colourfulbisexualities

[colourfulbisexualities]

— RAW FOOTAGE — a.hotchner x female reader

PREMISE: When you land an audition for one of the industry’s top adult films, you know exactly who you’re hoping to impress: Aaron Hotchner — porn legend, known to everyone else as “Hotch.” But when the lights go up and the director gives the nod, it’s not just an audition anymore. You take control, tease the untouchable star, and turn a routine scene into something no one on set will forget.

WARNINGS: porn industry AU | oral sex | cum play: swallowing + facial | unprotected sex | ball sucking | boob slapping | tit fucking | dirty talk | light choking | mutual teasing | mild public sex (on-set) | creampie mention | crew voyeurism implied | aftercare | no real plot just filth.

WORD COUNT: 3.3K

𓏲𝄢 find my masterlists

The lights are hot on your skin, but you don’t flinch. You don’t fidget, you don’t shy away from the glare of the camera, and you sure as hell don’t ask them to dim it down. This is your audition tape — your first one for this studio, the kind of place known for their slick, high-production films and even higher standards. No amateur shit. No soft moaning and bad angles.

If you’re gonna make your mark, it’s gonna be on your terms, with your legs spread, your confidence sharp as a knife, and every single person in that room remembering your fucking name by the end of it.

You sit at the edge of the leather couch, back straight, thighs parted just enough to tease but not enough to give it all away. Black lace lingerie clings to your skin — a delicate little nothing of a thing that barely covers your nipples and leaves your pussy peeking out from behind a scrap of matching lace.

You can feel how wet you are already, slick gathering between your folds, a soft sheen catching in the light when you shift your hips. You drag a finger up your thigh, slow, letting your nails graze your skin, before slipping it beneath the waistband of your panties.

You don’t rush it. This isn’t about being quick.

It’s about being memorable.

Your fingers part your folds, and you’re soaked. Pussy lips glistening, soft and plush, your clit already swollen and begging for attention. You trace circles around it, letting your middle finger dip lower, teasing your entrance.

You glance at the camera with a smirk, licking your bottom lip like you’re about to tell a secret. “You getting this?” you ask, voice low, throaty. The cameraman mutters a yes, but you’re not really asking him. You know who’s watching.

The door opens behind the set wall, and you hear the low murmur of voices. Then a name: Aaron Hotchner. And yeah, you knew he was on set today, but hearing it out loud sends a little thrill down your spine.

They call him the best in the business. Serious. Brutal. Has this reputation for breaking in newbies and making them beg for a second round. You were hoping it’d be him.

You don’t turn immediately. Instead, you tug the strap of your lingerie down your shoulder, exposing more skin, fingers still lazily stroking your clit. “Good,” you purr. “I was hoping he’d be the one to watch.”

His voice hits you like a fucking shot of whiskey — smooth, dark, and dangerous. “Is that so?”

You glance over your shoulder, and holy fuck, there he is. Black button-down, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, lean muscle beneath expensive fabric. His face unreadable, eyes dark and sharp, but you can see it .. the flicker of interest, the way his gaze drops to your hand between your legs before flicking back to your face. He’s already undressing you with his eyes.

“I do better with an audience,” you tease.

He doesn’t even blink. “Then perform.”

You shift, sliding two fingers through your folds now, gathering slick and lifting it to your mouth, sucking them clean with an exaggerated moan. You don’t miss the way his jaw tightens, or how the front of his pants starts to strain. “Thought this was an audition,” you say with a lazy smile. “Didn’t realize it was a solo act.”

The director pipes up. “It was. But Aaron’s requested… a more hands-on demonstration.”

Your grin widens. “Is that allowed?”

Aaron steps forward, close enough for you to smell the clean spice of his cologne. “It is if you want the part.”

You don’t hesitate. “Then come and take it.”

He moves in a second: no rush, all control. One big, warm hand closing around your throat, not tight, but firm enough to tilt your head back and make you shiver.

His thumb strokes your jaw as he leans in, voice a low rumble in your ear. “I’ve seen a hundred girls try to impress me,” he murmurs. “You think you’re different?”

You slide a hand down his chest, feeling hard muscle beneath the fabric, nails teasing the edge of his belt. “I don’t need to think it, Hotchner. You’re the one who stopped the shoot.”

His eyes darken, and then he’s kissing you — slow, possessive, claiming you like he has every right. You moan into his mouth, arching into him, the heat between your legs turning molten. His hand palms your breast, thumb flicking your nipple through the lace, squeezing just hard enough to make you gasp.

“On your knees,” he orders.

You obey with a smirk, sinking down in front of him, knees hitting the cool floor. He unbuckles his belt, pops the button, and unzips — and Jesus fucking Christ, it’s even better than you pictured.

He’s thick. Long. Smooth skin, clean-shaven everywhere, not a hint of hair on his groin. The base heavy, veins running up the shaft, the head flushed dark and already leaking.

You wrap a hand around him, stroking slow, feeling the weight and heat of it. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” you murmur, leaning in to press a kiss to the head, tongue flicking out to taste the bead of precum. He groans, hand fisting in your hair.

You start slow. Your lips wrapping around the tip, tongue swirling, taking him in inch by inch. His cock stretches your lips, thick and hot, and the way he grunts low in his throat when you gag a little around him makes you even wetter.

You hollow your cheeks, hand stroking what your mouth can’t reach, and he starts moving, hips thrusting slow and controlled, like he’s savoring it.

“Look at you,” he rasps, voice tight. “Taking me so fucking good.”

You hum around him, feeling him twitch against your tongue. You pull off with a wet pop, stroking him, then ducking lower to suck one of his balls into your mouth.

Clean-shaven, smooth, heavy against your tongue as you swirl and suck, hand still working his shaft. He curses under his breath, a string of filthy praise you’re too drunk on him to fully catch.

“Fuck, baby… shit, you’re gonna make me cum..”

He tries to pull back, mumbling something about protection, but you lock eyes with him, nails digging into his hips. “Uh-uh,” you smirk, voice rough. “You finish in my mouth.”

And he does. Hard.

His hips jerk, cock throbbing against your tongue as he spills down your throat, thick, hot spurts you swallow greedily. You don’t stop, don’t pull away, sucking through it, milking every drop until he’s groaning, fingers tight in your hair.

When he finally lets you go, you lick your lips, panting a little, a satisfied, smug smile on your face.

“Welcome to the team,” he breathes.

And the camera’s still rolling.

Your throat’s still warm, tasting of him when you hear the director’s voice cut through the haze of heavy breathing and the low hum of the camera.

“Don’t stop now,” he says, like he’s reminding you both this is still a job, even though neither of you are acting anymore. “We’re still rolling. Get her up on the couch, Hotchner. Let’s see what else she can take.”

You flick your gaze up at Aaron and hummed. This was just Hotchner, the studio’s biggest name, the one whose scenes you used to watch late at night with your hand between your thighs. And now you’ve got his cum in your mouth and his hand still tangled in your hair.

He smirks down at you, that sharp, cocky glint in his eyes now fully unleashed, no buttoned-up pretense. He jerks his chin toward the couch. “Up. Ass out.”

