honeypiehotchner

[honeypiehotchner]

Bestie I have bad news…

ch. 32 of the gambit is going to be so long oh my god (usually they're around 3k words...this one is almost 4k and i'm not done...because they're Doing Things)

[honeypiehotchner]

Omg you're so right 🤣🤣 I am taking notes so I can squeeze in a funny ass moment like that somewhere (in the epilogue methinks...)

They're just existing together!! And it's easy!! 😭😭😭

The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part thirty

It does indeed feel like I'm edging y'all and for that I apologize 🤣🤭 These two will have their moment very soon!

Warnings: so sorry to deceive u abt the smut bc it's so short it's just f!masturbating, even still 18+ mdni pls!!, Rossi being a little shit, angst (what's new), cutie moment on the jet, welp! the unsub is back!

Hotch doesn’t know what noise he heard, but he heard something — he swears he did, absolutely nothing would’ve made him stop kissing you, unless it was dire. He heard a crash outside, or something, he’s not sure, but it was enough. It was enough to make him panic, to think the unsub was outside, here to grab you—

Except, it was nothing, because now he’s standing on the patio watching two raccoons scurry away, frightened by the security light they triggered and the frantic six-foot human who nearly shattered the glass doors wrenching them open.

Aaron’s phone rings in his pocket, making him flinch, but when he glances at it, he sees it’s only Rossi.

“Yeah,” Hotch answers.

“I got a security alert on my phone, should’ve warned you about the raccoons, sometimes I give them my leftovers,” Dave almost sounds amused. “And why did you call earlier? You two kill each other yet?”

Hotch thinks back to just a few minutes ago, both of you attacking one another, for sure, just not in the way Rossi thinks. “Do you seriously give the raccoons leftovers?”

“Of course I do.”

“Okay. Well.” Hotch rubs his forehead. “I’ll let you go—”

“What’s the matter with you?” Dave presses, no doubt smirking. “You sound like you’re out of breath.”

“Nothing,” Aaron replies.

“Oh, I see—”

“Goodnight, Dave.”

Aaron just barely hears Rossi laugh through a “goodnight” before he hangs up the call.

He takes one more second to right himself before he heads back inside, shutting the patio doors and triple-checking that they’re locked securely.

When he finds you again in the living room, he knows. The moment is gone. The air shifted. You’re standing. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe not.

“Did you see anything?” you ask, but you barely sound like yourself. Your words are detached.

“No, it was just uh,” he pauses, shaking his head, “raccoons. It was nothing. Sorry to spook you.”

You nod, a jerking movement like you’re barely holding it together. Aaron thinks for one moment that you’re having another panic attack, but this looks so different. It’s not that. He doesn’t know what this is.

“Listen,” you start, and then you pause, wringing your hands. “Let’s…not talk about what just happened.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “What?”

You shake your head. “We can blame it on the wine. The fancy dinner. The…being stuck in this house together for the weekend.” You take a deep breath. “Let’s just…blame it on that and forget it happened. Okay?”

Not okay. Very much not okay, not for him. He finally spent time with you that didn’t involve clenching his jaw so hard it popped, shared malicious glares, and even venomous words. He finally worked up the courage to kiss you. He finally got to have you, and now you want to forget it even happened?

“Aaron?” you ask, looking up at him expectantly, and you don’t look like you want to forget this. You look…hurt.

But he can’t figure out why. And you don’t seem to be in the mood to tell him right now.

But he can’t just agree to forget this.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow?” he asks quietly, tone bordering on pleading. If you try to protest, he might get down on his knees and beg for you. “Please.”

Aaron sees you start to bite the inside of your cheeks. It’s something you’ve always done to stop yourself from getting too emotional. He wishes you weren’t doing it right now. He wishes you would show him, wishes you would tell him what’s the matter. What changed.

“Okay,” you agree softly. “Tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” he says automatically.

“Goodnight,” you murmur, barely looking at him before you head for the stairs. 

Aaron is frozen in place while he waits for your footsteps to reach your room. He shuts his eyes with a sigh when he hears your door shut as well.

+++

Raccoons. That’s the excuse he goes with? Raccoons?

It’s not that you’re doubting him — you absolutely are — but even he has to admit that that sounds fake. Raccoons, seriously?

Hearing that only confirmed for you that the two of you need to forget whatever happened on the couch. Or, at least, you were convinced, until you saw the look on his face when he asked if the two of you could talk about it tomorrow instead. He looked…well, he looked like you had just twisted a knife in his heart. And that wasn’t what you thought you were doing.

It doesn’t matter right now. Right now, you need to calm yourself down, get ready to sleep, and actually relax enough to do so. You need to sleep at least eight hours tonight. These sleepless nights of barely four hours rest are not sustainable, not like this.

It’s really just another excuse to get in bed as early as possible in hopes of being unconscious as soon as possible. Because you can’t think about what just happened, or how it felt to finally have his hands touch your skin beneath your shirt. How it felt to touch him, to get so close, to feel him underneath you and almost do something about it. How it felt to hear how much he liked it, how much he liked you.

It makes your head spin.

You don’t know if it’s better or worse that things didn’t escalate further. On the one hand, it feels good that you didn’t go too far. There’s less to regret.

On the other hand, it feels like you only got a mere taste, a tease, and now you’re hungry for more — hungrier than you were before.

You wander around the room like you’ve forgotten where you are or who you are until you eventually settle down and put your pajamas on. You get under the covers. You shut your eyes.

And your mind puts you right back where you were barely an hour ago. Hips rocking over his, his fingers digging into your skin, his choked moans as you nip at his neck, your own whines as he cups your breasts, pinching your nipples just barely, teasing you, keeping you warm, keeping you wanting for more.

You let your imagination take the reins. It’s hard not to fantasize after that. You imagine what might’ve happened had he not gotten up so quickly. Would your hand have finally snaked its way into his boxers, gripping him gently, tugging enticingly? Would he have been able to hold back? Would he have flipped you both, pinned you beneath him—

You don’t realize that your hand has found its way into your panties until you narrowly manage to cover your mouth on a moan. Your eyes fly open, listening for any movement, any sign that Aaron might’ve heard you. Disappointed, you find silence.

But your imagination returns. Images of Aaron with his face between your legs has your hand moving faster, fingers slipping inside, curling, your back arching just at the idea of him pulling you into his mouth, as if he could crawl inside you and still not be close enough.

You add a third finger, the fantasy shifting to Aaron moving inside of you, hitting you in all the right places, the places you can’t reach, not even with your vibrator.

