Summary | Wonderland University has been covering up the murders of female students, and rumor has it the victims have all been associated in one way or another with professors... The Bureau has decided to initiate an undercover operation.
Will you and Hotch be able to fool the other students and faculty at the university?
───── OPERATION NAVIGATION
published chapters [ongoing] ─ AO3
⟢ chapter one: mission assignment
⟢ chapter two: plan and prepare
⟢ chapter three: interpretations and meanings
⟢ chapter four: hallways and promises
⟢ chapter five: drunk forgetfulness
⟢ chapter six: truth or dare [explicit]
⟢ chapter seven: kitchen calls
⟢ chapter eight: breathe
⟢ chapter nine: a little bit of fate
⟢ chapter ten:
───── ADMINISTRATIVE NOTICE
pairing | Aaron Hotchner x fem! reader [no mentions of y/n, little to no physical descriptions]
disclaimers | Everything I write is intended as adult content. Please do not read if you are underage or sensitive to such.
Case related violence, suggestive language and explicit content is to be expected. No one is forcing you to read if it makes you uncomfortable. MDNI
To clear some things up, Jack doesn't exist, Haley isn't mentioned, Hotch is mid 40s and reader is actually somewhere in the mid/late 20s (but playing 21).
pairing | Aaron Hotchner x female! reader [no mentions of y/n, little to no physical descriptions]
disclaimers | Everything I write is intended as adult content. Please do not read if you are underage or sensitive to such. MDNI
chapter content warning | EXPLICIT CONTENT! Alcohol consumption, drunk sex, size kink if look reeaaallly closely, p in v, unprotected sex (please wrap it before you tap it...), perhaps slight breeding kink if you squint, oral sex (fem receiving), praise kink and also maybe a hint of degradation kink but what can i say...
wc: 6k [not proofread] (jesus...)
mission identities | Aaron Hotchner as Professor Edward Thomas Jameson. You as Isabella Evans (rarely used, other than 'Miss Evans')
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chapter six: truth or dare
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"Your choice, Professor." Your whisper fanned across his lips.
Hotch did not move, his breath mixed with yours, dancing across your lips as he whispered, "I didn't realize we had to keep pretending when we're alone."
The way he spoke — like he was trying to remind you that this was nothing more than pretend — yet it did not sound convincing. His eyes were depths of darkness with gleams of amusement, an alluring contrast. The heat of his breath across your face, and his devilish smirk as he waited for your response made it hard to think.
You wondered what he would do if you decided to press your lips against his. If you tilted your head forward to close the mere distance between you.
Trying to keep your voice steady as you spoke, you gestured between your bodies with a finger, "We only do this when we are alone." It seemed you found yourself almost pressed against his lips more often when you were alone, than in front of anyone else.
Hotch chuckled deeply, his eyes focused entirely on your lips as you licked them slowly. "If that's the case, we are extremely bad at our jobs." That was certainly the case. However, you found it increasingly difficult to care about your jobs. There was little more in your mind than him pressed against you, his body against yours. His hands on you.
It was torture. You were struggling to keep your hands to yourself. He was so close, you itched to reach out. To touch him. Run your hand down his chest, up the nape of his neck. Tug on his hair.
You whispered shakily, it took everything to keep yourself sane and not move to straddle him, "Well, technically Strauss said–"
"Do not mention Strauss when you're close enough I can taste the whiskey on your breath." He growled. The demanding tone of his voice vibrated down your spine, you shivered, a quiet whimper escaping your lips before you could stop it. Hotch cursed lowly to himself, watching as the color spread across your cheeks, "You are not making this easy."
He was struggling. There was not a single part of you touching him, or him touching you, yet it felt suffocating being so near you. It felt like the air was on fire.
"You know I like when things are hard for me, Sir." It was a weak attempt at gaining some fraction of control back. He just hummed. Was it hot in here?
It was unbearable. Feverish. Suffocating. You could not take it any longer. It was too much, and not enough at the same time. It was everything and nothing all at once. There was no air to breathe, nothing but him and you.
You lifted your head to look him in the eyes, to offer him your last piece of sanity and self-control. "Please, if you don't fucking kiss me alr–" The words were cut off, the air knocked out of you as his hand grabbed the side of your neck to pull you to him. He crashed his lips on yours. Pressing your face against his. It was desperate, frantic. Heated.
Your hands flew up to his shoulders, steadying yourself as you tilted your head deeper. His hands moved to your hips as he kissed you with such fierce determination your lungs burned, his grip was so deliciously bruising, you gasped into his mouth.
Hotch groaned, the sound you made was like gasoline to his fire. He would never be able to listen to you speak again without thinking about the sweet noises your mouth could make. You swung a leg over his, not letting his lips leave yours as you moved to sit on his lap.
With your hands tangled into his hair, his tongue pushed into your mouth to dance around yours. The kiss was consuming you. No thoughts formed in your mind, nothing but the desire for him to keep devouring your soul the way his lips did to yours. You wanted him closer. Needed him closer. It was making you greedy.
He pulled his face away from yours, your chests heaving as you gasped for air. "Fuck." He muttered, throwing his head back. A moment passed of you catching your breaths together, of his eyes on yours, of his hands gripping your hips and yours on the nape of his neck. If you kept still, perhaps the moment would never end.
The line he had tried to keep between his personal and work life thinned. All because of your red swollen lips and your thighs pressing against his. It would not matter how much this was… encouraged, when it came to the mission. This was not about the mission, not for him. Not anymore. Maybe it had never been.
"It's just us here." Hotch reminded you, as if it would change anything. As if you would climb off of his thick thighs in panic as soon as you realized it. Not happening. His thighs were made for you to sit on, you were not getting off unless he forced you.
You grinned, playing with the hair on the nape of his neck, "I won't tell if you won't." It was more a hopeful promise than anything. You could not care less about the jobs you were here to do. The scowling man underneath you had been giving you a hard time for too long, with the way he folded up the arms of his shirt, crossed them over his chest and glared at you with disappointment. You would have crawled to him on your first day at the BAU had you not been the stubborn, revenge-seeking brat you were. It was easier to make him suffer the same way you did.
However, now you had tasted him. His scent tainted your lips and it was maddening.
Hotch stared at you, searching your face for any sign of doubt, of uncertainty. Too bad for him, you mused, when he found nothing of the sort. You were long gone, drowning in the sea of him like it was the only thing you had known, and would ever know. Perhaps it would not be so bad.
"You do not get to decide whether I want this or not," You leaned forward to barely graze your lips against his as you whispered, "Especially not when your hard cock is pressing against me. It's dizzying."
He ran a hand down his face when you sat back up on his lap, huffing out a sigh, "Fuck, you have a foul mouth." He liked to point it out, it seemed. Not that it bothered you in the slightest.
You grinned as you ran both your hands slowly down his chest, "Want to find out now, or later?" His jaw tightened, his pulse roaring in his ears.
Before he could claim your lips again — drink the very poison he was sure would kill him — the sound of knocking echoed through the first floor of the house. Both you and Hotch whipped your heads to look to the door, before he raised a hand to check the watch on his wrist. His brows furrowed as he noted the late hour.
"Later." He decided with a smug smirk. He gripped your hips and lifted you off him, placing you onto the couch next to where he sat like it was the most natural thing. You shivered. Fuck, it was perhaps the most attractive thing he had ever done.
He got up from beside you, glancing over to you one last time before he strode to open the door. You bent over the back of the couch to hopefully see who it was, ruining the best kiss of your life. Blocking what would undoubtedly be the best sex of your life, judging by the size of him pressed up against you, straining against his slacks.
Spencer stood panting on the other side of the door, his hands on his knees like he had run a marathon. With the way he ran, you supposed it was understandable he struggled to catch his breath. You struggled to catch yours as well, every time he ran. It was your favorite entertainment.
"What's wrong?" Hotch asked, raking a hand through his hair as the younger stepped beside him into the living room. He was trying to act normal, like he had not basically swallowed your face moments before. You could still see the outline in his slacks. It never occurred to you he was the type to get aroused from kissing for a minute or two. The stoic scowl and furrowed brows made him look a lot more professional — honorable — the very epitome of composed. It was poetic, when you viewed it like that.
"I tried to text you." Spencer said when he saw you.
He did? You had not gotten any texts— your phone. Looking around for your purse, for the phone you put in your purse, it hit you, you had left it behind when you were out drinking and dancing. With a sigh, you looked up at him, guilt shining in your eyes, "I forgot my phone in my purse back at the bar." How could you be so stupid? Sophie even scolded you for not answering your phone as soon as she stopped sobbing in your hair hours ago.
"I know," He admitted, opening the satchel hanging from his shoulder, "I was walking Lizzie back to her dorm, and I kept texting and calling you but it went straight to voicemail. Then Lizzie said she thought your phone was in your purse and that you had thrown it to a corner when you were dancing and probably forgot it. So, when she was safely at her dorm, I ran back to the bar to find your purse, but the bar had closed, and so I had to break–" Spencer paused and snapped his head to look at Hotch, then turning slowly back to you handing you the purse he had dug out.
He was never good at playing it cool when he messed up. You bit back a laugh and mouthed 'thank you' as you took it from his outstretched hands. It was so sweet Spencer followed Lizzie home and then ran his little quirky run to get your purse, he was just the purest angel.
Hotch cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest, back to the ever-so-strict scowling Unit Chief, "Had to break what, Reid?" He pressed. It was exhilarating, knowing that was the man groaning into your mouth not even three minutes ago. The poor boy in front of you had no idea how badly you wanted to kick his sweet angel ass out of here to climb his boss. Your boss. Whatever.
Spencer pursed his lips and straightened, preparing to lie his pretty little face off, "I knocked on the door so hard it almost basically broke, and the owner let me in." Yeah! Everybody nod in agreement, it's his first time.
"Johnson?" Hotch raised a serious eyebrow, though the gleam in his eyes and cunning smirk on his lips told on him. It was a rare sight, seeing Aaron Scowls-a-lot Hotchner mess with Spencer 'the Smart-ass' Reid.
Spencer nodded and snapped his fingers as if he just remembered, "Johnson, yes."
Scratch that. It was a rare sight: Aaron Scowls-a-lot Hotchner outsmarting Spencer 'the Smart-ass' Reid.
"My sweet little Spence," You laughed as you reached over the back of the couch to ruffle his hair, "I think you've been played." He looked like a sad puppy, looking back and forth between you and the man across the room like he was watching a tennis match. Hotch had almost smiled from where he stood, and Spencer pouted, his shoulder slumping slightly.
"Are you taking his side?" He pointed his thumb over his shoulder to where Hotch tried to hide his satisfaction with his arms crossed. You huffed a no, and Spencer narrowed his eyes on you. The same expression plastered on his face as that one time he decided to calculate the significance of various variables in Emily's life — trying to figure out if she was in a good mood because she got laid, or if she simply got a good night sleep. The two could absolutely not possibly correlate.
To everyone's annoyance, yet no one's surprise, he ended up being right. She had gotten laid, and it was the highlight of Derek's day when she walked back to her desk after lunch and Spencer had exclaimed it outright. Hotch had walked past right in that moment, and Emily seized the opportunity to grab his arm and ask to go home. She had apparently gotten instantly sick with something very contagious and needed to isolate, but Hotch did not give in to her. Instead, he ended you all by saying 'You got yesterday off, you're not leaving work early today just because he was good, Prentiss. We have a case'. Derek actually bowed down to the Unit Chief.
Spencer hummed, raising an eyebrow as he came to his conclusion, "So, you liked sharing his mouth-germs."
Why did he always do this? Jesus. Let a girl live.
"Reid." Hotch sighed, scratching the back of his neck. You turned around, debating on sinking so low into the couch you disappeared. Another idea hit you though, as the bottle of whiskey seemed to scream your name from where it stood, so lonely, on the small round table.
"I need a drink, want one?" You asked to no one in particular as you made for the flask of salvation.
"No," Spencer answered, picking up his satchel, "I'm going back to campus to see if I can find anything at the scene." Hotch nodded. The door closed as Spencer dashed out the house, leaving behind a deafening silence.
You filled two full glasses of whiskey, passing one to the man standing behind you without saying a word. The promises hung in the air, unfulfilled, unkept. The two of you emptied your glasses in silence.
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"Truth or dare?"
The bottle of whiskey was empty on the table, though thankfully the man was prepared. He had dug out some fancy Italian wine from somewhere in the kitchen, and you sent your eternal gratitude to one Agent David Rossi.
Hotch slouched on the far and of the couch, "Aren't we a little too old?" He was, probably. Who would turn down a classic round of a good game, such as truth or dare? In what world could truth or dare lead to anything but simple and innocent fun?
Hopefully in your world, if you played your cards right — wait, not cards — truth or dare? Anyway.
"I'm not, now pick one. Unless—you are too old." You waved a finger in his direction before taking a swig straight from the bottle in your hands. The buzz was like a delicious warmth in your body, spreading across your skin like wildfire.