You rise, swaying your hips as you go, tugging the scrap of lace lingerie down your legs and tossing it aside without a second thought. You hear the cameraman mutter a curse behind the lens when you bend over, bracing your hands on the back of the couch, presenting yourself without shame. Your pussy’s soaked, lips slick and swollen, glistening in the studio lights. You know exactly how you look — cock-drunk and ready for more — and you fucking love it.

Aaron’s hands are on you in seconds, one spreading your ass while the other palms your lower back, pressing you down. “Look at this pussy,” he murmurs like it’s a fucking masterpiece, running his fingers through your folds, gathering slick and smearing it over your clit. You moan, arching into his touch.

“Camera’s on you, sweetheart,” he says, voice rough now. “Show ’em how much you want it.”

You bite your lip, glancing over your shoulder. “I’m fucking ready, Hotchner. You gonna stretch me out or waste time talking?”

That earns you a sharp slap to your ass — loud and stinging, making you gasp. He lines himself up, cock thick and heavy against your entrance, nudging at your hole.

He pauses, rubbing the head through your slick, teasing, before pushing in slow. God, the stretch burns in the best way, your walls fluttering around him as he sinks in inch by inch.

“Shit,” he grits out, both hands gripping your hips now. “Tight little rookie cunt.”

You can barely breathe, already so full, the pressure perfect, making your thighs tremble. “F-fuck… yeah, fill me up.”

He bottoms out with one sharp thrust, your body jerking against the couch, a cry ripping from your throat. You hear the cameraman groan again, muttering, “Holy fuck,” like he can’t believe the show happening in front of him.

Aaron wastes no time, pulling back and slamming in again, hard enough to knock the breath out of you. His pace is brutal, hips snapping against your ass, balls slapping your clit with every thrust. You’re already a mess, moaning shamelessly, one hand squeezing your tit while the other braces against the couch.

“You like that?” he growls, leaning over you, his hand sneaking around to palm your breast, thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple.

“Y-yeah,” you whimper, clenching around him. “F-fuck, you feel so good, Aaron...”

He slaps your tit, making you cry out again, pace only getting rougher. His cock’s thick and perfect, rubbing that spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your vision blur. You don’t care that the camera’s on you. You don’t care that it’s your first tape. You just want more. You want to cum on him, around him, for him.

And judging by the way he’s panting, low curses spilling from his lips, he’s right there with you.

“You gonna cum on this cock, rookie?” he snarls in your ear, teeth scraping your neck. “Gonna soak me for the whole fucking room?”

“Yes— fuck, yes! Right there, don’t stop..”

You feel it hit, that wave crashing over you, thighs shaking, pussy clenching around him so tight he groans, slamming in to the hilt and staying there. You sob through it, body trembling, nails digging into the couch as you cum harder than you’ve ever managed alone.

And he’s still fucking going, chasing his own finish, one hand yanking your head back so he can kiss you filthy and deep while his cock pounds your oversensitive pussy.

“I’m close,” he mutters, pulling out slightly, like he means to pull away.

But you grab his wrist, glaring up at him. “Don’t you fucking pull out.”

His eyes flare, and then he’s groaning, cock twitching deep inside you as he spills himself, thick and hot, painting your walls. You feel every pulse, every filthy spurt of him inside you. It’s obscene and perfect.

When he finally pulls out, it’s a slow drag, his cock shiny with your slick and his cum. He leans back, watching it drip out of you, still panting.

“Shit,” the director says again. “Cut. That’s the opener right there.”

You glance back at Hotchner with a satisfied grin, licking your lips. “Told you I was gonna be the best you’ve ever had.”

And judging by the way he’s still staring at you, cock twitching even now, you fucking were.

Neither of you even pretend to care when the director claps his hands and starts mumbling about packing up. The cameraman’s already fumbling with the tripod, and some poor production assistant is nervously gathering up stray pieces of your lingerie off the floor like it’s hazardous material.

But you ? You’re still dripping, thighs sticky and trembling, and Aaron’s still half-hard, cock twitching like it’s got unfinished business.

You crawl onto his lap, straddling him right there on the couch while the crew starts shuffling toward the door. “Leaving so soon, boys?” you purr, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “The show’s not over.”

Aaron grins, this lazy, cocky thing, settling his big hands on your ass as you grind against him, already feeling him harden under you again. “They can go,” he mutters, voice low and rough, “but you’re not going anywhere.”

“Good,” you whisper, leaning in, your lips brushing his ear. “I’m not done with you yet, Aaron.”

His cock twitches at that — you feel it — because no one calls him that. Not in this place. To them, he’s Hotch. Untouchable. Stoic. The top cock in the room. But you? You’ve earned it. And he fucking loves it.

One of the crew stifles a laugh when you shove Aaron’s shoulders back against the couch, straddling his hips and guiding his slick cock back inside you with a slow, filthy slide. You both groan in unison, your nails digging into his chest.

“Jesus, look at her go,” the cameraman mutters, halfway to the door, but no one’s stopping you.

You ride him slow at first, teasing, rolling your hips with purpose, feeling every inch stretch you again, still sensitive but too greedy to stop. His hands find your tits, squeezing, thumbs brushing your nipples until they’re tight and aching. Then he slaps them — sharp, stinging — making you gasp and clench around him.

“Fuck, you love that,” he growls, one hand cupping the back of your neck to drag your mouth down to his. He kisses you filthy, all teeth and tongue, while you start bouncing harder, the wet, obscene slap of your hips meeting his filling the room louder than the shuffle of crew leaving.

“Yeah, I love it,” you pant, breaking the kiss, dragging his face to your chest. “Now suck ’em.”

And he does — mouth hot and hungry, lips closing around a nipple as his tongue flicks and sucks, his teeth scraping just enough to send heat pooling low in your stomach again. His cock’s hitting deep, thick and perfect, and you ride him faster, chasing it, your fingers in his hair.

“Fuck, Aaron, I’m gonna cum.” you whimper, and his hands clamp down on your hips, forcing you to grind deeper, slower.

“Cum on my cock, baby,” he murmurs against your skin. “I wanna feel you soak me again.”

You break with a cry, pussy clenching tight, thighs trembling as the orgasm rips through you, your whole body arching against him. The hot rush of it makes him groan, fucking up into you as you ride it out, your slick making a filthy mess of both of you.

But he doesn’t cum. Not yet.

You feel him slow, then ease you off his cock, glistening and rock hard, still flushed dark with need. His eyes meet yours — feral, smug, desperate — and he jerks his chin toward your chest.

“On your knees. Wanna fuck those tits.”

You bite your lip, grinning as you slide down, pressing your breasts together around his cock. He groans at the sight, both hands in your hair as you work them around him, the slick of your spit and your own cum making it easy.

His cock slides between them, the head smearing precum against your throat as you squeeze tight, teasing him with your tongue when he thrusts.

“God, you look so fucking good like this,” he grits out, hips snapping, balls slapping against the underside of your tits.

The last few crew members are pretending to leave, pretending not to watch from the doorframe.

“Oh my god,” one of them mutters under his breath. “Fucking legend.”

You smirk up at Aaron. “Bet they don’t get this show every day, do they, Aaron?”