You bite down on the heel of your palm to stifle the sound when you fall over the edge, the orgasm shocking every cell in your body.

Heaving, you try to quietly regain your composure. You’re satisfied, slightly, the fantasy still swimming beneath the surface. It’s not even close to the satisfaction you’d feel if he was here, finishing what he started.

But it’s all you have, so you roll over, hoping the post-orgasm bliss will at least help you fall asleep faster.

+++

You wake in a haze, your phone ringing loudly from the nightstand. The room is dark, the sun having long gone to sleep, and you have two seconds of blissful confusion before the realization sets in.

That ringtone. Emergency recall.

You scramble to answer the call, but it cuts off, a new one coming through, JJ’s picture lighting up your screen. “Hello?”

“Richard Monroe is dead,” JJ blurts. “They just identified his body an hour ago. We have to get to Alabama.”

You stand to your feet. “Alabama? What do you mean? He was in Alabama?”

“Yes,” JJ rushes out. “Can you notify Hotch? I’ll call the others. Plan is to meet on the airstrip in an hour. They’re fueling up now.”

“We’ll be there in thirty,” you promise, ending the call as your feet are already carrying you across the room.

You bang on his door, giving him five seconds before you plan to open the door. He’s opening it for you in three.

He has his phone already pressed to his ear. “Richard Monroe.”

“Dead in Alabama,” you hiss. “If it’s in fucking Huntsville, Aaron, I—”

“I’ll call you back,” he says to whoever is on the phone. “Strauss wants us there immediately.”

Your eyes go wide. “You just hung up on Strauss?”

“I said I’d call her back,” he defends. “Did JJ call you?”

You nod. “She’s calling the others. We’re leaving in an hour.”

Hotch hesitates when you say we and you already know where this is going, so you stop it while you can.

“I know what you’re going to suggest, and no,” you say firmly. “I’m going. Don’t even try to make me stay back with Garcia.”

“This could be a trap—”

“I’ll be fine,” you insist. “Because I’ll be with you.”

That looks like it knocks the wind out of him, and you know exactly why. But you can’t talk about that right now. 

He knows it, too. He holds your gaze for just a moment too long. Every second that ticks by is a second you two don’t have to lose.

“We need to go,” you murmur, trying to break the trance. “Can you be ready in five?”

He nods. You nod.

Without a word, you turn and retreat back to your room. You shut your door and move faster than you even think humanly possible, throwing your pajamas off and throwing on a work outfit. You cram a few extras into your go-bag, not bothering with any makeup or anything before walking out with your bag and shoes in hand.

Hotch meets you downstairs, ready to go. You slip your feet into your shoes and follow him out to the car. 

“JJ said we’re meeting at the airstrip,” you say, scrolling through the groupchat. Everyone is awake and on their way. Garcia is already headed to the BAU office to get set up.

Hotch doesn’t acknowledge your statement. Instead, he says something else that makes your stomach turn. “Strauss said his body was found near Huntsville.”

You curse loudly, rubbing your forehead. “What the hell are we walking into?”

“I don’t know,” Hotch says automatically.

You keep massaging your forehead, trying to soothe the brewing headache. A hand squeezes your free one out of nowhere.

You lift your head to look at Hotch, almost in shock, but when he goes to pull away, you turn your wrist and lace your fingers together. A silent question that he hears. He squeezes your hand in response, lifting your hands to kiss your knuckles.

He doesn’t let go for the rest of the drive.

+++

The air on the jet is tenser than you’ve ever felt. Garcia is already at the office, video calling into Hotch’s laptop that now sits on the table between you two. Morgan is just across the aisle, leaned against the couch and he can’t sit still. Reid is next to Hotch and Emily is next to you.

Rossi eyes you warily from the little kitchenette where he stirs a cup of coffee. 

“Okay, crime scene photos have been uploaded to your devices,” JJ says, handing a file of hard copies to Reid and placing an extra copy down on the table. “It’s all we have at the moment, they’re not touching anything until we get there, just snapping pictures and keeping it blocked off.”

You grab a picture just so you can glare at something. But when you get a good look at it, you drop it like it burned you.

“What is it?” Hotch says immediately.

“Is his—” You pause, your throat constricting. “Is his body outside an elementary school?”

The sound of Garcia’s frantic typing stops abruptly. “How did you know that?”

All the police have said is that Richard Monroe’s body was found dumped at the edge of the woods near Huntsville. But you know those woods, that edge in particular. Because you used to walk through them when you were younger if you were walking home with a friend. There were times — rare times — when your dad picked you up from school that the two of you would take the shortcut through those exact woods.

“Because,” your voice shakes, “I used to walk through those woods. They’re outside the elementary school I went to.” As if you need to prove your point and your credibility, you continue, “There’s a junior high next to it. Or there used to be. It’s probably called something different now—”

“You’re right,” Garcia says, rattling off the names of the two schools you went to.

The jet is quiet for just a moment.

“This isn’t a coincidence,” Rossi says.

Your eyes lift and you meet his gaze with a solemn nod. You’re both thinking the same thing. “My dad dumped bodies outside schools,” you explain. “When he wasn’t dumping them in abandoned lots or dirt roads, it was outside elementary schools. This is as direct as a message gets.”

Hotch shifts anxiously in his seat across from you. You know he’s battling with sending your ass back to Quantico, but you also know he’s learned by now that you will only be angry with him if he does that.

“We’ll go to the crime scene when we arrive,” Hotch says finally, though he won’t look at you. “Dave, take Reid and JJ and get set up at the precinct. Morgan, Prentiss, and I will go to where his body was dumped.”

“Where am I going?” you ask, ready to let the annoyance seep into your words.

But you barely feel any annoyance at all. Because of Hotch’s reply.

“That’s your decision,” he says softly. “It’s up to you. We’ve always known this case was closely connected to you, but it’s getting closer. You can go with Dave to the precinct, come with me to the crime scene, or I can have the pilot take you back to Quantico. I can arrange for agents to escort you and you can work at the BAU office with Garcia. But it’s up to you.”

You blink. He’s not saying any of this in a frustrated way. No, it’s genuine. It’s caring.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “If it’s alright, I’d like to go to the crime scene.”

Hotch nods, his eyes unreadable. “That’s fine.” After another beat of silence, he glances at his watch and sighs. “We’ve got roughly forty-five minutes left in the air. If anyone needs sleep, I recommend you do so now. I’m not sure when we’ll check into a hotel.”

Or if we’ll sleep at all, you add in your head to yourself. You don’t see yourself getting a single second of sleep until you catch this unsub.

