I'm soooo in love your work. bimbo!assistantreader wil always have a special place in my heart!!!
Now i have this of idea that i think can work for either aaron or spencer, but basically bau!reader who kind of always wears the same type of outfit in the field that's always really modest. Buttttt when they kind of like "know" it's just going to be a paperwork day she likes to were skirts... short skirts and Aaron/Spencer are just feral for them...
Can either be fluff of smut... I trust you indefinitely xxx
Short Skirt, Long Day - A.H
a/n: hi hi hi hiiiiiii!!! ugh thank u sm i kinda took this an interesting route so let me know what you think!!!! im also heavily thinking about writing a smutty pt 2 for this but id love to hear everyone’s opinions
masterlist
pairings: perv!aaronhotchner x bau!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, suggestive content, aaron being a straight PERV!!! (im into idk man), aaron imagining scenarios he didn’t shouldn’t at work, idk this is quite different from my usual postings but i kinda fuck with it
wc: 1.4k
Aaron Hotchner loved paperwork day.
Days like these meant the ringing of phones and panicked conversations were replaced by the only the sound of air conditioning (when it worked) and the occasional sneeze or cough. It’s the kind of morning he appreciated — time to breathe, to recalibrate without the air of an active case breathing down his neck.
But that's not why his pulse is thrumming more than heavily beneath his skin.
Hotch glances at the clock on his desk. It's early, too early for most of the team to be here yet, save for a couple agents whose faces barely register in his peripheral vision. His focus is elsewhere, fixed on a singular thought. Or, rather, on a singular person.
You.
Hotch leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly as a shameful type of heat rises to his face. It's a little pathetic, he thinks, how predictable he's become, it's not the work that makes these mornings bearable anymore. It's the anticipation.
The knowledge that, any minute now, the elevator doors will part, and you'll step out, wearing something that will completely dismantle his carefully constructed composure.
Hotch had noticed a pattern (of course he did, that was his instinct honed to a razor's edge). In the field, your outfits are a study in practicality: slacks, fitted jackets, muted tones, professional to a T. Nothing flashy, nothing that would draw undue attention. He’d even go as far to say you dressed more modestly than most.
But in the office, when the cases are shelved, and the team is left to wade through stacks of paperwork... it's different.
And it drives him insane.
The image takes root before he can stop it: the curve of your thighs, tantalizingly framed by a skirt that seemed designed to test his limits. The way the fabric molds to you when you move, clinging in places that his eyes are all too quick to follow.
Hotch exhales sharply, clearing his throat as if that could somehow clear his mind. It's unprofessional, he knows this, knows better than to let his thoughts stray so far from where they belong but yet…
The ding of the elevator pulls his attention like a magnet, and there you are. His grip on the pen tightens instinctively, the knuckles blanching as his gaze locks on you.
You're wearing that skirt today — black, fitted, and infuriatingly short, hugging your hips in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination.
He tells himself to look away, and for a second, he manages it — his eyes dropping back to his desk, his breath coming out slow and measured. But that reprieve is fleeting. His gaze flicks back before he can stop it, drawn helplessly to the curve of your waist as you laugh at something one of the other agents say.
You're too good. Too sweet. Too damn oblivious to realize what you're doing to him.
And he knows it's wrong, knows he's toeing a line he has no business approaching. But the way his body reacts to you, the pull you have on him, is beyond reason. It's instinctual, raw, and completely out of his control.
He calls out your name. "Could you come in here for a moment?"
You turn, blinking at him with wide, curious eyes. "Yes, sir?"
"I need you to grab something for me," he replies, his voice level, though every syllable felt like a tightly coiled spring. He motions towards the cabinet near the corner of the room. "The Marcus file. Bottom shelf."
He was a terrible terrible man.
Without hesitation, you step toward the cabinet, crouching slightly as you begin to sift through the lower shelf. The moment your body lowers, his eyes start trailing down where the hem of your skirt lifts, just barely revealing the soft curve of where your thighs meet your ass.
Then, as you bend further, shifting your weight slightly to reach deeper on the shelf, the fabric stretches taut, clinging to your ass in a way that sends a jolt straight through him.
Hotch's throat feels tight, his breathing shallow as he drinks in the sight before him. You're so close, just feet away, and the angle offers him an unobstructed view. The shape of you, the smooth expanse of skin that's always just out of reach in the field, is right there, so achingly close he feels like his chest might explode.
He knows if you dipped any further, your panties would be on display and he couldn’t help but wonder what color you had on.
You’ve always had a meticulous attention to detail, choices leaning towards deliberate but understated at the same time. In the field, you favored muted tones — greys, blacks, navies. But here in the relative safety of the office you allow a little more personality, more femininity.