His groan’s guttural, eyes locked on yours, and you feel the twitch just before it happens — thick, hot ropes spilling across your tits, your throat, your chin, streaking your face as you open your mouth and let him paint your tongue too. You swallow what you catch, licking your lips as he shudders through it.

“Fucking hell,” he rasps, dropping his head back.

You swipe a finger through the mess on your chest and suck it clean, smirking as the room finally empties out.

“Guess I passed the audition, huh?”

Aaron grins, still breathless. “You’re hired.”

The door finally clicks shut. No director barking orders, no cameraman pretending not to be hard behind the lens, no half-interested PA gathering your lingerie like it’s some casualty of war. Just you and Aaron, both wrecked, both grinning like you got away with something you shouldn’t have.

He’s still sprawled on the couch, chest rising and falling, face flushed, cock softening against his thigh, streaks of his own cum drying on your tits and chin. And for a second, you just watch him — watch how good he looks like this. Stripped down, unguarded, all that controlled, stoic porn king bullshit melted away. It makes you want to climb him all over again.

But you don’t. Not yet.

Instead, you grab the pack of wipes from the side table, the one no one ever remembers until the end, and crouch down between his legs. His eyes crack open when he feels the cool wipe against his skin, cleaning him up with soft, slow strokes. You’re gentle about it, deliberately so, watching the way his lashes flutter when you cup his balls one last time with a clean swipe, then drag the cloth up the soft curve of his cock.

“Mm,” he murmurs, voice gone scratchy. “You’re good at that too.”

You flash him a grin. “Full-service package, Hotchner.”

His lips twitch. “Aaron,” he corrects, quietly, like it’s just for you.

You linger there for a second, wiping down his stomach, the mess on his thighs, then tossing the used wipe onto the side table. You crawl up into his lap, settling over him again, your bare skin sticky against his but neither of you caring.

“C’mere,” you murmur, cupping his face in your hands. You kiss him soft this time — no teeth, no tongue, just a warm press of lips. He hums against your mouth, one hand sliding up your back, fingers threading into your hair.

You pull back just enough to look at him, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “You okay?”

He huffs a little laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re asking me? After that?”

You grin. “Gotta take care of my scene partner.”

That gets you another kiss, slower this time, and when you finally climb off him, you grab a fresh wipe for yourself, cleaning off your chest and face. You catch him watching you, his eyes dark but soft, and you toss a towel at him with a smirk.

“Catch.”

He chuckles, dragging it over his face, then through his hair. It leaves him looking rumpled and boyish, which is fucking dangerous considering how wrecked your pussy still is.

You grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge and hand it to him before taking one for yourself, unscrewing the cap and leaning against the arm of the couch, one knee bent up.

“You wanna stay awhile?” you ask casually, pretending not to care, even though you do. “We can order shit food, watch bad movies. Or you can go, y’know, be a brooding porn god somewhere else.”

He raises a brow, taking a long drink before setting the bottle down.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

You smirk. “Didn’t think so.”

[colourfulbisexualities]

FROSTBITE ; aaron hotchner x female medical examiner

aaron hotchner taglist.

you came prepared for the cold. hotch, as usual, did not. watching him try to out-stubborn the weather is almost amusing, until you catch the tell-tale signs of his inevitable loss. and since you refuse to let sheer fbi stubbornness be the cause of his demise, you take matters (and your scarf) into your own hands.

"YOUR IDEA of small talk is discussing lividity. Mine is asking if you’ve ever heard of a scarf."

The crime scene is a frozen hellscape, and you? You are rapidly approaching the limits of your patience.

The snow crunches beneath your boots as you step carefully over the iced-over pavement, adjusting the lapels of your very expensive black coat, which, unlike a certain someone’s choice of outerwear, actually serves a functional purpose.

The wind is relentless, cutting through the gaps between buildings like a scalpel, and despite the layers you smartly put on: your cobalt-blue sweater snug beneath your coat, the rich red of your gloves a bold contrast against the whiteout conditions—it’s still miserable.

And yet, Aaron Hotchner stands beside you looking like he just walked out of an FBI-themed catalogue, his usual dark suit and sad excuse for a windbreaker doing absolutely nothing to protect him from the elements.

You glance over at him, squinting. Does this man have something against being warm?

"Not a fan of coats, Agent?" you ask, tucking your hands deeper into your pockets, fingers curled inside the soft lining of your gloves.

He doesn’t even look at you.

"Not a fan of wasting time," he replies, flipping open a case file that the wind immediately tries to rip from his fingers.

You watch as he barely manages to hold onto it, and if you weren’t so distracted by the absolute absurdity of his life choices, you’d have the decency to be impressed. Instead, you roll your eyes so hard you practically pull a muscle.

"Oh, I see," you say, nodding sagely. "Dying of exposure is fine, but god forbid you take an extra five seconds to put on a real jacket. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you have needs like a normal human being."

Nothing. No reaction, no flicker of emotion. Just Hotch being Hotch, the immovable object of the BAU.

But then you notice it.

It’s small, barely noticeable unless you’re paying attention. But you are. Because even though Aaron Hotchner likes to pretend he’s made of solid granite and pure spite, his body betrays him. His grip on the file is too tight, his fingers just a little too stiff.

There’s a subtle, controlled exhale that fogs the air in front of him, his breath quicker than it should be. And then, the real kicker? His shoulders tense as a tiny, almost imperceptible shiver rolls through him.

Oh.

Oh, this is pathetic.

"Oh my god," you breathe, eyes widening. "You’re actually cold, aren’t you?"

Hotch doesn’t react at first, which is classic avoidance, but you are nothing if not persistent. You tilt your head, studying him like a specimen under a microscope, and hum thoughtfully.

"You poor thing," you mock, reaching up to press a gloved hand to your chest in faux sympathy. "Here I was, thinking you just had an irrational hatred for comfortable outerwear, but no—you're suffering. You’re out here trying to will yourself into thermal regulation like some kind of FBI-trained monk."

Hotch finally exhales sharply, which you think is supposed to be a sigh of exasperation, but you hear the thinly veiled amusement under it.

"I’m fine," he mutters, flipping another page in his file.

"Oh, sure. You look fine," you deadpan. "Your ears aren’t bright red. Your fingers aren’t seconds away from frostbite. And I definitely didn’t just see you shiver like a chihuahua in a blizzard."

He doesn’t dignify that with a response, which, frankly, is a win for you.

But still, this is ridiculous. He’s clearly freezing, but he’d rather suffer in silence than admit that maybe, just maybe, wearing the bare minimum amount of clothing in below-freezing temperatures is a bad idea.

And so, you make a decision.

With a dramatic sigh that is entirely for show, you unwind the thick, red cashmere scarf from around your neck. Before Hotch can react, you step forward and loop it around his neck instead, wrapping it snugly like you’re dressing a particularly stubborn mannequin.

He stiffens like you just put a live snake on him.

"What are you doing?"

"Saving your life," you reply, tugging the scarf into place with a firm yank.

His brows furrow, lips parting slightly, like he’s about to launch into a protest about how he doesn’t need it or he’s perfectly fine, thank you very much. But you’re not in the mood to listen to any of his nonsense, so you shut it down before it starts.