It was ironic, how you insisted on playing this game but you hated to come up with things to say. You chewed on your bottom lip, conspiring on the best way to throw him off his own game. To make him lose it — and perhaps — make him finally touch you.
The tree of a sexy man sitting too far away was relaxing more and more, the deeper down the flask you got.
Hotch sighed, taking the bottle from your hands and drank. "In vino veritas, right?" He muttered with a slight rasp in his voice, and you almost fell to your knees. It was already difficult enough to keep your hands off him — if he said another word in Italian, in that deep tone — your hand would find a way into your underwear.
Truth, right.
You folded your legs under you as you turned to face him. It was one of your remaining functioning brain cells that decided to start easy with your question, "What's something you often think about doing but you've not done yet?"
He clenched his jaw, perhaps trying to come up with any answer different than the first he thought of. There had to be a lot of things he had not done yet, considering he spent all his time at work. "Spend a vacation on a boat." Hotch shrugged, taking another drink from the warm wine. He swallowed, and you watched his throat bob like it was the most fascinating thing you had witnessed.
"Boring," You said with a huff, reaching for the bottle that currently resided in his incredibly large hands, "My turn." He handed over the wine you secretly envied. A frown tilting the very lips you were desperate to taste again. He was probably offended you called his answer boring, and not 'the exhilarating, most adrenaline-inducing idea' he undoubtedly thought it was.
The wine tasted somewhat sour, you noted as you took a mouthful, although maybe that was the point.
Why was he quiet? Had he forgotten how to play or was he just that old? "You have to ask me." You pouted, reminding him of the way of the game.
"Right. Truth or dare?" He pursed his lips, studying your face as he tried to think of something.
You hummed to yourself, weighing your options.
Hotch would find a way to make it boring, no doubt, and you wanted something more — exciting. Saucy, like how your insides were feeling. Heated, like the way he kissed you earlier. So, the only obvious solution was to give the man some easy and kind instructions.
"Dare, but if you make it boring, I'm walking back to my dorm." You prayed he would come up with something. The walk back would be dark and scary — because you would walk back — you always followed through with your threats.
He scowled disapprovingly, and you grinned. You knew it had worked.
Hotch thought for a moment, a second longer and you would probably die from boredom. Or lack of attention. All you wanted was for him to touch you. Everywhere.
"Come sit on my lap."
Oh. Your breath hitched, the growl in his voice sent shivers down your spine. Hotch raised an eyebrow, watching you expectantly, with an amused, dark gleam in his eyes. He savored the blush painting your cheeks as you tried to compose yourself.
"What?" You tried, but it sounded weaker than you would have liked. It was impossible to breathe, to string together coherent thoughts. The air was suffocatingly thick as he waited for you to follow his command. Careful what you wish for, right?
"You heard me." He leaned back, one hand on the back of the couch as the other tapped on his thigh as he spread them. Invitingly. Like a throne.
He watched you, waited for you. It should not have been that difficult to move, but your legs had turned to jelly, your mind short-circuiting. The sight of his finger tapping on his thick thigh went straight between your own legs. You moved closer to him, to do exactly what he wanted you to. Despite the inability to control your own movements, you lifted yourself up to straddle him, the same way you had earlier. When he was plunging his tongue into your mouth.
"Good." He purred, his hands finding their way back to your hips, just as they had been earlier. The pulse roaring in your ears made it difficult to do anything other than stare at him. Waiting for whatever was to come. You could not think.
It was maddening, dizzying, having his body against yours.
Hotch tilted his head to the side, like he was expecting something.
"Aren't you going to ask me?" He raised his eyebrows, the smug expression on his face revealed just how much he was enjoying this. You chewed on your bottom lip, concentrating on figuring out what he meant, what he wanted you to ask. The only thing you could think of was that you needed his lips on yours again. Needed to feel his skin. Tangle your fingers in his hair again.
You squeezed your eyes shut as he tightened his grip on your hips. "Ask you what?" It came out a shaky whisper, whiny, almost. He had that effect on you, apparently. Hotch licked his lips, fully smirking, and it confused you. What was it, exactly, he was enjoying? Your flushed cheeks and whiny breaths? Oh. Fuck.
He hummed, narrowing his eyes as you struggled to hold on to the last thread of your composure. It was not even a thread, you simply had not realized yet, that you were whimpering on his lap. Starved for his touch. The wine had that effect on you, apparently.
"Don't you want to keep playing?" Hotch asked, his tone was slightly condescending and it sent your mind spiraling. He raised his eyebrows again, waiting for your reply, even if he was well aware it was not coming. You were a blushing mess on his lap, your lips parted and brows knitted like you were struggling to keep yourself upright, his cock was straining against his slacks at the sight of you.
"One round, is that all you can do?" He purred in your ear. Well aware of the insinuation. But wine had a tendency to make him not care. You shook your head, not trusting your ability to speak, to not beg for his–
Surely you could manage another round.
You took a shaky breath, speaking with as much coherence as you could manage, "Truth or dare?" Hotch tilted his head again, savoring the look of you on his lap. He licked his lips and bit back a smile as you squeezed your eyes shut. Why were you like this? You could not even manage seeing his smug face without clenching your thighs, it was starting to get embarrassing.
"Fuck, I don't care." He grumbled. Your eyes flew open in shock as his hand cupped your face, and a soft whimper escaped your lips before his mouth took its place. He kissed you with a need that rivaled your own, his tongue finding its way back to dance with yours. It was sparks of flames, of fireworks. His hands were everywhere on you, exploring every sliver of skin he could reach.
You unbuttoned the top of his shirt, desperate to touch him, feel him. His large hands dipped under your shirt, holding you firmly by the waist as he pressed your hips to grind against the hard outline of his cock. You gasped into his mouth, the delicious friction sent shivers down your spine.
It was minutes of heavy breaths, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you rolled your hips against him. Yet, you were greedy. It was not enough for the hunger, not enough to satisfy the pit of desire. Of need. You needed more.
"Just fuck me already, please." You managed, going for the classy, direct way of getting what you wanted.
You got up from him, quickly kicked off your lower garments, and climbed back onto his thighs. He followed, swiftly unbuttoning his slacks, and pushing them down enough for his cock to slap against his lower stomach. Hotch searched your face again for any sign of doubt, however your need for him seemed to be clear on your face.
"Are you sure?" The stupid, ethical man asked, like it was not the only thing you were sure of in your slightly, perhaps very drunken state. Hotch had no sympathy for a girl in need, apparently. You were soaked, dripping, and he wanted to make sure you wanted it. He was killing you. All with his cock out.
"Please," You whined, grinding against the length of his cock in hopes to easy some of the burning ache between your legs. "Please, Sir, fuck–" His hands tightened their grip on your hips firmly as he lowered you down slowly.
He threw his head back and groaned, your cunt swallowing the length of him. You bit down on the skin between his throat and shoulder as you adjusted to the size of him inside of you. Shit, he was big. He stretched you so well, your brain went numb. You were dizzy with the feeling of him, filling you perfectly.
Your hips rolled, bucking, creating the breathtaking pleasure of his cock sliding in and out of you, your clit rubbing against him every time he bottomed out. With his hands on your hips, he helped guide you as you bounced on his cock, his head thrown back, watching you through hooded eyelids. Sinful noises echoed in the air between you as he thrusted up to meet your moves. It was nothing like you had ever felt before. Addicting. Mouth watering. So good. You gasped, digging your nails into his shoulders as he pounded into you.
"Taking me so well, aren't you." He groaned in your ear, tightening his hold on your hips as he slammed you down on his cock. There were no words forming in your puddle of a mind, you barely managed a nod, your head falling forward to his shoulder.
Hotch kept you against him as he raised from the couch, still firmly pushed inside of you as he carried you through the living room.
Your back hit the wall at the bottom of the stairs. His lips crashed on to yours as he thrusted his cock in and out, your eyes rolling at the pace he set. The force of his pounds rattled the few frames on the wall somewhere next to you, though you could not care less as his cock drove into you, so deeply you could feel it in your lower stomach. Your head fell against the wall, eyes screwed shut, mouth falling open, though no sound could be heard — other than the wet noise of him sliding in and out of you — and the occasional low grunt as he kept you like that for another minute. Fucking you against the wall by the stairs.
He carried you up the stairs and turned right, to his bedroom. You nibbled marks on his neck, the skin turning an angry red, like a shade of lipstick you would never wear. Your mouth watered at the idea of him walking around, all serious and scowling, with your bite marks on his neck.
He dropped you onto the bed, and you whined a complaint at the loss of him no longer deep inside of you.
Propping up on your elbows, you watched as he unbuttoned his shirt fully, throwing it somewhere on the floor. You followed, pulling off your own shirt and unclasping your bra, dropping it to the floor.
The moment all your clothes were scattered somewhere you could not care less about, his lips found yours again. Slower, more intimately than the desperation and desire of earlier. He nibbled at your bottom lip, his hands raking up and down your body as he pushed you down to the mattress.
Hotch pressed open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, trailing down your neck, licking and biting the soft skin on his way down until his teeth grazed your peaked nipple. You moaned, arching off from the bed as he circled his tongue around it. His hand traveled from your waist to the other breast, cupping the flesh, you whimpered behind the back of your hand as he pinched your nipple between his fingers.
"Beautiful." He murmured, almost more as an observation to himself than anything else. His hands stayed on you as he pushed himself back. His calloused fingertips grazing your skin, from your breasts to the sides of your waist, across your hips and down to your thighs as he climbed backwards off the bed.
Hotch kneeled down to the floor and grabbed your legs, yanking you to the edge of the mattress. He lifted your legs over his shoulders, licking his lips at the view of you squirming on your back, spread out like a feast. And Aaron Hotchner was starving. There was no time for your mind to catch up before his mouth did.
He kissed your thighs, bit the skin softly, teasing all of one second before he could not withstand the torment of not tasting you any longer. You bit your lip, cursing as his warm mouth made contact with your heat. His tongue grazed your clit, flicking it, flattening against the entrance before dipping into you.
Your eyes rolled back and he groaned with his own satisfaction, repeating the combination of movements until you were tangling your hand in his hair to hold him in place. Straining against the hand on your lower stomach keeping you pressed against the mattress, seeking to buck your hips against his tongue. Chasing the pleasure building inside of you like it was the air you needed to breathe.
His other hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself as he devoured you. Like he could not stop himself. The sight of you squirming on his tongue, your thighs clenching around his head, your soft whimpers and whines — he was enchanted by you. And so painfully hard.
You breathed a string of curses, panting as he pushed you closer to the edge. With your back arched off the bed, your eyes screwed shut, his tongue flicked your clit one last time before stars filled your vision. Shockwaves gripped through your body. He groaned as you rode out your high on his tongue, watching as you completely surrendered to the magic of his mouth.
Hotch raised from the floor, his chin glistening in the dim light. The evidence of the trembling pleasure you still felt the aftermath of. Pushing yourself further up on the soft bed, you watched as he climbed on top of you, a smirk on his face as he licked his lips, intent to drink every single drop of you.
He spread your thighs and you shuddered, sensitive from the dizzying orgasm he had given you by using his mouth alone. He stilled, searching your face for any sign discomfort, anything that revealed you wanted him to stop — because he would stop — it would kill him, but he would stop.
"I can take it." You growled impatiently, pulling his lips to yours with the desperate need you felt reclaiming your entire being. He positioned himself as you wrapped your legs around his waist, and he pushed himself into you in one swift move. The position allowed his cock to hit deeper, your hips slightly angled up from the bed as he slammed his hips against yours. You screamed out, clawing marks down his back from the intensity of his pace.
"Yeah, you can." He purred in your ear. His voice was so soft and deep, like dark silk, but if it was wrapped around your throat. It was messing with your mind. It was nothing like the force of his cock hitting the very spot you were crying out for. Hotch tilted his head, watching you throw your head back and curse. You looked absolutely perfect under him. With his cock ramming into you, and your tits bouncing in time with his thrusts. Beautiful.
He would never be able to look at you the same. Not without seeing your dripping cunt swallow him entirely, not without tasting you on his tongue. He savored the image, the feeling. It would haunt him the rest of his life, but you were taking him so well it really did not matter. Though, he had no idea how he would be able to keep his hands to himself after this.
"A-Aaron–" Your eyes rolled back, his thumb pressing against your overly sensitive clit as he slammed himself into you. He cursed, the sound of his name on your sweet lips affected him more than he thought it would.
"Fuck," He groaned, grabbing your face to make you look at him, "Say it again." Your eyes fluttered open, your lips parting with the intention to say his name again but no sound came out. His pace was taking your breath away, his cock hitting the spot over and over like it was all it had ever done.
Hotch stilled. Stopped moving. Waiting.
You pouted, "Don't you dare fucking stop, Aaron. I will–" He had a talent for cutting of your words by doing exactly what you wanted. He slammed himself into you again, and kept his ruthless pace until you sobbed into the palm of your hand.