His mind turns to your preferences, pink, maybe.
Hotch swallows hard, pulse roaring in his ears. The thought gnaws at him, insistent and unrelenting, he needs to know.
“Careful,” he says, feigning concern. “You might need to check further back on the shelf. Sometimes the files get pushed out of sight.”
You glance over your shoulder at him and he swears he could combust. “Further back?”
He nods, leaning back in his chair to appear casual, though his grip on the armrests were anything but. “Yes.”
You turn back to the cabinet, shifting your weight again as you crouch lower, leaning further to search the back of the shelf. The motion sends the bottom of your skirt riding higher, and for a brief, heart stopping moment, the lace of your panties is on full display.
It was a pink barely there strip of fabric.
His mind betrays him, conjuring images he knows he shouldn't entertain. He imagines his hands on you, running over the curve of his hips, gripping your thighs, sliding that damn skirt higher until there's nothing left to hide. The thought of you like this, pliant and completely unaware of the effect you're having on him, makes his pulse pound in his ears. He wonders what you would do if he were to push those panties to the side and slide a finger in you.
You shift again, leaning deeper into the cabinet as your voice drifts back to him, murmuring something about not seeing it. His jaw locks, teeth pressing together as he fights to maintain control. His fingers dig into the armrests of his chair, the leather creaking faintly beneath the strain. It's a futile effort, though. The pressure building in his chest, his body, is relentless.
The heat pools low in his abdomen, simmering and insistent, a sharp pulse of arousal tightening every muscle in his body. He's painfully hard now, the evidence uncomfortably against his slacks, but he doesn't dare move. His mind a blur of want, what he wants to do to you, what he knows he shouldn't do, and the precarious line he's treading just watching you like this.
The tension in his body seems unbearable, and for a fleeting second, he considers how easy it would be to walk over, to let his hand graze your hip, to tilt your chin up so you'd look at him and see the wreckage you've left in your wake.
But he doesn't. He can't.
Instead, he forces himself to remain still, staying rooted, the self-restraint biting and bitter.
"Are you sure it's under here? I still don't see it."
Hotch's lips twitch, the smallest shadow of a smirk threatening to break free on his face. He leans forward, feigning surprise as he picks up the file from the corner of his desk.
"Ah," he says, waving the file. "Looks like it's been right here the whole time."
You straighten abruptly, brushing your hands down your skirt and turning towards him with a soft laugh. "Hotch! So I was practically upside down in that cabinet for nothing!"
He shakes his head, giving a small chuckle to match yours. Not for nothing. The satisfaction still simmers low in his chest, a private indulgence he knows you'll never suspect, the movement was far from wasted.
"My mistake."
"Well, I guess we all have our moments. Let me know if there's anything else you need, okay?"
When the door finally closes behind you, he exhales shakily, the breath spilling out like a confession. Leaning back in his chair, he presses his fingers to his temples, his entire body tense with the effort of restraint. He feels unmoored, like a man balancing on the edge of a precipice, one misstep away from losing everything he’s worked so hard to keep under control.
But for now, he’ll settle for watching, for imagining, for wishing, knowing full well that nothing could ever come of it. And yet, as he glances at the door where you’d just been, a part of him wonders how much longer he can hold out.
It’s going to be an impossibly long day, but the most troubling part of all is how much he’s starting to enjoy the torment.
seeing you in a bikini all day drive hotch right over the edge, tempting him to ruing you even at the risk of discovery
pairing: perv!hotch x fem!reader
warnings: 18+MDNI, AFAB reader, perv!hotch, voyeurisitc themes, dom hotch, orgasm delay, dirty talk, fingering, mild degredation, power dynamics, exhibitionism
prompt: here
wc: 1.1k
His fingers plunger deeper, hooking sharply inside you, against the sensitive spot you love, and Aaron drinks in the way your eyes drift shut, lashes fluttering like the wings of some delicate, startled thing. Your mouth drops open, lush lips parted, a vision designed to destroy every ounce of self-control he’s ever possessed.
He’d known — hell, he’d practically planned this the instant you bent forward, obliviously gifting him the view of your bikini molded against every curve, fingers idly readjusting fabric in a gesture far too innocent for the filthy thoughts it stirred in him.
He’d barely managed to hold a neutral expression through Rossi’s mind-numbing storytelling and Spencer’s careless rambling, attention consumed wholly by fantasies of bending you over that same lounge chair.
But the second he saw you slip away — hair tousled and dripping, sun-warmed skin practically glowing — Aaron was on his feet, muttering some half-assed excuse as he trailed after you, barely disguising the predatory thrill burning beneath his skin.
Now you’re exactly where he’s been aching to have you, pressed against him in the cool shadows of the hallway, the rest of the team miles from his thoughts as his fingers slide deeper into your heat, rewarding him with the prettiest whimper he’s heard all spring.