"Ah-ah," you cut him off, holding up a finger. "This is not up for debate. You will wear this scarf, and you will keep it on. Otherwise, I will make a scene. A big one. I’ll tell the whole team you collapsed from hypothermia. I’ll dramatically throw myself over your body, wailing about how I begged you to wear a coat, but you refused. I’ll make Spencer analyse your case history and find evidence of a self-destructive martyr complex."

Hotch blinks at you. Then exhales sharply. It’s almost a laugh.

"Charming," he mutters, adjusting the scarf like he’s still deciding whether or not he’s actually going to wear it.

You smirk, stepping back, fully satisfied with yourself. "So I’ve been told."

And just as you turn on your heel, walking toward the body, you glance back one last time—just in time to see Aaron Hotchner not taking the scarf off.

You allow yourself one last victorious glance at Hotch, watching as he shifts uncomfortably in the scarf you so graciously provided. He doesn’t take it off. Probably because he knows you’ll make good on your threat, but the way he adjusts it, fingers tugging at the cashmere like it’s some kind of foreign object, is downright adorable.

You turn back toward the body, your smirk lingering as you crouch down. The scene itself is grisly, the poor bastard half-buried in the snow, his lips frozen in something that’s definitely not a smile. Rigor’s already set in, his limbs stiff as icicles, but you can tell from a single glance that he wasn’t dumped here that long ago.

The lividity is still settling. You could probably put on your professional hat and start rattling off time-of-death estimates, but honestly? You’re more interested in seeing how long Hotch lasts before he starts pretending that scarf was his idea.

"Alright, Frosty," you mutter to the corpse, tugging your gloves tighter. "Let’s see what you’ve got for me."

Behind you, Hotch sighs. "Must you?"

"Absolutely," you say without hesitation.

You glance up at him, and God, he looks miserable. Not because of the body—that’s just another day in the BAU—but because the wind has officially escalated to what you’d describe as “actively attempting murder.” His hair, normally so neatly combed, has gone slightly tousled from the elements.

The tip of his nose is pink with cold, and despite the scarf (which he is still wearing, thank you very much), his jaw is set so tight that you can practically hear the internal monologue scolding him for not wearing something warmer.

You hum thoughtfully, tilting your head. "You know," you start, "if you ever get tired of the FBI thing, you could probably start a lucrative career in cryogenics. Since you seem so dedicated to freezing yourself for no reason."

He exhales through his nose. "Are you planning to examine the body or just continue providing commentary?"

"Oh, I can multitask," you reply, reaching into your kit. "I’m very talented that way. But if you’re cold—" you intentionally emphasize the word, watching his eyebrow twitch, "—you could always wait in the car like a responsible adult who values their own survival."

Hotch crosses his arms. "I’m not cold."

You snort. "Uh-huh. Sure. And I suppose your ears just naturally turn that color when you’re ‘not cold’?"

He doesn’t answer, which is a shame, because you were hoping for something more creative than sheer stubborn silence.

Sighing, you turn back to the body, lifting one of the victim’s hands with delicate care. The fingertips are pale, stiff from the cold, but not enough to throw off your estimate. "He’s been here maybe ten, twelve hours max," you murmur, examining the nails. There’s debris under them: dirt, a little bit of fabric. Defensive wounds up the arms. "Fought back. Not hard enough, though."

Hotch steps closer, the warmth of his presence—what little there is—cutting through the wind. "You’re sure?"

"I always am," you reply, glancing up at him. "Though I’m sure you’ll want an official report before you trust me. Because, you know, that whole ‘cold, hard facts’ thing." You pause, then grin. "Speaking of cold and hard... how’s your body temperature doing, Aaron? Holding steady? Need another layer?"

He almost glares at you, but you catch it. The way his jaw tenses, the way his fingers flex like he’s resisting the urge to adjust the scarf again.

You knew it.

"I’m fine," he says, but it’s so much less convincing this time.

"Mmm," you hum, "if you say so."

You go back to work, scanning the rest of the victim’s body, making mental notes, piecing together the story. But your amusement lingers, bubbling beneath the surface, because as much as Hotch wants to pretend this is just another case, you know better.

Because Hotch may be a lot of things; stoic, terrifyingly competent, a walking definition of emotionally unavailable but right now?

Right now, he’s standing in the middle of a frozen crime scene, wearing your scarf.

You bend down to examine the victim’s shoes, reaching under your coat to adjust something tucked against your ribs, something small, warm and sneaky.

You feel a faint grin tug at your lips as you stand up, turning toward Hotch with an exaggerated sigh. “Well, since you’re so damn determined to prove you’re fine, I guess I’ll have to take care of this myself."

Hotch barely glances at you before looking back to the scene, probably convinced you’re just about to make some snarky remark.

Instead, you hand him the small hot water bottle you’d been keeping hidden beneath your layers. It’s snug and warm in your palm, the relief of it a welcome contrast to the biting cold of the air. The bottle is simple, wrapped in a soft, worn fabric, but the gesture—well, that’s intentional.

You’re not impressed with him.

"Here," you say, practically thrusting it into his hands. "Take it before I lose all sympathy and leave you to your miserable, stubborn self."

He stares at the hot water bottle for a moment, clearly taken aback. His eyebrows furrow, and his mouth presses into that familiar line of 'I don’t need anything'. But you’re already stepping back, giving him no time to debate.

"Look," you add, not hiding the smirk in your voice, "I’m not saying you’ll freeze to death out here. But if you keep standing like a statue, I will be forced to call the team in, and I’m not about to explain to them why you’ve turned into a human popsicle."

You walk off toward the victim’s body again, your breath still curling in the cold air, not caring whether Hotch takes the bottle or not.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him holding it—gripping it tightly like it’s an anchor in a storm.

The drive back to the office is silent at first, save for the hum of the engine and the sound of the heater blasting on full. The interior of the car is a blessed relief from the freezing temperatures outside, the warmth wrapping around you like a heavy blanket.

You feel the heat slowly seep into your skin, unwinding muscles that had been tense from the cold. You watch the snow falling in soft, lacy patterns through the window, your mind flickering between thoughts of the case and what the hell just happened back there with Hotch.

He’s beside you, leaning back against his seat, the scarf still draped around his neck, though now, it's just comfortable. No longer a point of stubborn defiance, no longer a symbol of his refusal to acknowledge anything personal.

You glance over at him, just a quick look, just to see if he’s still silently brooding like he always does. But?

He’s not.

His eyes are closed, head tilted back just slightly, lips parted like he’s actually relaxed. And for a second, you think you might’ve imagined the whole scene. But then the car jerks over a bump, and the real Hotch is there: stiff, controlled, and wearing a somewhat reluctant, subtle smile that you can tell he's trying to keep hidden.

You blink. No way.

You give him another quick glance, and this time, he’s aware of it, turning his head toward you with that deadpan stare of his. But there’s a flicker in his eyes—recognition, like he knows you caught him slipping just a little.

Caught in the act, and he doesn’t like it.

You bite back a grin, turning your focus back to the road.

Finally, after what feels like ages, Hotch clears his throat.

"Thanks."