Garcia hangs up and everyone disperses, curling into seats and couches in desperate attempts to catch just a little rest.

You and Hotch don’t move from your spots.

Well, you don’t move. He does. It starts with him nudging your leg underneath the table. You don’t look at him. He whispers your name. You don’t even blink.

You hear him sigh before he slides out of his seat and switches sides, taking the now empty seat beside you. It makes you smile, just a little.

And then Aaron, the man that he is, is sliding down in his seat, leaning his body toward yours. You have no idea what he’s doing until you move to turn your head, and he guides you down to his shoulder.

“Sleep,” he whispers. “You need to get some rest.”

You smile, nuzzling your face into his shoulder. “You do too, you know,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says, then leans his cheek onto your head. “I will.”

You let your eyes slip closed then, but not before wrapping yourself around his arm, pulling him into you, just needing to hold onto something. Anything.

Aaron’s hand slips between your knees, the touch not at all sexual, yet somehow more intimate. The level of comfort he’s providing, how easily he fits into your space, how right his body feels when it fits to yours, not even in a sexual manner. This is just the two of you existing, trying to squeeze in some sleep before everything else crashes down around you, and it’s perfect. It’s as easy as breathing.

[honeypiehotchner]

THEY'RE CUDDLING!!!! 🙌🏻🙌🏻 Rossi is absolutely noting this cuddling to bring up later to tease them both 🤭

Bestie I'm anxious too and I'm the one writing it 😭😭😭

The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part thirty

It does indeed feel like I'm edging y'all and for that I apologize 🤣🤭 These two will have their moment very soon!

Warnings: so sorry to deceive u abt the smut bc it's so short it's just f!masturbating, even still 18+ mdni pls!!, Rossi being a little shit, angst (what's new), cutie moment on the jet, welp! the unsub is back!

Hotch doesn’t know what noise he heard, but he heard something — he swears he did, absolutely nothing would’ve made him stop kissing you, unless it was dire. He heard a crash outside, or something, he’s not sure, but it was enough. It was enough to make him panic, to think the unsub was outside, here to grab you—

Except, it was nothing, because now he’s standing on the patio watching two raccoons scurry away, frightened by the security light they triggered and the frantic six-foot human who nearly shattered the glass doors wrenching them open.

Aaron’s phone rings in his pocket, making him flinch, but when he glances at it, he sees it’s only Rossi.

“Yeah,” Hotch answers.

“I got a security alert on my phone, should’ve warned you about the raccoons, sometimes I give them my leftovers,” Dave almost sounds amused. “And why did you call earlier? You two kill each other yet?”

Hotch thinks back to just a few minutes ago, both of you attacking one another, for sure, just not in the way Rossi thinks. “Do you seriously give the raccoons leftovers?”

“Of course I do.”

“Okay. Well.” Hotch rubs his forehead. “I’ll let you go—”

“What’s the matter with you?” Dave presses, no doubt smirking. “You sound like you’re out of breath.”

“Nothing,” Aaron replies.

“Oh, I see—”

“Goodnight, Dave.”

Aaron just barely hears Rossi laugh through a “goodnight” before he hangs up the call.

He takes one more second to right himself before he heads back inside, shutting the patio doors and triple-checking that they’re locked securely.

When he finds you again in the living room, he knows. The moment is gone. The air shifted. You’re standing. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe not.

“Did you see anything?” you ask, but you barely sound like yourself. Your words are detached.

“No, it was just uh,” he pauses, shaking his head, “raccoons. It was nothing. Sorry to spook you.”

You nod, a jerking movement like you’re barely holding it together. Aaron thinks for one moment that you’re having another panic attack, but this looks so different. It’s not that. He doesn’t know what this is.

“Listen,” you start, and then you pause, wringing your hands. “Let’s…not talk about what just happened.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “What?”

You shake your head. “We can blame it on the wine. The fancy dinner. The…being stuck in this house together for the weekend.” You take a deep breath. “Let’s just…blame it on that and forget it happened. Okay?”

Not okay. Very much not okay, not for him. He finally spent time with you that didn’t involve clenching his jaw so hard it popped, shared malicious glares, and even venomous words. He finally worked up the courage to kiss you. He finally got to have you, and now you want to forget it even happened?

“Aaron?” you ask, looking up at him expectantly, and you don’t look like you want to forget this. You look…hurt.

But he can’t figure out why. And you don’t seem to be in the mood to tell him right now.

But he can’t just agree to forget this.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow?” he asks quietly, tone bordering on pleading. If you try to protest, he might get down on his knees and beg for you. “Please.”

Aaron sees you start to bite the inside of your cheeks. It’s something you’ve always done to stop yourself from getting too emotional. He wishes you weren’t doing it right now. He wishes you would show him, wishes you would tell him what’s the matter. What changed.

“Okay,” you agree softly. “Tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” he says automatically.

“Goodnight,” you murmur, barely looking at him before you head for the stairs. 

Aaron is frozen in place while he waits for your footsteps to reach your room. He shuts his eyes with a sigh when he hears your door shut as well.

+++

Raccoons. That’s the excuse he goes with? Raccoons?

It’s not that you’re doubting him — you absolutely are — but even he has to admit that that sounds fake. Raccoons, seriously?

Hearing that only confirmed for you that the two of you need to forget whatever happened on the couch. Or, at least, you were convinced, until you saw the look on his face when he asked if the two of you could talk about it tomorrow instead. He looked…well, he looked like you had just twisted a knife in his heart. And that wasn’t what you thought you were doing.

It doesn’t matter right now. Right now, you need to calm yourself down, get ready to sleep, and actually relax enough to do so. You need to sleep at least eight hours tonight. These sleepless nights of barely four hours rest are not sustainable, not like this.

It’s really just another excuse to get in bed as early as possible in hopes of being unconscious as soon as possible. Because you can’t think about what just happened, or how it felt to finally have his hands touch your skin beneath your shirt. How it felt to touch him, to get so close, to feel him underneath you and almost do something about it. How it felt to hear how much he liked it, how much he liked you.

It makes your head spin.

You don’t know if it’s better or worse that things didn’t escalate further. On the one hand, it feels good that you didn’t go too far. There’s less to regret.

On the other hand, it feels like you only got a mere taste, a tease, and now you’re hungry for more — hungrier than you were before.

You wander around the room like you’ve forgotten where you are or who you are until you eventually settle down and put your pajamas on. You get under the covers. You shut your eyes.