"Fuck, you feel so good taking my cock, so good." He murmured in your ear, his thumb pressing against your clit as your back arched, chest flush to his. You nodded in agreement, a whimpering mess from the feeling of him. Every thrust, every slamming of his hips, etched him into you. And you would not have it any other way. Not right now. Probably not ever. His cock was tattooed in your brain. There was no escape. The only way forward was over the edge.
Your nails scratched down his back, for anything to hold on to as the top neared. "Jus' for you." The words were barely audible, barely coherent through the collection of soft noises from your lips.
Hotch was smirking, hearing you mumble, well aware of the praise you were seeking. "Yeah—so good, just for me." He growled lowly, relishing the way you whined and squirmed as he continued to praise, "You look so pretty underneath me, so perfect, taking me so well." He was nearing his own climax, his hips stuttering slightly as he slammed his cock into you. Over and over. Until he was barreling for the edge.
You could not even nod for him, you were too far gone. The faint sound of curses falling from his mouth was the last thing you could hear before the edge claimed you. His cock twitched as his hips pressed into you. The warmth of his release spreading through your flushed body.
Your skin was feverish, your eyes had rolled so far back they would likely never find a way out of their sockets. There was nothing but him and you, in a sea of pleasure, of pure bliss. You were drowning in starlight together.
He rested his forehead against yours.
Sweat coated your skins, chests heaving towards each other as you gasped for air. The nerves in your body still buzzed. Your brain struggled to get enough oxygen to manage thinking. It was only the unbearably warm figure above you, caging you to the bed, that mattered. At the moment, of course.
You did not dare push him off you, despite your lungs screaming for air. Air could wait. It was his move, his choice on what to do next. His brows furrowed as he scanned your face, as if he was thinking the same thing. As if he was wrapping his mind around what exactly had just happened.
"I–" He whispered shakily and cleared his throat before trying again, "I'll get you a glass of water, maybe get a bath running?" Hotch was wincing, like it bothered him to think about. Yet, he did not move. He stayed on top of you. Frozen. As if he was reluctant, hesitating, to leave.
"I'll sleep on the couch, you take the bed." He added, like the gentleman he was.
"Fuck a girl and make her sleep alone?" You hummed, raising your eyebrows as the usual confidence returned to you, finally. His jaw clenched and he straightened his arms, pushing himself up. You reached out to his neck, stopping him. "I don't think so. Deal with it." Lifting yourself up, you pressed a kiss to his lips, just to seal the deal.
"So obnoxious." He hummed, tilting his head to stare down at you, "I liked you better whimpering on my cock."
You tried to fight the blush creeping up on your cheeks, to keep that satisfactory smirk off his lips, from knowing exactly how quickly you could fold from his stupid deep voice. However, it seemed you were too late, judging by the smug look on his face.
Hotch pushed himself off from the bed and raked his gaze down your naked body appreciatively. With a slightly shaky breath, you willed the confidence back to you and smiled sweetly up at him, "Well then, you're lucky it's the weekend."
"Thankfully." He chuckled darkly as he turned to what looked to be an en-suite bathroom, and strode toward it without offering you another glance.
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this was... long. filthy. I hope you enjoyed it !!!
if you did, please consider liking and reblogging, it fuels my little ego!
let me know your thoughts and if you have anything you would like to see! your comments and messages are everything to me<3
love, millie<3
─﹒﹒★﹒──────────
[ back to operation navigation ] or [ chapter seven: kitchen calls ]
pairing | Aaron Hotchner x fem! reader [no mentions of y/n, little to no physical descriptions]
disclaimers | Everything I write is intended as adult content. Please do not read if you are underage or sensitive to such. MDNI
wc: 2.4k [not proofread]
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chapter one: mission assignment
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Multiple female students had been murdered at Wonderland University located on Wonder Island.
During the investigations, the Wonder Island Police Department interviewed a large number of students, getting statements and descriptions. However, the university refused to cooperate. They wanted to brush it under the rug, even going as far as to pay students to keep quiet.
All of the victims had last been seen either with a professor, or they were known to frequently be around their professors. So the FBI granted a task force to further investigate the university — specifically these professors — but it was fruitless.
That was when the Bureau had decided on the undercover operation.
Section Chief Strauss had personally decided to handpick the agents and assign them, saying something along the lines of ‘she knew best’. You found yourself admiring the balls it took for her to stand tall in front of the entire team, arguing the necessity of pairing the unit chief with the youngest agent.
“Relationships of your age gaps are normalized on the island, and it’s a critical factor for this to work, so I see nothing wrong with it.” Strauss crossed her arms and lifted her chin, no doubt hoping it would remind the scowling man sitting across the table that she was indeed of higher rank. He was not to question her.
“Agent Hotchner, you and her are the best option we have,” She pointed to you and pursed her lips, “The only one option we have, as Agent Jareau will be on maternity leave.”
She did have a point.
However, she could have gone with the argument of ‘Agent Jareau has kids and a husband, and should be home with them and not away on a mission for the unforeseeable future’, instead of grumbling about her favorite liaison on maternity leave.
Strauss raised from her chair and picked up the file in front of her, “So, I suggest you two start acting like the lovebirds you are going to be.” She strode towards the door before turning to look over the unusually quiet faces of the BAU. Her gaze lingered on you before landing on Hotch, “Do what you have to do — sleep together, if it helps the cause.”
The door slammed shut, leaving you to deal with the aftermath of her words.
Aaron Hotchner was not delighted, to say the least.
Derek Morgan on the other hand, had the time of his life.
“Well, that was–” You ran a hand down your face, turning to your team members in hopes they could offer any kind of support — but only shit-eating grins were placed on the faces of the BAU.
Everyone but Hotch and you looked like they had won the lottery.
“I’m suddenly so sad,” Emily started, biting her fist to hide her smile, “I would pay good money to see them play lovers.” She pointed to you and over to Hotch, waving her finger like she was drawing some kind of thread between you. She made a heart with her hands and lifted to look at you through it, “I can see it, though.”
JJ nodded, not bothering to hide her amusement, “They look good together, if you look past the glares and scowls.”
“And if you can’t hear them speaking to each other.” Rossi chirped in.
“Or about each other.” Spencer pointed out, and you whipped your head to Hotch with a gasp.
“Are you talking bad about me behind my back?” You placed a hand to your chest, clutching imaginary pearls at the audacity.
“Did you miss the part where he said ‘each other’? Are you?” Hotch crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, his expression so blank you could almost believe he had no feelings.
“What, me?” You gasped again, looking around you with wide eyes so innocently, “I would never do such a thing to my superior.”
“You talk bad about Strauss all the time.” Hotch glared but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. He was right, you did. But she deserved it.
You shrugged, “I don’t know what you mean, we’re practically BFFs.”
Emily exhaled, feigning the look of a kicked puppy, “If that’s how you talk about your BFFs, I want out.” JJ crossed her arms and nodded in agreement.
“You fuckers. Not helping.”
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The only people with you in the briefing room were Hotch and Spencer. You had been going through file upon file, folder upon folder to map out and plan this operation.
“Okay, so,” Penelope strode through the door with the rest of the team behind her, drawing your attention from the sea of folders in front of you. She closed the door behind her and made her way to the front, “The operation is divided into mini-missions.”
You leaned back in your chair, hand over your mouth to cover the yawn as she connected her laptop to the screen. God, when was the last time you slept?
The cup you had put on the table suddenly called your name and you stretched your arm, hoping to grab a hold of it without moving anything else. You sighed victoriously as you raised it to tip back the last drops of now-cold coffee.
The rest of the team had found their seats on the other end of the table, closest to the door. Spencer already sat on your left, his knee jumping restlessly, either he was impatient or apprehensive — perhaps both — and unfortunately, you could relate.
Directly across from you sat Hotch with his arms crossed, the scowl on his face had seemed even more prominent with the darkening circles under his eyes. He met your gaze, holding it like it was a staring contest. It was probably not, but you would not let him win anyway.
When he finally blinked, you squealed in victory, smiling until you looked around to find everyone staring at you with concerned eyes. Snapping your head to Hotch, your cheeks flushed as he bit back his grin. He knew what he was doing.
“Fucker.” You grumbled, sending him your deadliest glare as you slumped in your chair.
Only you, Hotch and Spencer would go, and Spencer would only be there as moral support and to keep his eyes on you. Though you knew he secretly asked to join so he could study some more.
A ding sounded from the speakers as Penelope’s laptop connected.
“As I said,” Penelope started, “The operation is divided into mini-missions.”
She pointed to a purple bubble on the screen that said ‘ESTABLISH’, “The first mini-mission is to establish your roles.”
For you, that would be enrolling in the classes Hotch would be teaching, showing up, and simply doing the work.
For Hotch, it included a much bigger workload. He was to organize the class lectures and reading materials, then carry out the lectures (despite no prior teaching experience), and also give out and correct assignments.
“The second mini-mission is my favorite,” She pointed to the next bubble that said ‘CONNECT’, “This is where you form your relationship.” Penelope smiled, pointing at you and then at Hotch. “Oh, I’m so excited!”
“Garcia.” Hotch deadpanned, but Penelope’s spirits were not dampened that easily.
“You’ll be flirting in lectures, sneaking glances in the hallway, maybe even getting coffee together in the mornings. It’s just, oh my gosh, I’m getting the tingles.” She stretched out her arms to show you just how much tingles she’s getting.
Penelope turned back and pointed to the bubble next to it and jumped around again with a giggle, “I might have lied, this one is my favorite.” The purple bubble said ‘CONVINCE’. “It’s when you kind of like defend your relationship and really make sure people are buying it.” She was grinning from ear to ear.
Thankfully, it was the last mini-mission before backup would arrive. You would need them around if you ended up being targeted. And, you guess Strauss did say some bullshit about protocol like ‘neither of you are allowed to make the arrest’ followed by some other bullshit like ‘you have to wait for the Bureau or the local police department’. Stupid.
Penelope had apparently gone off about some fantasy, you realized, as she turned to Hotch and crossed her arms, “Sir, please tell me you know her coffee order!”
He shrugged, shuffling through the papers in front of him, “Why should I?” His feigned nonchalance was not fooling you, however you did enjoy the utter horror on Penelope’s face.
She gasped and turned to you, “What’s his coffee order?” Like it was very hard to guess.
You met Hotch’s stare and smiled sweetly, “Black.”
“See! She’s a good little student girlfriend. Do better.” Penelope huffed and turned back to the screen.
His moral compass was going off in every direction.
He knew the implications. He knew what was at stake. He also knew you were not actually his student, but a trained federal agent. You were an adult, even if you were almost half his age.
However, they did not know that, which really was the entire point. Essentially, Hotch was supposed to play a creep, taking advantage of his student.
Though his problem was not really the power dynamics. It was the way you were forced to pretend with him, and he did not like that one bit. So, perhaps he did tell himself it was the power dynamics.
You seemed to have also missed a comment Derek made judging by the sound of Penelope’s giggles as she winked at you, “You know I love all things hot and spicy.”
Emily pointed to you and over to Hotch, “Which is which?” She said and raised her eyebrows in questionable innocence when you scrunched your nose. Had it not been for the scowling man in front of you, you would have flipped her off.
Derek crossed his arms as he looked you up and down, “She’s the hot and he’s the spicy.” Amidst the pain of whatever conversation this was, at least Derek called you hot.
Penelope shook her head and gestured to you, “She’s definitely the spicy one.”
“I’m gonna have to agree with Pink over there,” Rossi interjected before Derek could speak again, “She’s the spice, Aaron is more — vanilla.” He leaned back in his chair and smirked, seeing the expression of pure horror on your face.
Hotch just furrowed his brows, looking puzzled by the interaction happening in front of him before he turned his attention back to the files in front of him.
Spencer raised a hand, as if he was looking for permission to speak, “Vanilla as in the ice cream flavor or as a description of someone with little inclination to do anything spontaneous, exciting or ‘kinky’ in their sex lives?” The worst part was, he seemed genuinely curious.
Hotch whipped his head up and Rossi chuckled, grinning from ear to ear as he turned to Spencer, “What do you think, kid?”
He looked down, as if running every possibility — based them on facts he undoubtedly had accumulated over his time knowing the unit chief — until he found his answer, “Both?” Spencer searched Hotch’s face for any sign of truth, the twinkle of hope in his eyes would be enough to soften even a marble statue.
Derek’s eyes widened as he turned to join Spencer in searching the unit chief’s scowling expression, “Really? I could see you enjoying darker things in bed, honestly.”
“Could you try to refrain from picturing me in bed? Thanks.” Hotch grumbled, glancing up from the files in front of him to glare at Derek, then at Rossi, but it softened slightly when he landed on Spencer. Deciding he was done with the conversation, he went back to the files.
“Someone is feeling attacked.” You rolled your eyes but your expression turned to amusement. Hotch did not even bother looking back up from his files before he decided to send his best threat.
“Just remember, I’m the one approving your requested vacation days.” And that was that.