It’s quiet, and you’re not sure you heard him right, so you just pretend you didn’t, even though you definitely did.

"What?" You glance at him, feigning confusion.

"For the scarf. And the... water bottle."

You fight the smirk threatening to curl your lips.

"You’re welcome," you say, tone sweet as sugar, because who are you to deny a man a little warmth after all the stubbornness he just had to display?

His hand briefly reaches up to touch the scarf, and then he drops it.

"I suppose it was... necessary," he adds, his voice soft, like he’s admitting some sort of defeat. You can almost feel him trying to keep his pride intact, but you can also feel the warmth from the heating system wrapping around both of you.

You roll your eyes. "No suppositions about it. You were shaking like a leaf, Hotch. Anyone with a pulse could tell you needed a little extra help."

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, noticing the faintest blush creeping up his neck. You know damn well it’s not because of the heat.

He’s quiet for a moment, and you can almost see him calculating whether or not to keep arguing his point. But, in the end, he just sighs.

"You really know how to make a man feel inadequate."

Now you can’t help but smirk, finally letting out a low laugh.

"You didn’t need me to make you feel that way. You’re doing just fine on your own."

Hotch doesn’t respond immediately, and for a moment, you’re not sure if he’s going to hold onto that last thread of serious, unflappable Agent Hotchner. But then you hear it: the faintest hint of a chuckle in his throat. It’s so brief, so soft, but it’s there.

It feels like a win.

"I’ll keep that in mind," he says, the corners of his mouth twitching.

You glance at him again, trying and failing, to hide your grin.

"Good."

You settle back into the seat, relaxing as the car cruises through the quiet streets, the world outside a blur of snow and icy roads. The heater does its job, wrapping you both in warmth, and despite the quiet, there’s a change between you two.

It’s subtle, something you both know, but neither of you will ever admit out loud. The tension from earlier is gone, replaced by something else—a kind of... understanding.

You’re not sure what exactly this thing is between you and Hotch, but for now? For now, you’ll let him keep pretending it’s just another day at the office. You’ll let him think he’s won.

But in your head? You know the truth.

[colourfulbisexualities]

SUGAR AND SPICE ; aaron hotchner x female sugar baby reader

you’ve always had expensive tastes, and aaron hotchner has always been more than willing to indulge you, but only if you earn it. tonight, teasing him all day has its consequences, and you find yourself completely at his mercy, lost in the way he touches, fills, and ruins you.

Aaron has always been a man of control, someone who demands respect the moment he walks into a room. He’s powerful, untouchable, except when it comes to you. With you, he softens, in his own way. Maybe that’s why he spoils you the way he does, draping you in the finest things money can buy.

It started as an arrangement: your dad’s best friend offering to take care of you after watching you struggle through college, watching you date boys who didn’t deserve you. It didn’t take long for things to shift, for those lingering looks to turn into stolen touches, for him to claim you as his in every way that mattered.

Now, you live for these moments. The nights where he calls you to his penthouse after a long day, when he lets you crawl into his lap and whine about how much you missed him. You’ve been teasing him all day, sending him photos of you in nothing but the lace lingerie he bought you last week.

His favourite set: deep red, barely-there lace that barely covers anything at all. And from the moment you walked in tonight, you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his dark eyes raked over you like he was barely holding himself back.

He sits on the edge of the bed now, legs spread, watching you with that unreadable expression, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up. Between his fingers, he twirls the delicate bracelet you’ve been eyeing for weeks—white gold, expensive, exactly your taste.

"You want it, don’t you?" His voice is smooth, knowing. He already has his answer.

You nod, biting your lip, playing innocent, but you both know the truth. You’re soaked, thighs pressed together, your body already reacting to just the way he looks at you. He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

"And what do we say when we want something, sweetheart?"

You shift closer, crawling onto the bed, your hands resting on his thighs as you blink up at him. You know exactly how he likes it when you beg.

"Please, Daddy." Your voice is breathy, desperate.

Aaron hums in approval, letting his fingers trail along your jaw before tilting your chin up. His touch is firm, commanding, forcing your gaze to stay on his.

"That’s my good girl," he murmurs. "Then earn it."

He leans back slightly, unbuckling his belt with slow, deliberate movements, like he wants to make you suffer for teasing him all day. The leather slides through the loops with a sharp, sinful sound that makes your stomach clench. When he pops the button of his slacks, the outline of his cock is thick and heavy against his boxer briefs, already hard for you.

Your mouth waters at the sight of him, at the way his cock strains against the fabric of his boxer briefs. Thick, heavy, already hard for you. You can see the outline of him clearly: the broad, flushed head, the way his length twitches slightly when you reach for him.

Aaron watches you with dark, expectant eyes, his lips pressed together in that firm, unreadable expression, but you know better. You know he’s holding back, waiting to see just how desperate you are.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his slacks, dragging them down his thighs, then do the same with his boxers, your nails grazing against his skin just to tease him. And fuck he’s gorgeous.

His cock springs free, long and thick, the tip already glistening with precum. The veins along his shaft are prominent, pulsing slightly as he exhales a slow breath. He’s so big, so perfect, and you shudder at the thought of having him in your mouth, your throat.

"Open," he commands, his voice low, rough.

You obey instantly, parting your lips as you lower yourself between his spread legs. Your tongue darts out, dragging along the length of his cock, slow and teasing. You feel him tense under your hands, his thighs flexing beneath your palms as you kitten-lick the head, swirling your tongue around the slit, tasting the saltiness of his precum.

"You like teasing, don’t you?" His voice is strained, but still in control.

You hum around him, the vibrations making him hiss through his teeth. But before he can grab your hair and force you to take him deeper, you do it on your own—sinking down, inch by inch, until he’s pressing against the back of your throat.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, his head falling back for just a moment before he looks down at you again, watching your lips stretch around him.

You bob your head slowly, setting a steady pace, your tongue pressed flat against the underside of his cock. Your hand wraps around the base, stroking what you can’t take in, your spit making it messy, filthy. You know he likes it this way - loves when you make a mess of him, loves when you let your mascara smudge as you take him even deeper, letting him feel the tight squeeze of your throat.

His fingers tangle in your hair, guiding you, controlling you the way he always does. His grip tightens when you hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, your nails digging into his thighs as he starts thrusting up into your mouth. His pace quickens, his breathing ragged, his control slipping.

"You’re so fucking good at this, sweetheart," he groans, his hips jerking slightly. "Always so eager for my cock, aren’t you?"

You moan around him, and that’s what sends him over the edge. His grip tightens, his body going rigid as he comes with a deep, guttural groan. Hot, thick spurts of cum coat your tongue, and you swallow it down greedily, not wasting a drop.

Aaron watches you with hooded eyes as you pull off of him, licking the corner of your lips. You bat your lashes up at him, already knowing what he’s going to say before the words even leave his mouth.

"Good girl," he praises, dragging his thumb along your jaw before tilting your chin up. "Now, let’s see if you’ve earned that bracelet."

You giggle, licking the last traces of him off your lips as you push at his chest, making him fall back against the mattress. Aaron lets you, watching you with that dark, hooded gaze, like he’s daring you to take what you want.