And your mind puts you right back where you were barely an hour ago. Hips rocking over his, his fingers digging into your skin, his choked moans as you nip at his neck, your own whines as he cups your breasts, pinching your nipples just barely, teasing you, keeping you warm, keeping you wanting for more.

You let your imagination take the reins. It’s hard not to fantasize after that. You imagine what might’ve happened had he not gotten up so quickly. Would your hand have finally snaked its way into his boxers, gripping him gently, tugging enticingly? Would he have been able to hold back? Would he have flipped you both, pinned you beneath him—

You don’t realize that your hand has found its way into your panties until you narrowly manage to cover your mouth on a moan. Your eyes fly open, listening for any movement, any sign that Aaron might’ve heard you. Disappointed, you find silence.

But your imagination returns. Images of Aaron with his face between your legs has your hand moving faster, fingers slipping inside, curling, your back arching just at the idea of him pulling you into his mouth, as if he could crawl inside you and still not be close enough.

You add a third finger, the fantasy shifting to Aaron moving inside of you, hitting you in all the right places, the places you can’t reach, not even with your vibrator.

You bite down on the heel of your palm to stifle the sound when you fall over the edge, the orgasm shocking every cell in your body.

Heaving, you try to quietly regain your composure. You’re satisfied, slightly, the fantasy still swimming beneath the surface. It’s not even close to the satisfaction you’d feel if he was here, finishing what he started.

But it’s all you have, so you roll over, hoping the post-orgasm bliss will at least help you fall asleep faster.

+++

You wake in a haze, your phone ringing loudly from the nightstand. The room is dark, the sun having long gone to sleep, and you have two seconds of blissful confusion before the realization sets in.

That ringtone. Emergency recall.

You scramble to answer the call, but it cuts off, a new one coming through, JJ’s picture lighting up your screen. “Hello?”

“Richard Monroe is dead,” JJ blurts. “They just identified his body an hour ago. We have to get to Alabama.”

You stand to your feet. “Alabama? What do you mean? He was in Alabama?”

“Yes,” JJ rushes out. “Can you notify Hotch? I’ll call the others. Plan is to meet on the airstrip in an hour. They’re fueling up now.”

“We’ll be there in thirty,” you promise, ending the call as your feet are already carrying you across the room.

You bang on his door, giving him five seconds before you plan to open the door. He’s opening it for you in three.

He has his phone already pressed to his ear. “Richard Monroe.”

“Dead in Alabama,” you hiss. “If it’s in fucking Huntsville, Aaron, I—”

“I’ll call you back,” he says to whoever is on the phone. “Strauss wants us there immediately.”

Your eyes go wide. “You just hung up on Strauss?”

“I said I’d call her back,” he defends. “Did JJ call you?”

You nod. “She’s calling the others. We’re leaving in an hour.”

Hotch hesitates when you say we and you already know where this is going, so you stop it while you can.

“I know what you’re going to suggest, and no,” you say firmly. “I’m going. Don’t even try to make me stay back with Garcia.”

“This could be a trap—”

“I’ll be fine,” you insist. “Because I’ll be with you.”

That looks like it knocks the wind out of him, and you know exactly why. But you can’t talk about that right now. 

He knows it, too. He holds your gaze for just a moment too long. Every second that ticks by is a second you two don’t have to lose.

“We need to go,” you murmur, trying to break the trance. “Can you be ready in five?”

He nods. You nod.

Without a word, you turn and retreat back to your room. You shut your door and move faster than you even think humanly possible, throwing your pajamas off and throwing on a work outfit. You cram a few extras into your go-bag, not bothering with any makeup or anything before walking out with your bag and shoes in hand.

Hotch meets you downstairs, ready to go. You slip your feet into your shoes and follow him out to the car. 

“JJ said we’re meeting at the airstrip,” you say, scrolling through the groupchat. Everyone is awake and on their way. Garcia is already headed to the BAU office to get set up.

Hotch doesn’t acknowledge your statement. Instead, he says something else that makes your stomach turn. “Strauss said his body was found near Huntsville.”

You curse loudly, rubbing your forehead. “What the hell are we walking into?”

“I don’t know,” Hotch says automatically.

You keep massaging your forehead, trying to soothe the brewing headache. A hand squeezes your free one out of nowhere.

You lift your head to look at Hotch, almost in shock, but when he goes to pull away, you turn your wrist and lace your fingers together. A silent question that he hears. He squeezes your hand in response, lifting your hands to kiss your knuckles.

He doesn’t let go for the rest of the drive.

+++

The air on the jet is tenser than you’ve ever felt. Garcia is already at the office, video calling into Hotch’s laptop that now sits on the table between you two. Morgan is just across the aisle, leaned against the couch and he can’t sit still. Reid is next to Hotch and Emily is next to you.

Rossi eyes you warily from the little kitchenette where he stirs a cup of coffee. 

“Okay, crime scene photos have been uploaded to your devices,” JJ says, handing a file of hard copies to Reid and placing an extra copy down on the table. “It’s all we have at the moment, they’re not touching anything until we get there, just snapping pictures and keeping it blocked off.”

You grab a picture just so you can glare at something. But when you get a good look at it, you drop it like it burned you.

“What is it?” Hotch says immediately.

“Is his—” You pause, your throat constricting. “Is his body outside an elementary school?”

The sound of Garcia’s frantic typing stops abruptly. “How did you know that?”

All the police have said is that Richard Monroe’s body was found dumped at the edge of the woods near Huntsville. But you know those woods, that edge in particular. Because you used to walk through them when you were younger if you were walking home with a friend. There were times — rare times — when your dad picked you up from school that the two of you would take the shortcut through those exact woods.

“Because,” your voice shakes, “I used to walk through those woods. They’re outside the elementary school I went to.” As if you need to prove your point and your credibility, you continue, “There’s a junior high next to it. Or there used to be. It’s probably called something different now—”

“You’re right,” Garcia says, rattling off the names of the two schools you went to.

The jet is quiet for just a moment.

“This isn’t a coincidence,” Rossi says.

Your eyes lift and you meet his gaze with a solemn nod. You’re both thinking the same thing. “My dad dumped bodies outside schools,” you explain. “When he wasn’t dumping them in abandoned lots or dirt roads, it was outside elementary schools. This is as direct as a message gets.”

Hotch shifts anxiously in his seat across from you. You know he’s battling with sending your ass back to Quantico, but you also know he’s learned by now that you will only be angry with him if he does that.

“We’ll go to the crime scene when we arrive,” Hotch says finally, though he won’t look at you. “Dave, take Reid and JJ and get set up at the precinct. Morgan, Prentiss, and I will go to where his body was dumped.”