“Anyway,” Penelope turned her back to the screen and carried on with the presentation, “During the undercover mission Isabella Evans will be staying at the third-floor-dorms in the western building, and Spencer Clarke on the first floor.” Spencer Clarke?
“Hey, why does he get to keep his first name?” You pointed to Spencer before you crossed your arms. He shrugged, though by the smile toying on his lips, you knew he was fully aware of why he got to keep it.
“It’s okay, Bella,” Derek exclaimed in a high pitched voice as he pointed to Hotch, “You have Edward!”.
Your eyes widened with horror. Shaking your head, you snapped your gaze to Penelope, who was biting back a smile, “Absolutely not, you can't be serious.”
Emily and JJ got up from their seats and joined Penelope — JJ attempting to hide her giggles but failing miserably, Penelope biting her fist to keep from smiling, and then there was Emily with a serious expression — like she was about to present life-changing information. Or more like nightmare-inducing information.
Emily cleared her throat, “Professor Edward Thomas Jameson, 45 years old, member of the Faculty of Social Sciences.” Hotch nodded slowly, like he was doing his best to internalize the information of his new identity.
“And Isabella Evans, a 21 years old student at Wonderland University.” Emily gestured to you with a gleam in her eyes.
"What is this, Twilight?" You ran a hand down your face. At least you could drink legally. That part was appreciated. Imagine having to play Hotch’s forbidden love interest without the opportunity to drink away your memories. Even worse, imagine having to play his forbidden love interest, but both of you were named after the main characters in Twilight.
Emily continued, ignoring you completely, “Spencer Clarke, 22 years old, also a student at Wonderland University. Though he has a more challenging combination of subjects–”
“Show off.” You nudged him with an elbow, sending him a sarcastic glare. He smiled sheepishly and shrugged, “Sorry, just don’t want to be bored when you’re off sharing mouth-germs with our professor.”
Your jaw hit the floor.
Hotch looked like he was about to force the ground to swallow him, his ears burning bright red.
You heard Penelope shriek, her hand slapping over her mouth as the room erupted into reactions of shock, horror and pure delight. Derek had lost his balance by the wall, laughing so hard his arm shook as he stretched his fist across the table.
Spencer bumped it.
“Oh my god, Spence.” JJ muttered through gasps of breaths as she wiped a tear from her face.
Rossi clapped a hand on his shoulder, “I love this kid.”
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if you enjoyed this, please consider liking and reblogging, it fuels my little ego!
please let me know your thoughts!
love, millie<3
─﹒﹒★﹒──────────
[ back to operation navigation ] or [ chapter two: plan and prepare ]
I'm so happy to be writing requests honestly, and this one I think I had four drafts of at some point... I don't know what direction this took or why i fixated on the lamps but hey!!!! FIRST SPENCER FIC <33
thank you so much for the request, I hope you enjoy the mess of whatever this is!! ₊˚⊹ᰔ please let me know what you think!
pov ⎮ Third person
disclaimers ⎮ Everything I write is intended as adult content. Please do not read if you are underage or sensitive to such.
warnings ⎮ Reid has his own office at the BAU and works at with a research group (details unkown), reader is a student with a research project tihi,,,, smutty smut, like oral (m! receiving), unprotected PinV because I forget to include protection, which is a sucky argument because slight breeding kink if you squint.... forgot to describe her clothes just go with it please. i blacked out.
w.c. ⎮ 1.6k. ━━━ Love, Millie <3 ✧₊˚x₊˚⊹ᰔ⊹˚✧
“Spence,” JJ’s voice pierced through the bubble of thoughts he found himself lost in. She flicked the ceiling lights on and muttered to herself, “Why is it so dark in here?”
He blinked against the sudden brightness of the office, the fluorescent lighting felt like stabbing needles behind his eyes. The lamp on his desk paired with the one on top of the cabinet illuminated enough to comfortably work, and without producing an excruciating migraine — the effort had apparently been unnecessary.
JJ shook her head, “Anyway, there’s a student here for you and she said it was urgent. Something about insignificant testing of variables?” She shrugged, mindlessly tapping her finger against the wooden frame, “Do you want me to send her in? I can wait for you–”
Spencer glanced at the clock on his desk, it was getting late and he had to end the conversation while he was still able to keep himself decent, “No. I mean, yes to send her in, but go home, JJ, it’s fine. She’s probably one of the students in my research group.”
JJ lingered in the doorway, watching him for a moment before she nodded. She gave him a small smile and disappeared down the hall. Without turning the light off, Spencer groaned and got up.
~❦~
“I need your help, again.” She whispered softly, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she chewed, suddenly uncertain and hesitant about the purpose of her visit, “No one does it quite like you.”
Spencer closed the door behind them, “I’m always happy to help.” He was, he had assured her of that last time she asked. Still, she felt selfish disturbing him, at work, for her own stupid assignment.
“I really don’t want to fail,” she started with a pout — her research was insignificant and there was not enough time to test new variables — she dug the heel of her palms into her eyes.
The numbers showed disappointing statistics: obtaining orgasms on her own proved unsuccessful, obtaining orgasms with men she had no physical attraction to proved unsuccessful — it seemed the only significant variable was the one she had run the least.
Not because the opportunity was not there, it was the overwhelming results that had her begging for more, that she concluded would interfere with the testing. With her ability to run the tests.
His warm body towered over her, the smile on his face looked wicked in the shadows of the office. “Tell me, angel,” his warm breath caressed the shell of her ear, “What variable is it you need help with?” His voice dripped with amusement, he was undoubtedly a fan of her research project.
Spencer folded the sleeves of his shirt up, the skin painted golden in the glow of the lamps. Her breath hitched as the muscles of his forearm flexed as he worked on the other sleeve. “You,” She muttered, her eyes scanning the floor as if it would offer any support. Why was it so hot in here?
“Me, what?” Spencer tilted his head and a curl fell to caress his forehead. He licked his lips, watching her for a moment, before he turned around to sit in his chair. “What is it you need?” He spread his thighs apart and she suddenly struggled to stand, to not kneel in front of him, to beg — to worship him.
She whimpered.
“Come here,” Spencer patted his lap, she stepped forward shakingly with a burning flush on her cheeks she was sure had to be permanent at this point. He raised an eyebrow expectantly, a reminder of her response, or lack-there-of.
“I, I need your-” she stumbled over her words, he looked so ethereal unbuttoning his slacks in the golden glow — she lost it — the last ounce of skill required to think straight.
She watched him with glazed eyes and parted lips, his hand slipping under the waistband of his briefs, the way his chest rose and his head fell back, the soft noises… Her thighs had started to cramp from clenching together.
Her body moved quickly, so desperate to feel him, to taste him, her knees hit the floor. Spencer reached out to hold her cheek, his thumb brushed her lower lip and she parted them, taking his thumb into her mouth. He cooed as she sucked on it, her bright eyes on him, watching the grip around his cock turn into a steady pace matching the one of her mouth.
He pulled out his finger with a shaky breath, the string of saliva hitting her chin. Spencer licked his lips and grinned, “Finish your sentence.”
“Your cock, please.” She whined, the words sounded desperate and pathetic, just how she felt. He hummed thoughtfully, the pace of his strokes turned slow and unhurried, as he contemplated for a painfully long moment.
Spencer could not keep his eyes off of her. The sight of her kneeling in front of him, let alone in his office, her bright, shiny eyes and her pouty red lips — he could come undone by the sight alone.
He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, gripping the hilt of his cock to angle it forward and she did not need to be told twice. The warmth of her mouth felt like being swallowed by a deliciously burning flame, she nestled her nose into the base as he hit the back of her throat.
The sounds he made landed between her clenched thighs, the breathy moan and furrowed eyebrows as she circled the tip with her tongue, his head falling back with a rumbling groan as she swallowed his length. Her whimpers muffled by the cock in her throat.
Spencer softly held her jaw as she bobbed her head a few more times, appreciating the view of her glassy eyes and red lips, before he carefully guided her off. As much as he was turned on by the thought of climaxing in her mouth, he needed her cunt around him.
“Please?” She pouted, her voice was shaky and small, like she would cry if she did not get his cock inside her soon. He would feel bad, letting her sit in front of him like that, yet he did not seem able to feel anything other than the hard cock in his grip, and the desire to watch her bounce on it.
“Go ahead, angel.”
She climbed his thighs and placed her knees on either side. Her hand traveled down his chest to his glistening cock, she lowered herself with a whimper. So full, she stilled to adjust. Spencer reached under the fabric of her shirt to cup her breasts, he rolled her nipple between his fingers, enchanted by the sounds escaping her soft lips. He reached up his other hand to hold her jaw, pulling her into a kiss so slow, yet agonizingly steamy, her hips bucked.
Her lips parted with a moan, he plunged his tongue inside to dance with hers. Spencer squeezed and pinched her nipple as her hips started frantically moving, desperate for the delicious feeling of his cock hitting the deepest parts of her again and again.
She raised her hips and slammed back down, accumulating a pace that had her nearly sobbing into his mouth. Spencer cursed, her cunt was so tight and warm, it was dizzying.
His cock stretched her so good, she nearly screamed as he hit the soft spot in her. “Fuck, please,” she moaned, slamming her hips against him as her head fell back. Spencer took the opportunity to bite and suck marks across her throat.
“Don’t stop,” Spencer groaned, throwing his head back against the chair, “Shit, don’t you dare stop.” Her cunt swallowed him so well, he was growing attached.
Her thighs shook and knees burned, the fabric of the seat scratched her skin an angry shade of red that beautifully matched the colors across her throat. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her hips as her eyes rolled, “You wanna cum?” Spencer purred, as he held her body mid air and thrusted ruthlessly into her cunt.
She managed to whimper a yes, before she slapped a hand over her mouth and sobbed a moan. Spencer threw his head back with a groan, her cunt was like a death grip around his cock. “Come on, angel,” he grunted, prying his eyes open to watch her fall apart on top of him.
The sight alone could be enough to send him over the edge, her thighs violently shaking around him, her eyes rolled back as she sobbed — Spencer cursed. His pace faltered as he filled her, her cunt fluttering around his cock, milking him.
They stayed like that for another heartbeat, enjoying the heat of their bodies against each other, sharing the same air — as they had a few times before — but, with the deadline approaching, the project was nearing its end.
“Thank you,” she smiled sweetly with her eyes closed, like the moment was a dream she wanted to appreciate a little longer. Spencer tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head, “Always a pleasure.”
She glanced up at him, a wicked grin placed on her lips. “How do you think that affected the significance,” her hand tangled in his hair as she spoke slowly, “-of the project, and my chances of failing?”
“I won’t fail you,” Spencer tilted his head to graze her lips with a playful smirk, “Though, I notice the last variable is still outnumbered in the amount of testing. You will have to ensure that if you want a decent grade.”
I'm so confused and honestly it kind of hurt to write this, if it seems a mess it's because it's supposed to be? This marks my first deep/comfort fic! I struggled a lot to write it good enough, I hope the emotions are portrayed in the way I intended...
thank you so much for the request, I hope you enjoy whatever this is!! ₊˚⊹ᰔ please let me know what you think!
pov ⎮ Third person
disclaimers ⎮ Everything I write is intended as adult content. Please do not read if you are underage or sensitive to such.
warnings ⎮ She/her pronouns used! Anxious reader with body issues, extreme overthinker, spirallllssssssss, disasociating? self-deprecating thoughts and behavior tbh, Hotch is the man of my dreams, established relationship, they live together, idk no mentions of anything other than work on his part, emotional reader, reader is me, it all works out in the end
w.c. ⎮ 1.7k. ━━━ Love, Millie <3 ✧₊˚x₊˚⊹ᰔ⊹˚✧
She was completely fine. There was no reason not to be.
The sun was setting, the room bathed in golden hues, painting the walls with a glow so ethereal she could do no more than sit and admire. Wonder. Appreciate. Dream.
It seemed ironic, she thought, how much one can miss the sun when it rains, yet, when the bright rays of sunshine cascades the earth, it receives much less appreciation.
As if one can only truly appreciate something when it is not present.
Well, that is if it is remembered.
She shivered — the room had apparently darkened somewhere between the irony and the threatening self-deprecation.
“What are you thinking about?” Aaron’s gentle whisper caressed her ear as his arms wrapped around the midst of her waist.
“Everything,” she breathed, absentminded, “– and nothing.”
Her gaze flickered from the former object of fascination — the withering flowers on the dresser across the room — to take in the soft features of his face. She noticed the furrow between his brows, the lines would soon be permanent with the constant scowling his job seemed to require.
He looked… tired, though the tug on his lips and dark depths of his eyes still held a sliver of mischief. Still, the strain of his job was evident in the lines on his face. He was too good for this world, he gave too much for the sake of others —— how could she ever be deserving of him.
“Whatever fills your pretty head,” Aaron started, his features softening as he scanned her eyes to find heaviness dwelling in them, “– make sure it’s worthy of your time.”
