breathing, the soft rustle of leaves, the faint hum of distant streetlights.
Then his lips brushed your shoulder. Just once. A soft kiss.
Like maybe he hadn’t meant to do any of this but couldn’t stop himself even now.
“Shouldn’t’ve done that,” he muttered finally, voice low, rough, like he hated himself for saying it out loud. “But fuck—” His breath shook out against your skin. “I’ve wanted it since i met you— don’t even care right now.”
His hand slid gently down your hip, softer now, like he was grounding himself again, but his body was still pressed against yours, his cock still buried inside you because neither of you had moved.
“You feel so good,” he said, quieter this time, almost like a confession. “Too good. Not gonna get you out of my head now.”
Your pulse thumped hard in your throat at that—at how ruined he sounded, how far from his usual self-contained composure he was.
And you weren’t sure either of you wanted to move yet.
The walk back was slow. You hadn’t said anything yet. Neither had he.
Aaron had tugged your leggings back up for you like he couldn’t help it, rough palms lingering a second longer on your hips than they needed to before he pulled his own shorts back into place. He kissed you again—softer this time, less frantic—and then he took your hand before either of you could think too hard about what you’d just done.
Now the two of you were side by side, walking under the orange glow of the streetlights like nothing had happened. But everything had.
He kept your hand in his, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he couldn’t stop touching you even though his jaw was tight, like he was holding a hundred things back.
Halfway down the quiet suburban street, he finally spoke.
“Was that…” He hesitated, cleared his throat like the words were hard to push out. “Was that okay? I didn’t hurt you?”
You looked up at him. The infamous Hotch—the guy who was usually the most composed man in every room—looked like he’d just unraveled every stitch of self-control he had and didn’t know how to put it back together.
“I’m fine,” you said softly.
But he shook his head like he didn’t quite believe you. “I wasn’t…gentle.” His hand flexed in yours. “God, I—” He stopped walking for a second, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t even think. I just…”
“You needed it,” you finished for him, voice quiet.
His eyes met yours in the dim light, dark and unreadable, but you saw the way his throat worked before he nodded once.
“Yeah,” he admitted finally, voice low, rough. “I needed it. But that’s not—” He stopped, exhaled hard. “I don’t want to be that guy. The one who cheats. The one who fucks someone behind her back.” He said it like the words tasted bitter. “I’m not…sleazy. That’s not who I am.”
You stepped a little closer, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him even in the cool night air. “You’re not,” you said simply. “You didn’t use me. You didn’t…you weren’t trying to hurt anyone.”
He shook his head, jaw tight. “Doesn’t matter. I got married too fast. I didn’t even think about what I was doing, and now…” He stopped himself again, but you could hear it in the way his voice cracked, like he was confessing things he hadn’t said to anyone. “I like you.”
Your heart thumped at that.
“You like me?”
His eyes flicked to yours, like maybe he thought you’d laugh at him for saying it out loud.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice steady now. “Not just…what we did tonight. I like you. You make me feel like I can actually breathe again. Like I’m not just…going through the motions all the time.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve.
You reached up, touched his arm lightly, feeling the solid muscle under his running shirt. “I like you too.”
His hand caught yours like he needed to hold onto something, anything. He exhaled slow.
“We’re gonna have to hide this,” he said eventually, a humorless laugh leaving him. “Your mom…Jesus, if she knew—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t even care. The marriage is—” He stopped. “It’s already dead. I just didn’t want to be the one to burn it down.”
You looked at him in the dark, saw the exhaustion in his face, the faint crease in his brow that never seemed to leave him.
“You’re not the bad guy here,” you said softly.
He looked at you for a long moment like maybe he didn’t quite believe that. Then he lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it, slow, like he was memorizing the feel of you.
“I want to do this right,” he murmured against your skin. “If we keep this…if we see each other again like that…I want it to be because we both want it. Not because I’m falling apart.”
You swallowed. “Do you want to?”
His eyes were dark when they met yours. “I want to do a hell of a lot more than I did tonight,” he said quietly, voice low and rough enough to send heat straight through you.
Your breath hitched. “Aaron—”
“But not here,” he interrupted, softer this time, thumb brushing over your knuckles again. “Not like that. Next time…I want a bed. I want time. I want to take you apart slow.” The promise in his tone had your knees weak all over again.
He kissed you one last time before the house came into view, softer than the others, like he didn’t want to let go but knew he had to.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said against your lips, barely above a whisper. “I promise.”
And for some reason, you believed him.
a/n: My last hotch fic flopped….hopefully this hits. Again if this makes you uncomfortable skip the fic—i have more divas.
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