“Where am I going?” you ask, ready to let the annoyance seep into your words.

But you barely feel any annoyance at all. Because of Hotch’s reply.

“That’s your decision,” he says softly. “It’s up to you. We’ve always known this case was closely connected to you, but it’s getting closer. You can go with Dave to the precinct, come with me to the crime scene, or I can have the pilot take you back to Quantico. I can arrange for agents to escort you and you can work at the BAU office with Garcia. But it’s up to you.”

You blink. He’s not saying any of this in a frustrated way. No, it’s genuine. It’s caring.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “If it’s alright, I’d like to go to the crime scene.”

Hotch nods, his eyes unreadable. “That’s fine.” After another beat of silence, he glances at his watch and sighs. “We’ve got roughly forty-five minutes left in the air. If anyone needs sleep, I recommend you do so now. I’m not sure when we’ll check into a hotel.”

Or if we’ll sleep at all, you add in your head to yourself. You don’t see yourself getting a single second of sleep until you catch this unsub.

Garcia hangs up and everyone disperses, curling into seats and couches in desperate attempts to catch just a little rest.

You and Hotch don’t move from your spots.

Well, you don’t move. He does. It starts with him nudging your leg underneath the table. You don’t look at him. He whispers your name. You don’t even blink.

You hear him sigh before he slides out of his seat and switches sides, taking the now empty seat beside you. It makes you smile, just a little.

And then Aaron, the man that he is, is sliding down in his seat, leaning his body toward yours. You have no idea what he’s doing until you move to turn your head, and he guides you down to his shoulder.

“Sleep,” he whispers. “You need to get some rest.”

You smile, nuzzling your face into his shoulder. “You do too, you know,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says, then leans his cheek onto your head. “I will.”

You let your eyes slip closed then, but not before wrapping yourself around his arm, pulling him into you, just needing to hold onto something. Anything.

Aaron’s hand slips between your knees, the touch not at all sexual, yet somehow more intimate. The level of comfort he’s providing, how easily he fits into your space, how right his body feels when it fits to yours, not even in a sexual manner. This is just the two of you existing, trying to squeeze in some sleep before everything else crashes down around you, and it’s perfect. It’s as easy as breathing.

[honeypiehotchner]

They should make a content label for ai posts like they do for mature content so I dont ever have to fucking look at it

[honeypiehotchner]

Get these ai writing assistants out of my face!!!! I don't care if my writing is bad at least it is mine!!!!

[honeypiehotchner]

Dept. Q 1x01

[honeypiehotchner]

The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part thirty

It does indeed feel like I'm edging y'all and for that I apologize 🤣🤭 These two will have their moment very soon!

Warnings: so sorry to deceive u abt the smut bc it's so short it's just f!masturbating, even still 18+ mdni pls!!, Rossi being a little shit, angst (what's new), cutie moment on the jet, welp! the unsub is back!

Hotch doesn’t know what noise he heard, but he heard something — he swears he did, absolutely nothing would’ve made him stop kissing you, unless it was dire. He heard a crash outside, or something, he’s not sure, but it was enough. It was enough to make him panic, to think the unsub was outside, here to grab you—

Except, it was nothing, because now he’s standing on the patio watching two raccoons scurry away, frightened by the security light they triggered and the frantic six-foot human who nearly shattered the glass doors wrenching them open.

Aaron’s phone rings in his pocket, making him flinch, but when he glances at it, he sees it’s only Rossi.

“Yeah,” Hotch answers.

“I got a security alert on my phone, should’ve warned you about the raccoons, sometimes I give them my leftovers,” Dave almost sounds amused. “And why did you call earlier? You two kill each other yet?”

Hotch thinks back to just a few minutes ago, both of you attacking one another, for sure, just not in the way Rossi thinks. “Do you seriously give the raccoons leftovers?”

“Of course I do.”

“Okay. Well.” Hotch rubs his forehead. “I’ll let you go—”

“What’s the matter with you?” Dave presses, no doubt smirking. “You sound like you’re out of breath.”

“Nothing,” Aaron replies.

“Oh, I see—”

“Goodnight, Dave.”

Aaron just barely hears Rossi laugh through a “goodnight” before he hangs up the call.

He takes one more second to right himself before he heads back inside, shutting the patio doors and triple-checking that they’re locked securely.

When he finds you again in the living room, he knows. The moment is gone. The air shifted. You’re standing. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe not.

“Did you see anything?” you ask, but you barely sound like yourself. Your words are detached.

“No, it was just uh,” he pauses, shaking his head, “raccoons. It was nothing. Sorry to spook you.”

You nod, a jerking movement like you’re barely holding it together. Aaron thinks for one moment that you’re having another panic attack, but this looks so different. It’s not that. He doesn’t know what this is.

“Listen,” you start, and then you pause, wringing your hands. “Let’s…not talk about what just happened.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “What?”

You shake your head. “We can blame it on the wine. The fancy dinner. The…being stuck in this house together for the weekend.” You take a deep breath. “Let’s just…blame it on that and forget it happened. Okay?”

Not okay. Very much not okay, not for him. He finally spent time with you that didn’t involve clenching his jaw so hard it popped, shared malicious glares, and even venomous words. He finally worked up the courage to kiss you. He finally got to have you, and now you want to forget it even happened?

“Aaron?” you ask, looking up at him expectantly, and you don’t look like you want to forget this. You look…hurt.

But he can’t figure out why. And you don’t seem to be in the mood to tell him right now.

But he can’t just agree to forget this.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow?” he asks quietly, tone bordering on pleading. If you try to protest, he might get down on his knees and beg for you. “Please.”

Aaron sees you start to bite the inside of your cheeks. It’s something you’ve always done to stop yourself from getting too emotional. He wishes you weren’t doing it right now. He wishes you would show him, wishes you would tell him what’s the matter. What changed.

“Okay,” you agree softly. “Tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” he says automatically.

“Goodnight,” you murmur, barely looking at him before you head for the stairs. 

Aaron is frozen in place while he waits for your footsteps to reach your room. He shuts his eyes with a sigh when he hears your door shut as well.

+++

Raccoons. That’s the excuse he goes with? Raccoons?

It’s not that you’re doubting him — you absolutely are — but even he has to admit that that sounds fake. Raccoons, seriously?

Hearing that only confirmed for you that the two of you need to forget whatever happened on the couch. Or, at least, you were convinced, until you saw the look on his face when he asked if the two of you could talk about it tomorrow instead. He looked…well, he looked like you had just twisted a knife in his heart. And that wasn’t what you thought you were doing.