The flowers — she remembered, finding them in her line of vision again — bent over the side of the glass jar, the dry glass jar. She had forgotten to water them. Again. They would be thrown out, again. Her heart twisted with sympathy, then guilt, she had been the one to cause that terrible fate. She killed those flowers. Just as she would probably kill every other living thing–
Moments ago she wondered how things are only appreciated when they are not present, the room seemed dull without the fresh life of the flowers, the life she had forgotten to maintain because it was simply there. Until it was no longer.
Aaron sighed, so softly it was but a whisper in the howlings of her mind, yet it stilled. He had found a seat on the edge of the bedframe, his head slightly tilted as he watched her twisted expression with the stoic face she found weirdly unnerving.
She hated being watched and she hated unreadable expressions, she hated not knowing what she looked like, seemed like, through others eyes. Guilt coiled in her stomach. How could she ever apply those thoughts to him?
Her mind, quieted by the reminder of another presence, bloomed to fire in rapid speed as soon as the sound of his sigh had evaporated in the air between them.
Aaron wrapped his arms around her waist pulling her backside against him, and sat her on his lap. The mirror in front of them felt mocking, like the only purpose of it was to enhance the worst aspects of her.
She noticed the way her bare thighs flowed over his and color bloomed across her cheeks, she swore they had not looked that big a moment ago. Their gazes met in the reflection and Aaron offered her a smile. He knew, obviously, he noticed how she shifted on his lap, how she seemed to shrink when she looked in the mirror, like she wanted to be swallowed by the ground rather than have him see her. As if he would notice every flaw — if she could see them, so could he.
“Sweetheart,” Aaron breathed lowly, pressing soft kisses along the skin of her neck, “Such a pretty girl.” His voice was so gentle she was unsure if the words had actually been spoken, though it seemed unlikely he did, anyway.
“You don’t need to say those things,” She visibly flinched when she noticed the edge in her voice remained sharp regardless of her effort to soften it. It was not her intention to sound angry, or mean, or annoyed, though it would not matter now that the words had come out that way. It was her fault, speaking like that.
“What things?” Aaron’s brows furrowed as he turned to read the expression on her face. He noticed the heat rising on her cheeks, the tip of her nose matching the tint of her lips. She looked embarrassed, frustrated, and he could tell she was — yet he found himself admiring how angelic she seemed in the darkening, soft remains of the golden sunset.
“You don’t believe I find you beautiful?” His voice remained steady, his hands firmly planted on her hips, “Sweetheart.”
“I-It’s not that,” she felt the sudden need to inspect the carpet — just in case it caught on fire and she had to call the fire department — or something of the sort. “I just,” her voice seemed as unstable as her quickening pulse, “look at you, and then, look at me. You have no good reason to be with m-”
“I love you,” Aaron placed his fingers under her jaw and gently twisted her to look at him, “Is my love for you not a good enough reason?”
“I killed the flowers, Aaron!” She did not blame the tear that escaped the wreck that was in her head, instead she somehow wished to join it on the undoubtedly more peaceful journey, “I’m so bad at everything. I can’t water the plants enough, I can’t clean enough, I can’t work out enough. I just can’t anything, it seems!” Another tear set to sail away from her, this time followed by a stream.
The sound of her name pierced through the dam she was frantically building, “Take a breath,” his voice was heavy and commanding, she almost wondered if it would serve a decent foundation for the dam. She blinked, dizzy, nauseous, and the carpet moved like waves — had she cried that much?
Aaron remained quiet for the moment it took for her lungs to fill, to empty, and to fill again, until he deemed the breath satisfactory. “What exactly is it you’re not doing enough?”
She scoffed with frustration, had she not just explained exactly that? Then, as if she developed a delayed sense of hearing, her nails dug into her palms with a different frustration. Who gave her the audacity to scoff at him? Was he deserving of that, absolutely not, in no way shape or form.
“Anything, Aaron,” The attempt to regulate her breath, and her emotions, seemed to have been of no use.
“Tell me, exactly, three things you feel like you’re not doing enough, and three consequences of not doing them enough.”
He waited, still and patient, to give her the time and space she required to reflect.
Her brain seemed to have lost connection, the silence that filled her head more dreadful than comforting, she quieted for a moment.
“I killed the flowers because I didn’t water them enough,” Her voice came out smaller than she had anticipated, “The consequence is, they are dead, and now we can’t have flowers.”
Aaron raised an eyebrow, “Why can’t we have flowers?” His question caught her off-guard, the sliver of confusion in his voice sounded genuine, in such a way she wondered if he saw it as a given, to just replace dead flowers, her expression turned puzzled.
“Because I kill them?” She blinked, perhaps in hopes her eyelids would offer relief from the depths of his eyes on her, yet she found herself missing his stare the second her lids closed. Aaron hummed, and she was reminded of the warmth of his body against hers, heat crept up her neck.
“We can get new ones. Next.”
“I don’t clean enough,” Her gaze flickered to the dresser on the other side of the room, lingering on the flowers before landing on the clothes on the floor. The pile of earthly shades of fabrics could act as a bird's nest, if the birds had been human sized, and wished to nest on hardwood.
“The consequence is,” She bit the insides of her cheek, “You come home to a mess every day.”
“Is it your job to make sure our apartment is clean of our things? To water our plants?”
Tears pooled in the corner of her eyes. Aaron’s words felt weighted and serious, still, she could feel the emotions laced between them, the softness of his voice, the way his shoulders remained loose and untensed, as if this matter was not one he was concerned about.
As if he could not be more sure.
“If you are listing the same examples as you did a moment ago, I’m not entertaining the last one.”
She watched him for a moment, unsure of what to say. “You deserve better,” she muttered with a breath, “–than me.”
Aaron slowly inhaled, and exhaled, as he debated his words carefully. “Sometimes, I sit in my office smiling, reading the notes you write over and over again, until there’s a crowd outside my windows with jaws on the floor.” He chuckled softly at the memory, the sound like sunshine on a rainy day, she could not, would not, stop the smile growing on her face. “Morgan even called the ambulance once.”
“Sweetheart,” His hands tightened on her waist as he leaned to press a kiss to her forehead, “Whatever you do, or don’t do,” he pressed a kiss to her cheek, “You are enough.”
Aaron leaned his forehead against hers, “You have a way of making the air feel different, lighter and brighter, as soon as you leave the room I feel like I’m going to faint.”
“My love is not payment for what you do, it’s love,” His breath fanned her lips, “You deserve every ounce of my love, and luckily, I have a lot to give.” The promise was sealed with a kiss, so filled with love, it silenced her doubt for the moment. And that was enough.
pairing | Aaron Hotchner x female! reader [no mentions of y/n, little to no physical descriptions]
disclaimers | Everything I write is intended as adult content. Please do not read if you are underage or sensitive to such. MDNI
wc: 2.6k [not proofread]
mission identities | Aaron Hotchner as Professor Edward Thomas Jameson. You as Isabella Evans (rarely used, other than 'Miss Evans')
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chapter three: interpretations and meanings
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Your knee started bouncing as soon as you sat down in the lecture hall. The nerves had evolved into anxiety and mixed with what felt like anticipation.
What you were anticipating though, you were not entirely sure of.
Spencer slid into the seat next to you in the very front row. The tiered seats stretched behind you, every row with one long bench serving as a desk and what looked to be around 15 fold-down seats each.
You glanced over your shoulder again — like you had done at least half a dozen times now — to watch as the students filled up the room. Normally you would sit in the back, preferring the overview rather than the unease of having everyone sit behind you. If anything were to happen, you would not know.
Not to mention escaping meant passing them all.
You were nervous and Spencer could tell. He offered you a tight lipped smile in hopes it could ease whatever was bothering you, even if he had no clue what it could be. You had not spoken much, and he was scared he would slip up if he started speaking now. The fake name he was to call you felt too foreign, he did not like it on his tongue.
It was not right. It was not you. Spencer did not like to think about calling you something other than your name.
Names were special. Names had power.
So, instead, he pulled out his leather-bound notebook from his satchel and started scribbling something, before he tilted the notebook so you could read the page.
Are you okay? You seem nervous.
You gave him a hesitant nod. It was not nerves as much as something — just feeling off. Perhaps it was simply sitting with your back to the sea of unpredictable students. With a serial killer somewhere on the campus. Allegedly.
The air shifted as Hotch strode in through the doors, a folder in one hand and a white to-go cup from the same small cafe on the corner of campus. He made it to the wooden desk placed in the middle of the open space before you noticed Spencer studying you in your peripheral.
He was searching your face when you turned to him. His focus landed on your lips, lingering, until he picked up his pen again.
You're biting your lip. It's going to bleed.
Spencer met your gaze and pointed to his own lips, as if he wanted to make sure you understood what he had literally written out for you.
You clamped your lips together tightly, hoping to suppress the urge to sink your teeth back into the flesh. It was a habit — biting your lip when you were unsure what to make of a situation — when you were lost in the ocean of your own mind. When you were turning every rock of thought until you found one that made sense of whatever was occupying your pretty little brain.
Hotch finally cleared his throat as he scanned the many faces in the room. As they found yours and lingered a little longer than what was appropriate, you found yourself wondering what his teeth would feel like sinking in your lower lip instead of your own.
Wait. You did not take responsibility for that thought.
This was not the time, nor place, to deal with such propaganda.
The lecture on symbolic interactionism felt like it had dragged on forever, yet the row of girls behind you seemed to be awake and suspiciously alert. You were certain there was drool in your hair from the way they were practically bent over the bench — either to offer your professor an eye-full of the cleavage spilling out of their tops — or perhaps they were simply all blind. The lot of them.
Spencer tilted his notebook for you to read. It was so out of character for him to pass notes in lectures rather than pay attention, even though you supposed he did know the material very well.
I never thought I would see anyone look at Hotchhim that way.
He had crossed out 'Hotch' so many times it ripped the page. You tried to bite back the laughter bubbling in your chest as you took his pen and scribbled back.
SameI'm dead serious there IS drool in my hair!!
Spencer huffed a laugh before he could stop himself and both your heads snapped up to look at Hotch. The horror was evident on your faces.
"Miss Evans."
Oops.
You glared at Spencer — who was shaking with the effort of not laughing when he noticed the flush of color on your cheeks. The gleam in Hotch's eyes revealed he noticed it as well.
"Yes, Sir?" The slight shake in your voice could be blamed on shyness and embarrassment, right? It could not be that easy to see the panic rising in your throat from the underlying desperation for praise and validation, right? Right!?
Good. That would be humiliating. And not to mention entirely untrue. Wrong, in fact.
Hotch watched with narrow eyes as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, like you were really trying to sell the illusion, before he cleared his throat. "What is the core idea of symbolic interactionism?"
You froze, chewing on your bottom lip as the girls behind you snickered. What was their deal, anyway? Was he trying to humiliate you as a punishment for not paying attention? If that was not a professor thing to do…
It is an act, you told yourself, it literally does not matter. There is no need to panic, it would not change the fact you have a degree in this.
Wait. You have a degree in this shit.
With a surge of confidence you straightened, combing through what knowledge you had on the subject. "Blumer said, and I quote: The first premise is that human beings act toward things on the basis of the meaning that the things have from them."
You took a steadying breath before continuing, hoping to calm the shake in your voice. "The second is that the meaning of such things is derived from, or arises out of, the social interaction that one has with others around."
The room fell quiet and you bit back a smile. Spencer nodded his approval beside you as he scribbled down what you said word-for-word. One would imagine he had already read the book on Classical and Contemporary Sociological Theory, but still it was nice to get your ego boosted. You could give Spencer a run for his money, by the sound of it.
Hotch kept his stare focused on you as he moved around his desk and leaned against it. His brows had furrowed slightly, like he had not expected you to actually know what you spent years studying, yet you could see the little twitch on his lips. The hint of surprise and — pride? — amusement? — in his eyes. Fuck, he was insufferable. Really.
"Meaning?" He raised his eyebrows with challenge. Who were you to say no to a challenge?
"Actions and interactions are formed by socially constructed meanings and interpretations — because meaning is not inherent in things or actions themselves — and the interpretations of these things or actions is what shapes the meanings."
You held your breath for a moment as you collected your thoughts, "In other words, how we think and how we act is shaped by what we deem appropriate in a situation, and what we deem appropriate is based on the situation itself and how we interpret the situation."
It was like you were a mouse in a glass cage, surrounded by researchers deciding your fate. Though, you supposed it was fitting.
Your professor rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked strict, like he was about to sentence you to eternal detention. In a way that could potentially make you almost wish he would. Even despite the anxiety blooming in your chest at the thought of… The thought of what? Academic failure? Disappointing him? Yeah. As if.
"Very good, Miss Evans." His voice deepened and you swore one of the girls behind you shrieked. The color painting your cheeks probably made you look no better than them.
You could tell he was enjoying it. Way too much, in fact.
To your displeasure, Hotch was not yet done with you. He wanted to push you a little further.