His tie is still loose, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to expose the firm muscles of his chest. He looks wrecked but still so in control, still the powerful man who always has you melting in his hands. But right now, you want to be the one in charge.

Crawling on top of him, you straddle his waist, your hands smoothing over his chest as you press soft kisses along his neck. You grind against him slowly, deliberately, letting the soaked lace of your panties drag along his cock. He groans at the feeling, his hands immediately gripping your hips, fingers digging into your skin.

"Fuck, baby," he murmurs, his voice rough, strained. "Look at you, making a mess on me already."

You whimper, rolling your hips again, the friction sending shivers down your spine. He’s still so hard, thick and heavy beneath you, and you need him. You need him stretching you open, filling you up the way only he can.

"Daddy, I want you," you whisper against his jaw, biting down just enough to make him exhale sharply. "I need you inside me."

His grip tightens, his fingers pressing bruises into your skin. "Then take me, sweetheart. Show me how much you want it."

Heart pounding, you sit up, reaching between your bodies to slide your panties to the side. You’re soaked, your slick coating the insides of your thighs, dripping onto his cock as you line him up with your entrance. He twitches against you, his hands moving to spread you open, his thumbs pressing into your hips as he watches, waiting.

You sink down slowly, your mouth falling open at the stretch, at the way he fills you so perfectly, splitting you open inch by inch. He’s so thick, so deep, and the burn only makes it better. Your walls flutter around him as you take him to the hilt, fully seated on his cock, your thighs shaking as you adjust to the overwhelming fullness.

"Jesus, baby," he groans, his head tilting back against the pillows, his jaw tight. "So fucking tight. Always so tight for me."

You whimper, rolling your hips, grinding against him, needing more. The pressure is intoxicating, the way his cock presses against that perfect spot inside you, making you clench around him. His hands move up, palming your tits through the lace of your bra before tugging at the cups, exposing your nipples to the cool air.

"Ride me, sweetheart," he commands, voice thick with lust. "Make yourself come on my cock."

You don’t need to be told twice. Bracing yourself against his chest, you lift your hips, dragging yourself up before sinking back down, setting a slow, torturous rhythm. His cock drags along your walls, hitting all the right spots, making you gasp. The friction is perfect, the way he fills you so deep making your toes curl.

"Fuck, Daddy," you moan, tossing your head back, your nails digging into his chest.

Aaron growls, gripping your hips, guiding you as you ride him. His own hips start to move, thrusting up into you, meeting every roll of your body with deep, punishing strokes.

The sound of skin slapping fills the room, mixed with your breathy moans and his rough groans. His eyes are locked onto you, watching the way you take him, the way your tits bounce with every movement.

"Look at you," he rasps, thrusting up harder, making you cry out. "Fucking yourself on my cock like a desperate little slut. You love this, don’t you?"

You nod frantically, barely able to form words, too lost in the pleasure, the way he stretches you so perfectly, the way the head of his cock kisses your cervix with every deep thrust. The coil in your stomach tightens, pleasure coiling through you like fire, your thighs trembling as you chase your release.

"Daddy, I’m gonnafuck, I’m gonna come," you sob, grinding down, desperate for more.

"Come for me, baby," he growls, his grip tightening as he fucks up into you even harder. "Show Daddy how good you feel."

With a broken cry, you shatter, your orgasm ripping through you in waves so intense that your vision blurs. Your walls clench around him, pulsing, milking his cock as you tremble in his arms. The pleasure is overwhelming, consuming, leaving you breathless.

Aaron groans, his control snapping as he grips your hips and slams you down onto him one last time. His cock throbs inside you, and then he’s coming, thick ropes of cum spilling deep inside you, filling you up. He curses under his breath, his fingers bruising your skin as he holds you there, buried to the hilt, letting you feel every pulse of his release.

Your body is still trembling, thighs slick with both of your releases, but Aaron isn’t done with you yet. You can feel it in the way he grips your hips, in the way his cock still twitches inside you, still hard, still needy.

"You think we’re finished, baby?" His voice is low, rough, dripping with amusement. "That pretty little cunt of yours is still squeezing me."

A whimper escapes your lips as he flips you onto your stomach, his strong hands pressing you into the mattress, pinning you down beneath him. He’s bigger, stronger, completely in control, and fuck, you love it.

"On your knees. Ass up."

You obey without hesitation, arching your back as you push yourself onto all fours. Your breath hitches as he spreads you open, his thumbs pressing into the curve of your ass, exposing your messy, swollen pussy still dripping with his cum.

"Look at this," he groans, rubbing his cock along your slit, smearing his release over your folds. "So fucking wet. So full of me."

You whimper, pushing back against him, desperate for more. But he doesn’t give you what you want right away. Instead, his palm suddenly cracks against your ass, the sharp sting making you gasp.

"Daddy!" you yelp, jolting forward, but his grip is unforgiving, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

"That’s for being a needy little tease all day," he growls, spanking you again, harder this time. Your skin burns, the pain melting into pleasure, making your walls flutter around nothing. "You think you can send me those pictures and not pay for it?"

"I—I wanted your attention," you admit breathlessly, pressing your face into the pillows, rocking your hips back in silent desperation.

Aaron chuckles darkly. "Oh, sweetheart, you have my fucking attention."

Without warning, he thrusts into you in one deep, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt. A broken moan rips from your throat as he stretches you open all over again, the fullness almost too much after already being fucked senseless. He doesn’t give you time to adjust—he just starts pounding into you, ruthless and unrelenting.

The sound of skin slapping fills the room, mixed with your muffled moans and his ragged breathing. His cock is so deep, dragging against your walls with every brutal thrust, hitting your cervix in a way that’s both painful and delicious. You’re shaking, your fingers gripping the sheets as he fucks you like he owns you. Because he does.

"Daddy—fuck, Daddy!" you sob, your voice high-pitched and desperate.

Aaron growls at the sound, his hand snaking up to your mouth, two fingers pressing against your lips. "Open."

You obey instantly, parting your lips, letting him shove his fingers into your mouth, gagging you slightly. Your moans turn into muffled whimpers as he presses down on your tongue, making you drool around him.

"So fucking noisy," he mutters, tightening his grip on your jaw. "All you ever do is beg for my cock, isn’t that right?"

You nod frantically, eyes rolling back as he fucks into you even harder, his pace brutal, unforgiving. The pressure is unbearable, overwhelming, that coil in your stomach twisting tighter and tighter. Every thrust makes your clit drag against the sheets, the friction making it even more intense.

Aaron pulls his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop, then grips the back of your neck, forcing your face down into the mattress. "Come for me," he growls. "Make a mess all over my cock."

You don’t stand a chance. The orgasm crashes into you with devastating force, your entire body locking up as you clench around him, convulsing with pleasure so intense it borders on painful. You sob his name, your cries muffled by the sheets, your thighs shaking violently as you gush around him.

"Fuck, that’s it," Aaron groans, his grip on your hips turning bruising as he slams into you one last time. His cock throbs deep inside you before he spills inside you again, filling you to the brim with his hot, sticky release. He doesn’t pull out right away, just grinds his hips against you, letting you feel every last drop, making sure it stays inside.