It doesn’t matter right now. Right now, you need to calm yourself down, get ready to sleep, and actually relax enough to do so. You need to sleep at least eight hours tonight. These sleepless nights of barely four hours rest are not sustainable, not like this.

It’s really just another excuse to get in bed as early as possible in hopes of being unconscious as soon as possible. Because you can’t think about what just happened, or how it felt to finally have his hands touch your skin beneath your shirt. How it felt to touch him, to get so close, to feel him underneath you and almost do something about it. How it felt to hear how much he liked it, how much he liked you.

It makes your head spin.

You don’t know if it’s better or worse that things didn’t escalate further. On the one hand, it feels good that you didn’t go too far. There’s less to regret.

On the other hand, it feels like you only got a mere taste, a tease, and now you’re hungry for more — hungrier than you were before.

You wander around the room like you’ve forgotten where you are or who you are until you eventually settle down and put your pajamas on. You get under the covers. You shut your eyes.

And your mind puts you right back where you were barely an hour ago. Hips rocking over his, his fingers digging into your skin, his choked moans as you nip at his neck, your own whines as he cups your breasts, pinching your nipples just barely, teasing you, keeping you warm, keeping you wanting for more.

You let your imagination take the reins. It’s hard not to fantasize after that. You imagine what might’ve happened had he not gotten up so quickly. Would your hand have finally snaked its way into his boxers, gripping him gently, tugging enticingly? Would he have been able to hold back? Would he have flipped you both, pinned you beneath him—

You don’t realize that your hand has found its way into your panties until you narrowly manage to cover your mouth on a moan. Your eyes fly open, listening for any movement, any sign that Aaron might’ve heard you. Disappointed, you find silence.

But your imagination returns. Images of Aaron with his face between your legs has your hand moving faster, fingers slipping inside, curling, your back arching just at the idea of him pulling you into his mouth, as if he could crawl inside you and still not be close enough.

You add a third finger, the fantasy shifting to Aaron moving inside of you, hitting you in all the right places, the places you can’t reach, not even with your vibrator.

You bite down on the heel of your palm to stifle the sound when you fall over the edge, the orgasm shocking every cell in your body.

Heaving, you try to quietly regain your composure. You’re satisfied, slightly, the fantasy still swimming beneath the surface. It’s not even close to the satisfaction you’d feel if he was here, finishing what he started.

But it’s all you have, so you roll over, hoping the post-orgasm bliss will at least help you fall asleep faster.

+++

You wake in a haze, your phone ringing loudly from the nightstand. The room is dark, the sun having long gone to sleep, and you have two seconds of blissful confusion before the realization sets in.

That ringtone. Emergency recall.

You scramble to answer the call, but it cuts off, a new one coming through, JJ’s picture lighting up your screen. “Hello?”

“Richard Monroe is dead,” JJ blurts. “They just identified his body an hour ago. We have to get to Alabama.”

You stand to your feet. “Alabama? What do you mean? He was in Alabama?”

“Yes,” JJ rushes out. “Can you notify Hotch? I’ll call the others. Plan is to meet on the airstrip in an hour. They’re fueling up now.”

“We’ll be there in thirty,” you promise, ending the call as your feet are already carrying you across the room.

You bang on his door, giving him five seconds before you plan to open the door. He’s opening it for you in three.

He has his phone already pressed to his ear. “Richard Monroe.”

“Dead in Alabama,” you hiss. “If it’s in fucking Huntsville, Aaron, I—”

“I’ll call you back,” he says to whoever is on the phone. “Strauss wants us there immediately.”

Your eyes go wide. “You just hung up on Strauss?”

“I said I’d call her back,” he defends. “Did JJ call you?”

You nod. “She’s calling the others. We’re leaving in an hour.”

Hotch hesitates when you say we and you already know where this is going, so you stop it while you can.

“I know what you’re going to suggest, and no,” you say firmly. “I’m going. Don’t even try to make me stay back with Garcia.”

“This could be a trap—”

“I’ll be fine,” you insist. “Because I’ll be with you.”

That looks like it knocks the wind out of him, and you know exactly why. But you can’t talk about that right now. 

He knows it, too. He holds your gaze for just a moment too long. Every second that ticks by is a second you two don’t have to lose.

“We need to go,” you murmur, trying to break the trance. “Can you be ready in five?”

He nods. You nod.

Without a word, you turn and retreat back to your room. You shut your door and move faster than you even think humanly possible, throwing your pajamas off and throwing on a work outfit. You cram a few extras into your go-bag, not bothering with any makeup or anything before walking out with your bag and shoes in hand.

Hotch meets you downstairs, ready to go. You slip your feet into your shoes and follow him out to the car. 

“JJ said we’re meeting at the airstrip,” you say, scrolling through the groupchat. Everyone is awake and on their way. Garcia is already headed to the BAU office to get set up.

Hotch doesn’t acknowledge your statement. Instead, he says something else that makes your stomach turn. “Strauss said his body was found near Huntsville.”

You curse loudly, rubbing your forehead. “What the hell are we walking into?”

“I don’t know,” Hotch says automatically.

You keep massaging your forehead, trying to soothe the brewing headache. A hand squeezes your free one out of nowhere.

You lift your head to look at Hotch, almost in shock, but when he goes to pull away, you turn your wrist and lace your fingers together. A silent question that he hears. He squeezes your hand in response, lifting your hands to kiss your knuckles.

He doesn’t let go for the rest of the drive.

+++

The air on the jet is tenser than you’ve ever felt. Garcia is already at the office, video calling into Hotch’s laptop that now sits on the table between you two. Morgan is just across the aisle, leaned against the couch and he can’t sit still. Reid is next to Hotch and Emily is next to you.

Rossi eyes you warily from the little kitchenette where he stirs a cup of coffee. 

“Okay, crime scene photos have been uploaded to your devices,” JJ says, handing a file of hard copies to Reid and placing an extra copy down on the table. “It’s all we have at the moment, they’re not touching anything until we get there, just snapping pictures and keeping it blocked off.”

You grab a picture just so you can glare at something. But when you get a good look at it, you drop it like it burned you.

“What is it?” Hotch says immediately.

“Is his—” You pause, your throat constricting. “Is his body outside an elementary school?”

The sound of Garcia’s frantic typing stops abruptly. “How did you know that?”