Even more, he wanted to find out what caused the pink flush. To his defense he had never seen you like that before. What kind of profiler would he be if he did not even try to figure it out?
"Would you mind giving me an example?" You did not miss the way he said 'me', but you would think about that later.
It was an opening. He was giving you the opportunity to come up with something — something perhaps borderline inappropriate — that would give him a reason to keep you behind after the lecture. Just like you had planned.
Yes, you could come up with something.
"For example, your power as a professor increases in the lecture hall, because the meaning behind your power is knowledge, education and title. It creates a power imbalance, you are above us because that is how we measure power here." You could see Spencer nodding to himself as you spoke.
Hotch watched you with a hint of amusement, waiting for you to continue. "Society could argue that a student pursuing a relationship with her professor would have been taken advantage of, if you only consider this situation and the power imbalance." You licked your lips and took a shaky breath, steadying the increasing heartbeat in your chest.
"However, if you see them as two rational and consenting adults outside the lecture hall, the relationship would not necessarily be wrong. The relationship is in other words deemed appropriate or inappropriate based on factors that coexist, that forms — and therefore changes — the meaning."
A deafening beat of silence. It took all your willpower to not shrink in your seat under the piercing stares of the entire room.
Hotch cleared his throat, "Very well. You are all dismissed." A split second went by without anyone moving, not even the particles in the air seemed to move. It was suffocating. If you were lucky, Hell would be located somewhere underneath your seat, ready to swallow you up.
"Remember to join a group for the presentation next week. Each group will present a news article from the past week and analyze it using a relevant theory from the curriculum." His voice echoed over the sound of grumbles as the room bustled with every student making their way out.
"Miss Evans, a word please." There it was.
You sat, frozen, watching in terror as he scratched the nape of his neck and turned around to gather the papers on his desk. He was embarrassed. Or unsure. Not that it mattered which one, it was certainly not good for you anyway. 'LFF' and all that.
Spencer nudged your shoulder as he got up from his seat beside you. "Split up for the group presentation?" You nodded, although absentmindedly, and he disappeared. It was a good idea to split up, to join different groups, cover more social grounds.
The assignment was also a decent idea, you begrudgingly admitted to yourself. Discussing a news article from the past week created an opportunity to discuss the recent university murders with a group of students attending said university. The only thing left was to find a group to join, and hope they would be willing to gossip.
After 'the word' with Professor Scowls-a-lot, of course. That would be fun, right? Right.
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This was not an optimal situation. It had the potential to be catastrophic, actually.
Your mind went a million miles an hour, yet seemed dead silent at the same time.
Hotch could not help the satisfactory grin plastered on his face as he repeated himself, "As I said, I'm impressed. You did well."
Was he unsure if you had heard him?
You had heard him, very well in fact. His voice was clear as day when he said it the first time. Now, however, it was barely audible over the roaring in your ears. It was like all the blood your brain needed to function properly, to string together coherent thoughts, had rushed elsewhere.
He was studying your reaction with a microscope and every fibre of your being suddenly regretted choosing a field of work that put you with profilers. As if you were not one of them.
You fought to keep your expression neutral. Desperate to shrug with indifference. Intent on not giving him the satisfaction of seeing you react. It was a game and he still did not know just exactly who he was playing with.
The silence felt suffocating as he waited for your response. Was this how he acted when you were not spewing insults or nonsense at him? It was unbearable. Honestly.
He was insufferable, just standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes locked on you, silent. Like a fucking tree.
A deep chuckle captured your wandering attention. Brows raised and eyes wide, you snapped your head up to stare at him. Appalled and perhaps a little concerned.
No way did Aaron Scowls-a-lot Hotchner make that sound.
He did. Was he unwell?
You forced yourself to stand, to step towards him with unhurried steps. The tips of your ears were burning, an exact mirror to the muscles in your thighs, screaming in agony, aching. Yet you refused to let him win. To let him think he won.
It did not matter how much you craved his praise, or how it turned your mind into putty. Not even how much it complicated the process of rational and critical thinking. What mattered was not letting him figure it out by himself and letting him get the upper hand. It was not an option. If you quit, they no longer have the opportunity to fire you, right? Tell your own secrets and no one has leverage?
Hotch studied you making your way closer, like you were a prey pretending to be a predator. The unhurried steps and calculated gleam in your eyes told a different story however. The prey might not have been pretending after all. Perhaps you were a predator, perhaps he was the prey.
You licked your lips slowly. Noticing the way his eyes followed the movement, and the way his fists clenched and unclenched by his sides. Similar to what he did when he was readying for an attack.
His focus lingering on your mouth for a moment too long and you swore he was holding his breath. With a click of your tongue, and an amused hum, his eyes snapped up to meet yours.
"Sir." You purred, savoring the way his jaw ticked as you stopped in front of him. His chest was heaving slightly, like he was suddenly struggling to breathe in the thickening air around you. The wave of warmth from his body burned against yours, almost feverish. You tilted your head to the side, a smirk toying on your lips, "You know I have a praise kink, right?"
His lips parted slightly and his eyes seemed to glaze for the split second of unexpected surprise, before he cooled his expression. Hotch cleared his throat as he glanced away. The muscles in his jaw and the furrowed brows told enough.
Then, as if he could not find it in himself to stop, he glanced back to your lips, before meeting your gaze with his own amusement gleaming in his eyes. Hotch straightened and tilted his head forward, forcing you to look up to him, to see the victorious smirk on his lips.
"It's really obvious."
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if you enjoyed this, please consider liking and reblogging, it fuels my little ego!
please let me know your thoughts!
love, millie<3
─﹒﹒★﹒──────────
[ back to operation navigation ] or [ chapter four: hallways and promises ]
pairing | Aaron Hotchner x female! reader [no mentions of y/n, little to no physical descriptions]
disclaimers | Everything I write is intended as adult content. Please do not read if you are underage or sensitive to such. MDNI
summary | Wonderland University has been covering up the murders of female students, and rumor has it the victims have all been associated in one way or another with professors... The Bureau has decided to initiate an undercover operation.
Hotch would be playing your professor, and you would be his student.
Will you be able to fool the other students and faculty at the university?
wc: 2.5k [not proofread]
mission identities | Aaron Hotchner as Professor Edward Thomas Jameson. You as Isabella Evans.
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chapter two: plan and prepare
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Wonderland University was huge. The campus was shaped like a square, large buildings surrounding a courtyard and a couple small cafes scattered throughout it. There was a bookstore on the far end of campus, right next to one of the cafes you would frequent. It was closed for the time being, as the university cleaning staff frantically scrubbed away any remaining blood after the most recent murder.
How they could get away with it, you had no idea. It was sickening to know not only were students being murdered, but the university took the job of cleaning it off. It made you wonder, were the numbers of victims in the case file even close to the truth?
It had been weeks since you last saw anyone on the team, except Spencer who had knocked on your dorm room door a couple of nights before to ask if you had done the reading for your classes.
Hotch had left Quantico three weeks earlier to settle into his new job, get ahead of his own work and start establishing himself amongst the faculty. You wondered if he was nice to the professors here, if he had spent the time at Wonderland University, going out to get coffee with his new friends/colleagues/suspected murderers/confirmed creeps.
Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, pretending to be a creep to solve some murders. Hot.
The idea amused you.
The dorm room you had been assigned to was a corner-room at the end of the third floor corridor. It had its own bathroom, thank every fuck, and the view overlooking the courtyard was a bonus.
Even if it was a temporary arrangement, only serving as your residence for the duration of the mission — or at least until you would start sneaking off to wherever Hotch would be living — there was still something thrilling about being back at university.
All the while it was terrifying being back.
You suffer from a condition called 'LFF' (Lack of father figure), and the main symptom of the disease in your case is the extreme desire for academic validation. Which would not be great for you, considering who exactly was to give you said validation.
So, when Spencer came knocking on your door with a message from Hotch, and to ask if you had done the reading, and you shook your head to say you had not done it, panic climbed up your throat.
It would be fine, right? You had a degree in the Social Sciences for fucks sake. Not to mention you were a trained federal agent with experience in the field. The same theoretical framework making up the readings were the same ones you used out in the field to profile serial killers. You would be fine.
When you opened the closest textbook and stifled a sob, you realized it would most likely not be fine.
So you studied. And read. A lot.
Perhaps just this once could your fear of failure and need for academic validation be useful. A teacher’s pet, they had told you to be, so that was what you would become. Whatever it took.
Though, with any normal professor, you could probably get away with flashing a little cleavage and twirling your hair. But this was not any normal professor. It was Aaron Scowls-a-lot Hotchner who was to judge your capabilities, to deem you worthy of becoming his favorite student. And you knew he would not make it easy on you.
You would have to impress him. Catch him off-guard.
Blow his mind like they wanted you to blow his– nevermind.
Despite the exhaustion weighing you down after a long day of trying to get ahead of your studies, and despite the surprisingly soft dorm-mattress, you slept fitfully. The nerves buzzed like ants under your skin and a headache pressed against your eyes as you tossed and turned.
Somewhere around 4 in the morning you gave up, even if sleep felt just out of reach. It never was.
So you opted for a shower instead.
Hotch had told you to meet him a few hours later at the small cafe by the bookstore, at the far corner of campus. Communication was a challenge, you were not allowed to text him or call him until your roles had been established. You wondered if he would send a dove or something, but it was Spencer who came bearing the message.
The nerves had built up during the time you had spent alone on campus, though you felt like it should have been comforting knowing you would see the familiar face of a man you saw every morning back at the Bureau.
However, he would not be the same pain-in-your-ass-man as he was back home, Hotch would be your forbidden desire — the man who would have you throw everything resembling morals out the window — to be with him. Gross. Right?
He was now something a lot more complicated than just your unit chief and colleague, all while he was someone a lot less complicated.
The rules were written out. Playing the game however, was an entirely different thing.
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Hotch was quiet when he handed you the vanilla latte in a to-go cup. He did know your coffee order, then. Penelope would swat him if she learned he had lied, before she would squeal and say something stupid that would earn a glare from the man sitting in front of you.
His silence did absolutely nothing to help calm your nerves. Nerves which you blamed on exhaustion, obviously, and not the anxiety and anticipation buzzing under your skin.
This was not the same as being back at the Bureau, with the insufferable suggestive comments about you coming from your other team members. It was something far more scary. Two adults having to pretend to like each other to solve some murders.
Chills.
"How do we do this?" You turned the paper cup in your hands before placing it on the table in front of you, staring at it like you were fascinated by the intricate design on the plain white cardboard. Anything other than looking up to meet his piercing stare.
The coffee shop was empty in the early morning, save for the two servers behind the counter. The sputtering sounds of the espresso machine and soft jazz music floated from the speakers offered little distraction.
Hotch stayed quiet for another heartbeat, pinching the bridge of his nose and drawing in a breath. "At first, mostly during the lectures." He exhaled slowly and scanned your face, "If they told you to be a teacher's pet, then that's what you'll be."
"I believe the words Pen used were 'good little student girlfriend', wasn't it?" You watched him purse his lips and smiled sweetly.
"Look," glancing around to the still empty coffee shop for any ears listening, "We'll have to suck it up and do a damn good job about it." Even if you could not see anyone listening, you would not take any chances. "It doesn't matter how much you dislike me, the She-Devil is on our asses about this and I know you dislike her more, even if you won't admit it." Strauss had it out for you two, that was certain.
Not that you had done anything to earn her distrust. You know, other than the occasional not-listening. It was not your fault she spewed bullshit, you were just using your critical thinking skills. Obviously.
Hotch furrowed his eyebrows, though if it was regarding the code name you just made up for Strauss, you were not entirely sure.
You looked at him, like really looked at him. He seemed tired, the bags under his eyes looked even darker, his hair slightly disheveled like he had dragged his hand through it repeatedly.
You wondered if that was what he looked like when he woke up. Shirt and slacks included, you guessed. The tie probably stayed on as well.
You imagined him sleeping in a coffin, like a fucking vampire, or a corpse. It would explain the permanent scowl on his face, it could not be comfortable. Oh, it could also explain the back pain you originally assumed was because of his age.
"You might be annoying and infuriatingly bad at following orders, but I don't dislike you—" He pursed his lips to stop himself from saying your name, and furrowed his brows again, "What do I call you?"
The hint of a resemblance of a compliment still held your attention. Did he say he did not dislike you? You would think about it later.
"What do you call the other students?" You asked, leaning back in your chair. He had already held a couple of lectures before you arrived, a product of Strauss' argument of really making an entrance. A late entrance, that is.
Hotch licked his lips, as if trying to figure out what the name would taste like when he said it, "Miss Evans, then." It felt foreign on his tongue, wrong even. You tried to hide the slight wince, it would be hard to get used to, especially having to respond to a name that did not belong to you.
"Anyway, Professor." You crossed one leg over the other as you steered the conversation back, “I’ll be a shameless suck-up, answer every question you ask and you’ll start giving me the attention I so desperately need?”
The thought of his attention on you that way unnerved you more than you would like.