For a long moment, all you can hear is the sound of your ragged breathing, the both of you completely wrecked. Then, Aaron leans down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the back of your shoulder before murmuring against your skin, "You’ve definitely earned that bracelet, sweetheart."

[colourfulbisexualities]

Morgue, Murder, & Hotch ; aaron hotchner x female medical examiner

you’ve made it your personal mission to test the ever-composed aaron hotchner, and what better place to do it than a morgue? between sharp wit, a killer wardrobe, and just the right amount of shameless flirting, you’re inching closer to cracking that stoic exterior. but the thing about pushing limits? eventually, someone pushes back.

"DO YOU have to be this way?" Hotch asks, voice as dry as the morgue air.

The fluorescent lights hum softly above, casting their sterile glow over cold steel and colder flesh. The scent of antiseptic lingers, sharp and clinical, clashing with the warmth of your perfume: a deep, spiced floral that feels almost out of place in a room full of death.

You barely glance up from the body as you twirl a scalpel between your fingers, the silver glint catching the light before you finally set it down with a soft clink. Your rings—silver, gold, a pop of emerald here, a deep garnet there—glow against the stark white of your gloves. It’s a striking contrast, just like the rest of you: deep violet blazer, cinched at the waist, draped over a silk blouse streaked with moody blues and sharp oranges.

High-waisted trousers, perfectly tailored, hug your frame just right, while your black Louboutins tap against the tile in slow, deliberate rhythm. Even your earrings, delicate gold skulls, dangling just below your jaw, fit the aesthetic.

Death may be your job, but you refuse to look lifeless doing it.

Hotch, on the other hand? God, he’s hot. And it’s infuriating. The way his tie is slightly loosened, the faint shadow along his jaw from a long day, the tension in his shoulders that you know he never lets go of—yeah, it’s criminal. The man is exhaustion wrapped in an FBI-issued suit, and yet here you are, arms-deep in someone else’s insides, thinking about what it would take to rattle him just a little bit more.

"It’s either this or therapy, and guess which one is cheaper?" you say finally, removing your gloves with a slow, deliberate snap. You smirk before turning back to the corpse, tapping a manicured finger against the exposed ribcage. "Our guy bled out fast. Almost poetic, really."

There’s a beat of silence. Not total silence, though—Hotch exhales sharply through his nose, which you know for a fact is his version of barely-contained amusement. The rest of the team lingers just outside the examination room, watching like you’re some kind of live entertainment. Rossi is half-distracted by his phone, but you can tell he’s listening. Morgan and JJ exchange a look like they’re mentally placing bets on how long it’ll take before Hotch finally snaps. Emily, arms crossed, just tilts her head like she’s waiting for the inevitable.

"Most people wouldn’t call this poetic," Hotch says finally, but there’s a strain in his voice, like he’s trying not to let you get under his skin.

"Most people are boring," you reply, discarding your gloves in the biohazard bin. You meet his gaze, slow and deliberate, letting your lips curve just enough to be dangerous. "Lucky for you, I’m not most people."

Something flickers in his expression; brief, unreadable, but there. His fingers flex against the notepad he’s holding, like he’s resisting the urge to rub his temples. Interesting.

"Are you ever serious?" he asks, and though the words are exasperated, there’s something else beneath them.

You tilt your head slightly, dragging your gaze over him lazily, appreciatively. "Oh, Hotchner," you murmur, voice dropping just enough to be suggestive. "You have no idea."

The morgue feels smaller for a second, the air heavier. The fluorescent lighting overhead hums louder than before, or maybe that’s just in your head.

The team definitely heard that. Morgan lets out a low whistle, and Emily mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like oh my god. Reid, poor thing, blinks like he’s debating whether he should physically leave the room. JJ sighs like she knew this was coming, and Rossi—oh, Rossi’s smirking.

Hotch clears his throat, adjusts his tie, and takes half a step back. "Just—" He stops, exhales through his nose, then levels you with a look. "Just give me the report when you're done."

Then he turns, walking out of the morgue with all the composure of a man who refuses to acknowledge whatever the hell this is between you.

As soon as he’s gone, Morgan shakes his head, grinning. "Damn, doc," he says, arms crossed. "You really got a death wish, huh?"

You flash him a grin, slipping off your blazer and draping it over the back of your chair. Beneath it, your silk blouse shifts as you move, the vibrant colors catching in the light. Reid stares at your jewelry for a second, like he’s analyzing the aesthetic choices, trying to piece together the psychology behind them. Maybe there is something to analyze—maybe the bold colors, the striking rings, the sharp contrast to your work are a rebellion against the sterility of this place. Maybe it’s just because you like looking good.

Either way, it’s yours.

"You ever gonna stop riling him up like that?" Emily asks, her tone caught somewhere between amused and impressed.

You feign innocence, placing a hand over your heart. "Me? Rile up our fearless leader? Emily, I’m hurt."

She gives you a flat look. Morgan chuckles. Rossi, ever the observer, finally tucks his phone away and shakes his head. "You know, back in my day, we had a saying," he muses.

"Let me guess," you interrupt, peeling a stray piece of lint off your sleeve. "‘If you keep poking the bear, don’t be surprised when it mauls you’?"

Rossi winks. "Something like that."

JJ sighs, rubbing her temples like she’s already exhausted. "Just don’t push it too far," she says, though she doesn’t sound convinced you’ll listen.

"Oh, please." You wave a hand, dismissive. "I know my limits."

That’s only half true, and everyone in the room knows it.

Morgan shakes his head, clearly entertained. "One of these days, Hotch is gonna snap, and when he does?" He points at you. "I want front-row seats."

"Noted," you say breezily. But your mind isn’t on Morgan’s words—it’s lingering on the way Hotch’s mouth twitched earlier. The way his fingers flexed like he was holding back something. The way he paused for just a second too long before walking away.

Rossi is the last to leave, lingering in the doorway. "Careful, doc," he says, his voice casual but laced with something almost amused. "A man can only take so much before he does something about it."

You don’t get the chance to ask what exactly that means before he winks and disappears down the hall.

Huh. Interesting.

With a shrug, you turn back to your work, but your thoughts drift and linger on the tension that crackled in the air, on the way Hotch looked at you.

One of these days, you think, he’s going to stop walking away.

And you’re not sure what’s more thrilling—the idea of that day coming, or the fact that you want it to.

The morgue quiets after the team leaves, but the silence isn’t empty. It crackles—something left behind in the air, lingering like the scent of antiseptic and bad decisions.

You exhale, roll your shoulders, then turn back to your victim—the actual one, not the one you metaphorically murdered with your relentless teasing. The dead don’t judge, which is more than you can say for Hotch’s rapidly depleting patience.

Your scalpel glides through tissue with expert precision, and yet, your mind drifts. A man can only take so much before he does something about it. Rossi’s words replay in your head, and you don’t know if it’s a warning or a promise.

A small smirk tugs at your lips.

What would Hotch do, if you pushed him just a little further?

Would he finally snap—give you some sharp-edged words, laced with frustration and something darker? Would he grab your wrist in the middle of one of your smartass remarks, voice dropping into something dangerously low, something only meant for you?