All the police have said is that Richard Monroe’s body was found dumped at the edge of the woods near Huntsville. But you know those woods, that edge in particular. Because you used to walk through them when you were younger if you were walking home with a friend. There were times — rare times — when your dad picked you up from school that the two of you would take the shortcut through those exact woods.

“Because,” your voice shakes, “I used to walk through those woods. They’re outside the elementary school I went to.” As if you need to prove your point and your credibility, you continue, “There’s a junior high next to it. Or there used to be. It’s probably called something different now—”

“You’re right,” Garcia says, rattling off the names of the two schools you went to.

The jet is quiet for just a moment.

“This isn’t a coincidence,” Rossi says.

Your eyes lift and you meet his gaze with a solemn nod. You’re both thinking the same thing. “My dad dumped bodies outside schools,” you explain. “When he wasn’t dumping them in abandoned lots or dirt roads, it was outside elementary schools. This is as direct as a message gets.”

Hotch shifts anxiously in his seat across from you. You know he’s battling with sending your ass back to Quantico, but you also know he’s learned by now that you will only be angry with him if he does that.

“We’ll go to the crime scene when we arrive,” Hotch says finally, though he won’t look at you. “Dave, take Reid and JJ and get set up at the precinct. Morgan, Prentiss, and I will go to where his body was dumped.”

“Where am I going?” you ask, ready to let the annoyance seep into your words.

But you barely feel any annoyance at all. Because of Hotch’s reply.

“That’s your decision,” he says softly. “It’s up to you. We’ve always known this case was closely connected to you, but it’s getting closer. You can go with Dave to the precinct, come with me to the crime scene, or I can have the pilot take you back to Quantico. I can arrange for agents to escort you and you can work at the BAU office with Garcia. But it’s up to you.”

You blink. He’s not saying any of this in a frustrated way. No, it’s genuine. It’s caring.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “If it’s alright, I’d like to go to the crime scene.”

Hotch nods, his eyes unreadable. “That’s fine.” After another beat of silence, he glances at his watch and sighs. “We’ve got roughly forty-five minutes left in the air. If anyone needs sleep, I recommend you do so now. I’m not sure when we’ll check into a hotel.”

Or if we’ll sleep at all, you add in your head to yourself. You don’t see yourself getting a single second of sleep until you catch this unsub.

Garcia hangs up and everyone disperses, curling into seats and couches in desperate attempts to catch just a little rest.

You and Hotch don’t move from your spots.

Well, you don’t move. He does. It starts with him nudging your leg underneath the table. You don’t look at him. He whispers your name. You don’t even blink.

You hear him sigh before he slides out of his seat and switches sides, taking the now empty seat beside you. It makes you smile, just a little.

And then Aaron, the man that he is, is sliding down in his seat, leaning his body toward yours. You have no idea what he’s doing until you move to turn your head, and he guides you down to his shoulder.

“Sleep,” he whispers. “You need to get some rest.”

You smile, nuzzling your face into his shoulder. “You do too, you know,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says, then leans his cheek onto your head. “I will.”

You let your eyes slip closed then, but not before wrapping yourself around his arm, pulling him into you, just needing to hold onto something. Anything.

Aaron’s hand slips between your knees, the touch not at all sexual, yet somehow more intimate. The level of comfort he’s providing, how easily he fits into your space, how right his body feels when it fits to yours, not even in a sexual manner. This is just the two of you existing, trying to squeeze in some sleep before everything else crashes down around you, and it’s perfect. It’s as easy as breathing.

[honeypiehotchner]

i’m realizing i never watched cm 3x18 “the crossing” bc this scene between rossi and hotch about divorce is brand new to me and YEOWCH

i know rossi didn’t mean it in that way about “maybe if i had kids i would’ve tried harder” (implying that hotch didn’t try) but 😬😬😬 dave it def came across that way

also i love hotch. we all know this. but oof jesus christ “i gave everything to haley and jack and my job” “well, something had to give”

something had to give. and it wasn’t going to be the job. because it would never be the job. because his job is always his first priority (at least at the current moment in the show) and that—

i love u hotch but sometimes i want to strangle you just a little bit 🫶🏻

[honeypiehotchner]

In light of recent news.

[honeypiehotchner]

CRIMINAL MINDS 4.03 'Minimal Loss'

[honeypiehotchner]

HAHAHSHDJHS THIS PICTURE 😭😭😭

queuing the next chapter for tomorrow 🤭🤭🤭

The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part twenty-nine

Well well well 😏😏😏

Warnings: oh dear god where do we begin, stop reading rn if you want to be surprised (/srs), A (not) DATE PT 2????, this is not heavy smut but still mdni 18+ only pls n thx, heavy petting, making out like horny teenagers, grinding, hands just everywhere and yet nowhere

You stretch your arms above your head so hard that your spine cracks. Aaron’s eyes flick to yours with an amused glint. 

“What?” you laugh, your arms dropping to your sides. “We’ve been at this for hours.”

You have, even though you said you didn’t want to think about it. But it just pulled you to it, like it always does, and the two of you clearly needed something you could both focus on that wasn’t…awkward.

Or whatever the weird tension you’ve got going on right now is called. It’s been simmering below the surface ever since he came in from his call with Haley. And it’s only gotten worse as the two of you have rehashed the details of the case, occasionally bumping hands when you both go to point at a sentence at the same time. Brushing arms when you step just a little too close. Your faces occasionally just inches away when you turn to reach across the table.

Or, the most damning, when Aaron goes to walk around you, to a separate pile on the table, and he places a gentle hand on your waist as he goes. Your breath hitches just slightly, feeling his fingertips there, only your thin shirt separating him from your skin.

You turn your head to look up at him as he settles at the pile he was looking for. He glances just briefly at you, but the smile you share is genuine.

And you both move on. You go back to discussing the case. Discussing what’s comfortable.

What interrupts you a while later is Aaron’s stomach growling. Loudly.

“Okay, come on,” you laugh, shoving his arm. “We have to take a break.”

He’s still leaning onto his hands on the table, and he hangs his head with a laugh shaking his shoulders. “Right. Okay. What time is it?”

“You’re the one with a watch?”

He gives you a sideways glare, turning his arm to check. He curses. “It’s almost four.” He pauses. “Why don’t you ever wear a watch?”

You smirk. “Why would I, when I can pester you instead?”

“Right,” he chuckles, rolling his eyes good naturedly. “Should we call it for tonight?”

“At least so we can figure out something to eat,” you say. “What are we ordering?”

“What, you don’t want to destroy Rossi’s kitchen?”

“Not exactly in the mood for shitty pasta, no,” you laugh. “Trust me, it would not go well.”