“Aaron, please —” you gasp weakly, head arching back against the wall as your hands grasp blindly at his chest.
“Please what, baby?” He drives into you again, satisfaction warming his chest as he reduces your charm to broken, murmured pleas he can hardly decipher. “Come on, you were quite the social butterfly out there, weren’t you? Talking, giggling with everyone… never thought I’d leave you at a loss for words this fast.”
“I’m so close —” you pant, voice splintering into a desperate little sob.
He strokes your clit with cruel leisure, the softness of his touch designed to prolong your torment, purposefully denying you what you crave most.
“Oh, I know,” he drawls, “and I’m not finished with you yet.”
Aaron leans in slowly, his breath hot against your cheek, watching as your entire body shivers from just that tiny touch.
“You probably didn’t even realize,” he drawls, voice low and taunting, “but every time you adjusted those sunglasses, tilting your head back, exposing your neck — I imagined exactly what it would feel like to bite down, leave marks everyone would notice.” He pauses. “And when you sat up, brushing sand off your thighs like it was nothing — god, I could barely fucking breathe, picturing how easily it would be to slip my hand between them, right there with everyone watching.”
He doesn’t wait for your reaction, just dips his head and drags his teeth along your neck, scraping gently over your pulse point. It’s just enough to sting, to promise the kind of marks he’s been thinking about leaving all day.
You shudder against him, breathing shallow and ragged.
“You’d look pretty like that, wouldn’t you?” he whispers roughly, tongue soothing over freshly reddened skin. “Marked up, everyone knowing exactly how you spent your afternoon.”
“Could’ve — god, Aaron — could’ve done whatever you wanted… right there on the beach.”
Aaron smirks against your neck, thoroughly entertained by your empty bravado — because he knows damn well you wouldn’t have let him take you right there in the open, not you, with perfect manners and careful smiles, always so aware of appearances.
But fuck, he likes this side of you — messy, whimpering, reckless enough to let him finger you in plain sight, too desperate to wait for the privacy of a bed.
Anyone could walk in right now, he reminds himself, knowing Rossi’s flask might run dry or Reid’s skin might burn, even JJ might sneak away to make a call home.
And yet, your hips continue to grind down onto his hand, dignity completely discarded. He nearly groans aloud how painfully it makes his cock stir.
His lips brush against your earlobe.
“Look at you,” he taunts quietly, voice dripping with approval, “acting like such a good girl out there, but you’re really just filthy, aren’t you?”
His thumb finds that precise pressure you need as he starts circling faster, perfectly timed with the thrust of his fingers.
“Yes — yes, please —” you choke out, nails marking down his biceps.
He’s so close to tipping you over, feeling you writhe beneath him, every gasped breath and bitten-off moan.
He hears it first. The creak of a loose board, followed by another.
Footsteps.
His body goes still, breath held, eyes flicking toward the sound — calculating, already tracking the periodicity, the distance.
He doesn’t panic, however. If anything, it spikes something primal in him. Something hungry.
The threat of exposure hits him like a drug. It’s fucked up how much he likes it.
“Better hurry, sweetheart. Sounds like someone else wants to join us.”
You seize around him the instant his hand clamps over your mouth, stifling the cry he knows would’ve echoed off the damn walls. He feels your whole body twitch, hard, muscles clenching, back arching.
He stares, obsessed. The way your eyes roll back, the way your throat works beneath his fingers, the frantic flutter of your pulse. Beautiful.
He doesn’t stop moving, working you through it, milking every aftershock like it’s owed to him. Like it’s the least you can give him for coming so hard on his fingers.
Those same fingers slide out slick, glistening in the light, and he doesn’t hesitate to bring them to his mouth, tongue dragging over the mess you left behind.
Eight steps left.
In a blink, he snaps into damage control, swiftly sliding your bikini bottoms back into position, fingertips securing your top. He gently brushes stray locks of hair away, the intimate attention juxtaposed perfectly against the sound of the nearing footsteps.
“Good as new. Now, behave.”
You give him a shaky nod, still visibly flustered, and Aaron quickly adopts his most convincingly concerned posture.
“Did you drink any water today?” he asks sharply, raising his voice just enough to be overheard clearly. “You don’t look well at all — frankly, you should stay inside and rest for the remainder of the day.”
Just as expected, Reid rounds the corner into the hallway, his eyes darting curiously from Aaron to you.
Aaron barely spares him a glance, continuing smoothly, “Reid, can you keep an eye on her? Make sure she does what she's told.” He turns back to you, feigning seriousness in his eyes. “She never listens to me.”
join me at the beach for my 1 year/4k event!
day 2 extras
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