“Yes, but,” Hotch nodded slowly, a sheepish smile forming on his lips, “Only if you answer them correctly.”
Just what you expected.
With a tilt of your head, you asked, “What happens if I don’t?” You held his stare as you reached for your cup, taking a sip as he contemplated his response. Would he watch over your shoulder as he forced you to study? You shivered.
“Since you’re supposed to act as my TA at some point, I expect you to be able to know the material. If that’s too hard for you–” He trailed off, pursing his lips and a little dimple appeared on his cheek. You wondered if he would bite your finger if you poked it.
Bingo.
“Don’t worry, professor,” You licked your lips and smiled sweetly at him, “I like when things are hard for me.”
Hotch sighed, “Focus, please.” The muscle in his jaw ticked as he glared across the table at you.
You hummed, not quite finished yet. It was too enjoyable to watch him struggle. The way his arms flexed against the fabric of his shirt as you closed in on him. How he held his breath, like he could not stand sharing the same air as you, and you wondered how he would react if you closed the distance entirely.
“Are you prepared to-” You raised a finger on your lower lip and pouted innocently, “Kiss me, Sir?”
He could practically taste the sweet coffee on your breath and his mind no longer functioned properly.
The image flashed behind your eyes, of your lips crashing together, his teeth sinking in your bottom lip, his hands firmly placed on your hips as he...
You shook the vision out of your head as silence stretched between you, the air felt so thick you almost suffocated. Hotch released a shallow huff, not nearly as nonchalant as he hoped it would sound. "Sir?" The way his voice dropped to a near growl sent a shiver down your spine.
The title change was intentional, knowing it would mess with him and blur the lines between this pretend-mission and the real relationship between you. It was not uncommon you called him 'Sir' back at the BAU, though usually just to annoy him.
Although if he got annoyed by it, or if he just got turned on, you would not know. It seemed like it would look the same on him.
That little realization got tucked safely in the back of your mind.
Another deafening silent moment passed. “You’re supposed to ‘not be able to keep your hands to yourself’,” You remind him, tilting your head to the side, “And I’m supposed to be a good girl and let you. Should be easy enough, don’t you agree?”
You shrugged, more in hopes to shake off the lingering feverish warmth than an act of indifference. Hotch ran a hand down his face and exhaled.
"If we're doing this to draw them out, they have to believe it's something worth going after, right?" You asked, chewing your lip as you went over the information you managed to remember.
"You mean they have to believe you are worth going after." Hotch reminded you, his jaw clenching at the idea of endangering you like this. If only the mission allowed him to actually investigate, like he should have done, none of this would be necessary. You would not have to risk being targeted. No, not 'risk being targeted', you were supposed to be targeted.
He struggled with it more than he should have. Not only the part where you would be targeted because of him, but the part where you had to play the part of being with him for it to happen. He could not stop thinking about it.
Just thinking about sneaking around with you, holding you, kissing you, kept him up at night. It haunted him.
You were insufferable and so insanely stubborn, he could not even get you out of his own head.
So he decided to do exactly what you said, suck it up.
“Promise me you’ll tell me if you get uncomfortable, and please-” He sighed and his eyes locked on you, “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
“Title of your sex tape.” You grinned. “But I promise,” Stretching out your hand, you pointed your pinky out, “I won’t make suggestive comments regarding our mutual attraction when you’re unprepared.”
“Fine.” Hotch muttered with a sigh and reached out to partake in your pinky-promise. He wondered if you meant for it to sound real, if you noticed the way you said ‘our mutual attraction’ like it was a fact. You did. It was.
You pointed to his face after he released your finger from his, “But you need to fix that scowl, you look like you’re about to give me detention, not bend me over your desk.”
It seems you had forgotten there was no longer any professionalism to hide behind. To keep him biting his tongue. Hotch smirked, “Two things can be true at the same time, can’t they, Miss Evans?”
If the suggestions behind his words were not enough to send your jaw to the floor, the shit-eating grin on his face was. The shock of hearing him say something like that would probably never wear off.
But as you saw the satisfaction gleaming in his eyes and his face brighten to a little healthier shade, it stirred something inside you.So, you decided the only thing left to do was bite back and play the game you had laid out. Might as well enjoy it, right?
Hotch found himself staring as you bit your lip and lowered your voice, “Tell me when and where, Professor.”
Derek would have pissed his pants.
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if you enjoyed this, please consider liking and reblogging, it fuels my little ego!
please let me know your thoughts! love, millie<3
─﹒﹒★﹒──────────
[ back to operation navigation ] or [ chapter three: interpretations and meanings ]
pairing | Aaron Hotchner x female! reader [no mentions of y/n, little to no physical descriptions]
disclaimers | Everything I write is intended as adult content. Please do not read if you are underage or sensitive to such. MDNI
chapter content warning | alcohol consumption to the point of being drunk and giddy, slight description of a dead body, hints of guilt, grief and panic, sexual tension and banter as usual <3 i cant remember much else honestly
wc: 4.5k [not proofread]
mission identities | Aaron Hotchner as Professor Edward Thomas Jameson. You as Isabella Evans (rarely used, other than 'Miss Evans')
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chapter five: drunk forgetfulness
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"Are you joking?" Lizzie giggled and swallowed the rest of her drink. You shook your head, laughing, "No, I'm serious, he really said that." It was freeing, finally having a girl around you. It had been over a month since you last saw your friends back home, only having Hotch and Spencer around would make anyone go crazy. Who would you talk to about them?
"Wait." She said with a straight face, standing up from where she sat cross-legged on her bed. Lizzie stood in front of you and did her best glare, lowering her voice to a grumble, "You and your perfect grades can't run from me, darling."
"I'm getting goosebumps." You snorted. Her impression was spot on, Emily would be given a run for her money.
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Lizzie lead you through the gates of campus, the chill night air sending shivers down your spine, you suddenly regretted not bringing a jacket. Fishing your phone out from your purse, you opened your messages to send the text Hotch had forced you to agree to send.
There was already a message in the chat.
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From: You | To: Professor Hot.
Let me know when later is.
Yesterday, 1:32PM
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What was that supposed to mean? You did not remember sending that.
You scanned the message again, scrunching your nose reading the contact name. Hotch had grabbed your phone yesterday to add his own number, and apparently create his own contact name. He probably sent himself a message from your phone, to ensure he had your number as well. Fucker.
You wondered if he intended to call himself 'Professor Hot' as a way to ensure it fit in with the roles you were playing, or if he simply meant it was short for 'Hotchner'.
It was undoubtedly the latter.
With a huff, you typed a quick 'Leaving campus now' before stuffing it back in your purse.
Three steps later, your phone chimed. Lizzie glanced over her shoulder, looking as confused as you were feeling. For an old guy, he certainly replied quickly.
"Sorry, just have to reply to this text." You gave her a tight lipped smile and she nodded in understanding.
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From: Professor Hot.
Where are you going and with who?
[9:55PM]
── Reply to: Professor Hot.
Sunshine with Lizzie, Sophie and Summer. Is that to your liking, kind sir?
[9:55PM]
From: Professor Hot.
Yes.
[9:56PM]
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You rolled your eyes and dropped your phone back into your purse again, you took Lizzie's outstretched arm and started walking.
'Sunshine' was a bar on Sunshine Road — only a 5 minute walk from the campus entrance — which was a 5 minute walk from the western dorm building. Summer had called it 'vintage', although you thought creepy sounded more fitting as you took in the stone building in front of you.
The bar was dimly lit and old fashioned. Whimsical. A lot more cozy on the inside than the cold stone exterior. Lanterns of various sunset colors swung from the wooden beams on the ceiling, casting patters of dancing light throughout the room. The tables were of dark stained wood with burnt orange stools around.
It was bustling, the sound of glass clinking and laughter mixed with the loud chatter of people trying to hear each other over the music. The smell of alcohol and perfume tainted the air.
"Come, let's get drinks!" Summer dragged you by the wrist to the bar across the room. You glanced over your shoulder with pleading eyes, hoping either Lizzie or Sophie would pity you and follow.
They just giggled and waved from the table they had sat themselves by.
Summer bent over the counter, "A tequila sunrise for the cutie, and the usual for me, please!" The bartender grabbed two glasses and started mixing. She turned to you and chewed on the inside of her cheek, realizing she had not asked you what you wanted. "That's okay, right?" You nodded and smiled as she beamed, you had never seen someone so happy before. It was addictive.
As Summer chatted with the bartender, you pulled out your phone to begrudgingly send Hotch the text message. You would not have his ass on you for not upholding your end of the stupid promise.
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From: You | To: Professor Hot.
At Sunshine.
[10:27PM]
From: Professor Hot.
Good.
[10:28PM]
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You shook your head, refusing to acknowledge the nauseating giddy feeling in your gut thinking about Hotch waiting for your messages. Jesus, did he not have better things to do?
Summer paid for the drinks and handed one of the glasses to you. You thanked her, grabbing the drink as you put the phone back into your purse.
The colorful drink in her hand looked similar to yours, only hers had a pineapple garnish, instead of an orange. "What's your usual?" You asked, pointing to the glass she was gripping at an angle. The liquid swooshed close to the brim with her quick movements, it was all you could do to not take it from her and hold it yourself.
"Summer sunset, of course!" Summer chirped, pushing it to you. "Taste it! It's like a tequila sunrise but with vodka and lime seltzer, and I like it with a dash of pineapple juice, so I guess it's more like 'Summer's sunset'." Okay, you were convinced, the excitement in her voice had grown on you slightly.
Only after did you realize it was not, perhaps, the most thought through decision you had made, drinking from a strangers glass. Since she was a stranger, technically.
Still, the drink was refreshing. Fruity. Like a concoction of happiness, which you supposed was perfect for the personification of the sun standing in front of you.
You gasped, "Woah, I think you're onto something."
You slid between the bodies of the room as you navigated back to the table. Summer had grabbed a hold of your hand to make sure you did not lose each other in the sea of people. Finally, you sighed in relief as you slumped into one of the burnt orange chairs.
Sophie was gawking at you, you realized, and Lizzie was laughing so hard she was gasping for air. "What?" Did you have something on your face?
"No way he called you 'darling'." Sophie's jaw was on the floor, her wide eyes almost popping out of her head. Summer squealed and whipped her head to you, "Professor Jameson?"
Oh. You shrugged, flickering your attention to the sticky table in front of you, "It was probably a joke, I don't know. He probably does it to everyone." Raising your drink to your lips, you tried to hide the smile threatening to appear.
They had to believe it and you would undoubtedly give yourself away if you laughed in their faces every time you lied.
"Don't you see the way he looks at you, Bell?" Lizzie crossed her arms and scowled to make a point. The two other girls copied her, glaring at you with their best efforts. The slight buzz of alcohol convinced you it was the funniest thing you had seen, and the laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it, "Like he wants to give me detention?"
Sophie rolled her eyes and raised an eyebrow, "If detention was a code word for pounding you, yes." Your jaw hit the floor as she smirked. Summer hid her face in her hands and you struggled with the effort it took to not do the same. Lizzie even winked at you, before raising her glass to make a toast.
"To Bell and Professor Jameson–" She suddenly gasped and slapped her hand over her mouth. Lizzie started cackling, folding over as she laughed. The three of you exchanged confused looks, watching her wipe tears from her eyes. When she finally calmed down enough to explain, she pointed to you, giggling between each word, "You're Bella and Edward!" Lizzie grabbed the edge of the table to keep herself upright as she doubled over in another fit.
Sophie snapped her eyes to you, shaking her head frantically, "No way." She bit her lip to hide her smile. You groaned and dropped your face into your hands, muttering a string of curses you hoped would find their way back to Quantico. They would be hearing from you, whether it was allowed or not. You would find a way to get revenge.
The laughter around the table was like a light sweet melody, and soon you found yourself laughing with them. It was rare to laugh like this, you could feel the weight on your shoulders lifting.
"Wait," Summer said, scrunching her eyebrows when you finally quieted, all of you wiping away tears from your cheeks, "Like Twilight?" Sophie nodded between gasping for air, and the four of you lost it again.
The buzz of your phone on the table served as a reminder of the promise to Hotch. You sighed, fighting the urge to roll your eyes as you typed the message.
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From: You | To: Professor Hot.
Still at Sunshine.
[11:01PM]
From: Professor Hot.
Okay.
[11:03PM]
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God, he had to have something else to do. What was the reason for this, anyway? To keep tabs on you?
You looked up to find Sophie's eyes on you and you put your phone away.
"Just be careful." Sophie said as she placed a hand on top of yours. She suddenly turned serious, her blue eyes darkened as she frowned, "You've heard about the–," Sophie scanned the loud sea of people — unsure if she should say it out loud — then she leaned closer to you and whispered, "The murders?"
You nodded gravely and leaning to whisper back, "Not much, though." Sophie chewed on the inside of her cheek, twisting the empty glass in front of her to busy her hands while she thought.