Or would he do nothing at all—continue to endure, to restrain, to walk away?

The latter seems most likely, but the thought leaves you dissatisfied.

“Tch.” You shake your head at yourself, lips curving in amusement. You really do need therapy.

You're still lost in thought, suturing the Y-incision with practiced ease, when the soft click of the morgue door opening draws your attention.

Your pulse jumps.

There’s only one person who would walk in without announcing themselves, without hesitation, without caring if they interrupted your work.

You glance up, and there he is.

Aaron Hotchner, framed in the doorway, suit impeccable despite the long day, tie slightly loosened, jaw tight. His unreadable expression would have most people scrambling to explain themselves, to justify whatever mistake had been made.

You, however, just raise an eyebrow. "Forget something, boss?"

He steps inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

Something is different.

His usual exasperation is there, but underneath it, layered so subtly that you might have missed it if you didn’t know him—something else. Something quieter.

Frustration.

Consideration.

Something you can't quite name, but it sends a slow curl of heat through your veins.

You tilt your head, watching him, waiting.

A muscle in his jaw jumps before he finally exhales, slow and controlled. "You should be careful," he says, voice low, steady. "You push too much."

Oh. Oh.

Your pulse hums with interest, with anticipation, with something just shy of reckless delight.

You take your time removing your gloves, snapping the latex off one by one, letting the silence stretch between you.

"Should I?" you muse, eyes never leaving his.

For the first time, Hotch doesn’t immediately answer.

And that is interesting.

Because silence, for him, is rarely indecision. It’s calculation. Consideration.

And maybe, just maybe, it��s restraint.

Your smile turns sharp. "Tell me, Hotchner..." You step forward, just slightly, just enough to narrow the space between you. "What happens if I don’t?"

The real question—the real one, the one you won’t say out loud, not yet—is clear in the air between you.

What happens when you stop holding back?

For the first time all day, you think maybe—just maybe—you’ve finally found a question Aaron Hotchner doesn’t have an immediate answer for.

[colourfulbisexualities]

SUITS AND SASS ; aaron hotchner x female medical examiner

you’re the bau’s new medical examiner, oozing dark humour, sass, and a killer sense of style, ready to shake up the team. but when you butt heads with aaron hotchner on day one, sparks fly while the rest of the team bets on how long it’ll take for you to win him over.

YOU STRUT into the BAU like you own the damn place, and honestly? You should. The overhead fluorescents do their best to wash out your glow, but even the most soul-sucking government lighting can’t dim this.

The emerald green suit hugs you in all the right places, a sharp contrast against the deep red silk blouse that’s unbuttoned just enough to toe the line between ‘professional’ and ‘distracting.’ Your heels which are Louboutin, naturally - click against the floor with every confident step, the sound sharp, decisive, commanding attention even from the most sleep-deprived agents around you. And your jewellery? Impeccable.

Large emerald studs in your ears, a matching ring resting on your manicured fingers. Each piece a carefully curated display of wealth, taste, and an undeniable presence. You don’t just walk into a room; you arrive, and anyone with half a brain can feel it.

Today is your first day as the BAU’s new medical examiner, and if you’re being honest? You’re already unimpressed. Not with the job itself because you live for the thrill of carving open a fresh corpse before most people have had their morning coffee, but the aesthetic of this place is tragic.

Beige walls, government-issue desks, the faint, ever-present smell of burnt coffee and bad decisions hanging in the air. It’s the kind of environment that breeds stress wrinkles and caffeine addictions, and you’ve already decided that you will not be another victim.

No, you’re here for something new. Something interesting. The only reason you transferred was because your last job had become boring, and you refuse to let your skills stagnate among mundane cases and lackluster conversation.

The BAU, at least, promises a bit of excitement—new cases, new killers, new mysteries to unravel. And, if nothing else, the chance to shake up an office full of straight-laced federal agents with your dark humour and sharp tongue.

The bullpen is exactly what you expected. Agents in various states of exhaustion, stacks of paperwork threatening to topple, and the subtle hum of tense conversation punctuated by the occasional ringing phone. It’s an atmosphere of constant movement, of minds working overtime, and while you appreciate the energy, you can’t help but sigh dramatically as you glance around.

“This place is hideous,” you mutter to yourself, brushing a speck of imaginary dust off your sleeve. “Jesus, does the FBI have something against interior design?”

And then you see her ... Penelope Garcia, dressed in an explosion of colour, exuding the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly who she is and not giving a damn what anyone thinks about it. Finally, someone with taste.

The second her eyes land on you, she lets out a dramatic gasp, one hand clutching at her necklace like she’s just seen the Virgin Mary herself descend into the bullpen. “Oh my God,” she breathes. “Who are you?”

You smirk, tilting your head just slightly. “The new medical examiner. And, from the looks of things, the only other person in this building with a sense of style.”

Her eyes sparkle like she’s just found a long-lost soulmate. “Oh, honey, we are going to be best friends.”

“Obviously,” you reply smoothly. “Someone needs to help me cope with the tragedy that is this office décor. Do you think the Bureau would let me expense a new couch? Maybe some curtains? Anything to make this place feel less like a funeral home for the aesthetically challenged.”

“Oh, sweetie, they barely let me expense my glitter pens. You’re asking for a miracle.”

Before you can reply, a voice cuts through the air. Sharp, authoritative, and entirely unimpressed. “You’re late.”

You turn slowly, already knowing that this is going to be fun.

Aaron Hotchner stands before you, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his eyes intense, scanning you like he’s already profiling your entire existence. And damn if he isn’t gorgeous. You hadn’t expected that. The way his suit fits just right, the sharp angles of his face, the sheer command he exudes—it’s almost enough to distract you from the fact that he’s clearly about to be a pain in your ass.

Almost.

You blink at him, deliberately slow, before glancing at the large digital clock on the wall. “It’s 8:59.”

His jaw tightens just slightly. “We start at eight.”

You sigh, placing a perfectly manicured hand over your heart as if this news has wounded you. “Oh, tragic. If only someone had told me that I was expected to conform to the outdated concept of ‘morning people.’” You let out a dramatic sigh. “Next thing you’ll tell me is that I’m expected to function without proper espresso. What kind of barbarism is this?”

There’s a pause, the kind that suggests Hotch is not used to being spoken to like this. Behind him, you catch the subtle exchange of money. Morgan handing Reid a few bills, Emily shaking her head with an amused smirk. Oh, they were betting on this. Good. At least someone in this building understands entertainment.

Hotch, to his credit, doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he exhales, slow and controlled, the only sign that you’re even remotely testing his patience. “Garcia, show her around the building.”

“Oh, I absolutely will,” she says, looping her arm through yours like this is the best thing to happen to her all day.

As you walk away, you can feel his eyes on you—calculating, assessing, already irritated. You turn your head just slightly, meeting his gaze with a slow smirk.

“He’ll recover,” you murmur to Garcia, low enough that only she hears.

She giggles, glancing back at him before whispering, “Oh, I hope not.”

Hotch watches you go, pressing his lips together as he forces himself to look away. You’re impossible. He already knows you’re going to be a problem, and the worst part? He can’t decide if that frustrates him… or intrigues him.