After a minute of staring at the table, you debated on moving on when finally, she met your gaze again, "The last one was my friend." You furrowed your brows trying to remember the names from the files back in Quantico, though it was all hazy — the time passed and the alcohol in your system was not making it easier for you.
"I'm so sorry, Sophie. What was she like?" It felt awful, questioning her like this, but it was the only thing you could do. You hoped it would help her, as well. If you knew what the victims were like, it would significantly improve the chances of the profile.
Her eyes turned glassy and you laid a hand on hers, like she had done to you a moment ago. "Annie was the sweetest girl." Sophie smiled softly, a tear slowly falling down her cheek, "She was really smart and really funny," She turned to face you as you lifted a hand to wiped her tear, "You kind of remind me of her."
Well, you supposed that was the point, even if it hurt to think of.
"Annie sounds great." You smiled sadly, and Sophie huffed a laugh at the hint of a joke you had not realized you made.
"Let's get more drinks, Bell, I don't want to cry any more tonight." She sniffled before standing from her chair and reaching out a hand, you took it with a nod of understanding.
"You guys want anything?" Sophie asked the two girls sitting at the table. They told her what they wanted and returned to the heated discussion you could only barely make out over the noise.
"Jacob is like a warm hug, who wouldn't choose him?" Summer threw up her hands in exclamation and Lizzie shook her head.
"He's a dog, Summer. Edward is a sexy older guy, like twice the size of Bella, that's so much more hot!"
Exactly. Lizzie gets it.
Not that it related to your current situation, because that was entirely different. Hotch was not a vampire.
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The night went on, the drinks kept being drunk and the music vibrated in your bones. You were having a great time with the girls — the dance floor had become your stage, the alcohol had turned to confidence and Lizzie had become your dance partner — it was an endless time of giggles and dancing, of easy fun with your new friends. You were floating in the clouds.
Sophie and Summer had found themselves slow-dancing with a couple of slightly older guys. You and Lizzie glanced over to them every now and then, pointing and giggling, like you had for hours. Soon, they had whispered goodbyes in your ears and left with the men of interest.
So, you and Lizzie got a couple more drinks, gave a toast with slurred words and danced some more.
"I'm having so—much fun, Bells!" Lizzie shouted over the music and you nodded in agreement.
You looked at each other and fell into a laughing fit. Lizzie pushed on your shoulder lightly, and you clumsily stumbled a step backwards, swaying with the lack of balance. She tried to stretch out a hand to steady you, but she bent over laughing before you could even attempt to grab it.
Strong hands gripped your upper arms from behind you and lifted you upright. You stiffened, finding Lizzie's wide eyes with your own. The smirk growing on her face told you exactly who was standing behind you.
Aaron Scowls-a-lot Hotchner, wearing his favorite expression.
You blinked, giggling when you noticed the deep scowl itched into his face, "Hot-"
"Miss Evans." He interrupted, stepping closer to you. A flush of color painted your cheeks as Hotch towered over you with an intense glare. He had to know you hated it when he forced you to tilt your head to look at him.
He bowed to whisper in your ear, "You seem to have forgotten something, darling." Disapproval laced his words, almost venomous. Your eyes flashed with panic as you tried to figure out what you had done wrong.
"Where's your phone?" Fuck. Shit.
"Uh–" You tried looking for your purse, turning your head from side to side to find the spot you had thrown it to when you started dancing. Instead, you spotted Spencer over his shoulder, and squealed.
"Spence!" He whipped his head up in time to see you lunge for him. You wrapped your arms around him, smiling brightly as his stiff posture softened. Spencer muttered your name lowly, barely audible, but you felt the air shift. He glanced up to Hotch who was watching you with utter seriousness, and you straightened. Something was wrong.
"What's–" You spun back to face Hotch without calculating the effect on your balance with the alcohol coursing through you. Cursing yourself, you stumbled again. Hotch reached forward, pulling you to stand, again. You had to get it together.
His hand pressed firmly against your lower back, "Let's go." With the light pressure, you took a couple small steps toward the exit before you remembered Lizzie. She could not be left alone, just because Professor Scowls-a-lot decided to whisk you away on some fairytale. Probably.
"Lizzie!" You snapped your head to look at Hotch and gasped.
He sighed, turning to Spencer and said something you could not hear over the music echoing from the speakers and the roaring in your ears. Spencer nodded, his gaze flickering to you for a second, then he turned around and walked back to where you had the time of your life just moments ago.
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The silence outside the bar was dizzying. Hotch had his hand still firmly pressed on your lower back, forcing you forward and away from the many eyes at the bar.
As you stepped around a corner into what looked like an alleyway to the other street, you finally had enough of his silence, "What's going on, Ho–" He slapped a hand over your mouth and pressed you up against the brick wall. The reaction had you frozen, blinking up at him in confusion.
"You know better than to call me that, don't you, darling." He growled in your ear. You shivered.
That was why he interrupted you back at the bar, you realized. You had almost blurted out 'Hotch' twice now, and by the looks of it, he was furious. Fuck, he was attractive.
You tried to apologize, but his hand muffled your words. He dropped it to your shoulder to keep you pinned against the wall, "What did you say?" The gleam in his eyes unnerved you, or perhaps it was butterflies, it was hard to tell.
"I'm sorry, Sir." You repeated yourself, apologizing again. It was a real apology, for once. It seemed like he was worried about you for some reason.
He stepped back, dropping his arms by his side. You watched as his jaw tightened, his fists clenched, just like he usually did when there was bad news on a case…
"Another one?" You whispered, taking a step away from the wall. He nodded gravely. "Found on a bench outside the library entrance."
You had studied there with Spencer once. The entrance was in a fairly open area, easy to spot. There should have been witnesses, or would have, had it not been the middle of the night. No one sane went to the library past midnight.
"Have they identified her?" You asked. What if it was someone you had run into during your time on the island? The thought had your heart racing.
He shook his head, "Her face had deep slashes. There was a pool of blood under the bench. Fresh. The only identifying trait I could see from the distance was blonde hair—"
"No." You shook your head furiously, panicking, "No, no, no!"
Sophie and Summer had left hours ago. With men you had no idea who were. They had not seemed suspicious but you had absolutely no trust in your drunk profiling abilities.
You turned to run back, to campus, to the bar, to wherever you could look for any of them. The faint glow from the streetlamps did little to show you the way as you ran, you had barely paid attention when you walked from campus earlier. It was hopeless.
Stopping in the middle of the street, you snapped your head around to look for any street signs, or anything you could remember at all. Tears were flowing down your cheeks, the adrenaline rushing through your body, it was hard to think.
"This way." Hotch spoke softly, pointing to the street he was facing. He had no clue why you suddenly panicked, but he saw the terror in your eyes and knew not to push. The desperation. He was still furious with you.
You pushed to a sprint as the campus gates coming into view.
You had to know. It would never stop eating you alive if one of them had died because you did not pay attention. Because you were too busy drinking and dancing. You had let them leave, not thinking about the possibility of one of them being murdered. All for another drink. All for another song. Another dance. A laugh.
The crowd was thick. Quiet murmurs vibrated the cobblestones. You would have to push through them to get to the body, though the police had likely already taken it.
"Bell!" The high-pitched shout of your name sent you spinning around to find the owner. Twenty feet behind you stood Summer. Your knees wobbled as she ran for you.
That meant…
"Thank god." Sophie cried from behind you. The two girls wrapped around you, sobbing. "I thought it was you." Sophie said into your hair. "I don't know what she looks like and I–" She sniffled, "I thought it was you."
Again, no matter how much it wrecked you to think about, you supposed that was also the point of this.
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"You're staying with me."
You whipped your head to the man leaning against the stone pillar of the campus gate, his arms crossed over his chest. "What?"
Did you say that a lot? Perhaps. Although it made sense, confusion seemed to be a dominant emotion lately.
You blinked, wishing it would clear the haze in your head. Hotch raised an eyebrow, looking you up and down as it was clear what he meant. It was not. He heaved a sigh and straightened from the pillar, lowering his voice only for you to hear, "You're drunk and I don't trust you to not snoop around the crime scene." Fair enough. Although it had not been your plan, now that he had suggested it…
"M' not drunk, you just want to get in my pants and you can't when I'm sober." You crossed your arms. The adrenaline had worn off, the world spun again, though that last part referred to the earth's rotation around the sun or whatever. Not the way the cobblestones looked kind of like waves.
Hotch licked his lips, trying to hide the slight hint of amusement on his face. "Let me get this straight. I can only get in your pants when you're drunk, which you are not, but you're not sober?"
"Uh-huh!" You agreed with a nod, eyes focused on his lips. Until the words repeated in your brain. You furrowed your brows in confusion, looking up at the man smirking in front of you, "Wait, what?" He made no sense. Had those been actual words coming from his nice mouth?
"Yeah, you're coming with me whether you like it or not." He decided and placed his hand on your lower back. The warmth of his hand spread up your spine like flames as he lightly pushed you forward, to fall into step beside him to go wherever he lived on the island.
You rolled your eyes, the heat had traveled to your face, "Wow, such a handsome guy but he has to force girls to go home with him." Hotch clenched his jaw to suppress the satisfied smile threatening to form. The compliment was lost on you. The waves of heat from his body next to you made it hard to string together coherent thoughts.
Eventually, he gave up suppressing the smile. He needed the change of mood after the bad news on the case. It was not like he could do anything other than keep playing his role and hope to get something out of the faculty. It felt nice to finally smile.
Your eyes widened at the sight. The smile on his face made him look like an alien. A handsome, dark and sexy kind of alien. The propaganda was working, it seemed.
His dimple made an appearance, the one you had barely and rarely been in the presence of, and this time you reached up to poke it. To your surprise, and perhaps also relief, he did not bite your finger off like you suspected he would. He just stared at you.
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You stopped in front of a small house on the same street as Sunshine, though a good few stumbles and curses away. It was yellow, sort of like an old-lady-house. The thought of Hotch living here had you giggling.
"Penelope wants to talk to you," Hotch said as he reached the front of the house, "She's been calling me non-stop." He pulled out a key from the pocket of his dark slacks and unlocked the white-painted door.
"What?" You asked and cursed yourself for saying it again. He stepped through the door and made space for you as you stepped in beside him. "About what?" You tried again. The second attempt sounded better, though you were still slightly annoyed now that you were aware of the habit.
Penelope had been calling him and she wants to talk to you. You missed her, and it seemed like she missed you, too. It made you emotional, not unlike how sappy you usually got when you were drunk, although that was absolutely not the case here. It was a coincidence. Just like how climbable Hotch looked as he folded up the sleeves of his shirt was a coincidence.
Wait, hold on — did that mean it was a sober thought? You were drunk. Shit-faced, in fact. Now that you really thought about it.
You kicked your shoes off by the door, sighing. Your feet ached, pulsed, after dancing and running for hours.
"She's been talking my ear off about some Twilight thing, and keeps asking me over and over again if I have taken you out yet, or even kissed you yet—" He trailed off and scratched the back of his neck.
You hummed, following him to the living room. "How did she react when you said no to all of those things?" The couch called your name and you decided to grace it with the presence of your butt. It thanked you, you could feel it.
You watched as Hotch poured himself a glass of whiskey, glancing over to where you sat slumped on the gray couch, before he downed it. He poured another one and set the flask back on the round wooden table, ignoring your whines of wanting one.
He took a sip from his drink before he lowered himself to the far end of the suddenly way too small three-seat-couch.
"She started screaming." He finally said, as he pursed his lips and winced, like he could still feel the sound lingering on his eardrum. Poor guy probably got tinnitus from that phone call.
"I can see it." You laughed, deeply. Honestly. Hotch watched you laugh, the soft sound was somehow foreign to him. He wanted to hear it again.
"Wait." It hit you like a train. A win-win. Checkmate, if you will. You gasped loudly, and jumped closer to him on the couch, pushing your face close to his. More as a method to threaten him than anything. "We can cross one off the list." You said, raising your brows.
Hotch stilled, frozen, a breath away. The only movement was his eyes flickering between yours and your lips. His focus lingered on your mouth before he cleared his throat, "Which one?"
Ding ding ding.
Who would have thought it would be so easy?
You hummed and tilted your head as you scanned his face. Silence stretched for the long second you contemplated your words, "I was thinking watching Twilight, but if there's another one you would rather do…" You trailed off and looked down to his lips, before reaching out to take the half-drank glass of whiskey from his hands.
You slowly raised it to your mouth and watched him over the brim as you drank, savoring the burn as you emptied his glass.
Hotch stared at you and he swallowed. His lips parted slightly as you licked yours. With a sweet smile, you leaned so close to his face, the heat of his breath sent shivers down your spine.
"Your choice, Professor." Your whisper fanned across his lips.
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thank you so so much for reading
if you enjoyed this, please consider liking and reblogging, it fuels my little ego!
let me know your thoughts and if you have anything you would like to see! your comments and messages are everything to me<3
i’ve been a little sick so if it doesn’t make sense… don’t look at me— i just work here
love, millie<3
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