Aaron straightens up, shrugging. “How hard can it be?”

You give him an incredulous look.

+++

Turns out, it’s extremely hard to make pasta from scratch without David Rossi’s expertise. Aaron even tries calling Rossi at one point out of sheer desperation, but it goes straight to voicemail.

“He’s probably in a meeting,” Aaron says.

“Told you,” you mutter with a laugh, scraping the failed pasta mixture into the trash. “It’s a lot harder than it looks.”

“Okay, you win,” Aaron replies, though he doesn’t sound happy about it. Part of him knew it wouldn’t work, but he still wanted to try. It was still fun to try with you. “Still want Italian?”

“Sure,” you shrug, reaching down for some paper towels to wipe the counter down. “There’s a place not far that Rossi loves, he knows the owner.”

“I know the place,” Aaron says. “I’ll order. Your usual?”

His chest warms and expands when you look up at him and nod, a soft smile on your lips. “Yeah. Please.”

“Got it,” he nods, grabbing his phone from the counter to search up the place.

He walks over to the dining room to take the call, eyes scanning the files as the line rings. Eventually, it connects. He places the order and then—

“Is this a romantic dinner?”

Aaron sputters. “No, it’s— It’s just a dinner.”

The man chuckles. Definitely a friend of Dave’s. “Sure thing. It’ll be over in forty-five minutes.”

“Thanks,” Aaron says, shaking his head.

He glances back at the table. It’s not a romantic dinner.

But it is dinner. And it's pasta, and bread, and wine. It’s not pizza. So you two should eat at the table. Just to make it easier.

That’s all.

So, he pockets his phone and begins to clear the table off. He keeps the piles separate, especially the newer ones that you made, stacking them at angles so they’re neat. He hears your footsteps coming closer, lifting his head to meet your quizzical gaze.

“What are you doing?” You don’t sound angry, mostly amused, even if a bit confused.

“I figured we should eat at the table, like civilized human beings,” he jokes. “I ordered our usuals, and some garlic bread. And some wine.”

“What, Rossi’s wine isn’t good enough for you?”

“No, it’s fine,” he laughs. “They uh…insisted.”

“Insisted?” You raise an eyebrow. “Lemme guess, they thought it was a date.”

Aaron lets out a nervous laugh, and he can’t look at you. He can practically feel his neck heating up. He just continues stacking the files.

“Guess I’ll go put something nice on, then,” you say, ever so nonchalantly. “You know, since it’s a date.”

Aaron turns his head toward you, trying to figure out if you’re joking with him still. If you’re just messing with him.

But your face is dead serious, a little smirk tugging at your lips, and you flash him a wink before you turn and head up the stairs.

His lungs forget how to work. His heart, too. It won’t stop trying to jump out of his chest.

He turns back to the table, the last few files waiting for him. 

Shit. If this is a date, he needs to fix this. He needs some sort of table runner, candles, wine glasses, forks, knives.

He practically jumps into action, glad you’re upstairs getting ready so you aren’t witnessing him running around like a madman to gather everything. He hasn’t been on a date in years. What the hell is he supposed to do, if this truly is one?

This is not how he expected this weekend to go — let alone tonight.

Dave is absolutely never going to let him live this down.

+++

What the ever-loving fuck is wrong with you?

You stare at yourself incredulously in the mirror, throwing your hands up at yourself. Did you seriously just joke with him about the restaurant thinking it’s a date? And then seriously tell him that if it is, you need to look nice?

You don’t even have anything nice to wear here. You have work clothes, and pajamas, and some casual clothes, but you don’t have anything nice. Not nice like you’d wear on a dinner date.

Oh my god. You have lost your mind.

You settle on the nicest (ish) thing you can find at the bottom of your suitcase. You still have yet to actually unpack your clothes here, aside from your work clothes that you don’t want to get wrinkled.

You fix your hair and makeup in the bathroom mirror. You want to walk the line of looking like you’re trying but not trying too hard. Yes, this might be a date. If it is, you want to look nice. If it isn’t, you don’t want to look like a complete idiot.

This is a bad idea. This is the worst idea you’ve ever had.

Or it’s the best one. And it’s scaring you because you’re excited.

You sigh at yourself. Get a grip.

You hear the doorbell and decide you’ve taken long enough, so you pull yourself together and head downstairs.

Aaron is setting the table when you reach the dining room. You take a moment just to admire him. He’s changed clothes, too. Still in his dark jeans, but his t-shirt was swapped for his black dress shirt. He styled his hair.

He’s so handsome. You’ve always known it. You’ve just never let yourself really admit it before, you guess.

When he finally turns toward you, his jaw drops just a little. His breathing stops.

“Hey,” you say, dumbly, trying (and failing) not to smile. “Dinner ready?”

“Yeah,” he says, gesturing to the table where he’s plated your entrees and poured some wine. “Here.” 

You watch curiously as he turns and pulls a chair out for you, the one at the head of the table. Slowly, you step forward and take a seat, letting him push you in.

“Thank you,” you murmur as he takes the seat to your left. You’re glad you’re not sitting at opposite ends of the table; that would be too awkward. It’s much easier like this, next to one another. “You look nice, by the way.”

“Thanks,” he smiles, reaching for the basket of bread. “You look…breathtaking.”

You let out a choked noise of surprise, so involuntary that there was no chance at hiding it. “Um. Thank you.” You take a piece and immediately take a bite.

He laughs, taking his own piece. “Did I shock you?”

“Maybe just a little,” you admit. “Thanks for ordering.”

“No problem,” he says. “Least I could do after the disaster.”

“I told you it wouldn’t work!”

“Yeah, yeah, you did,” he shakes his head with a smile. “I didn’t listen.”

“You never do,” you joke, stabbing a few pieces of pasta.

Dinner is easy. Easier than you ever thought it would be, but neither of you mention the “date” part again. It would just ruin the comfortable conversation. Because then you’d have to talk about it being a date, and that’s not something you can do. At all.

Neither of you drink much wine. One glass, maybe another half, but not more. You want to remember this. 

Maybe he does too.

When the food has run out, you move to the couch, taking the wine with you.

“The couch is more comfortable,” you say, setting everything down on the coffee table. Aaron hesitates beside the chair. “Don’t be awkward and sit over there, come here.”

He looks like he wants to argue with you on it, but he doesn’t. He sits next to you, but he does put some space between the two of you. Not much, but noticeable enough.

You don’t comment on it, though. 

You tuck your legs underneath you, turning your body just barely toward Aaron’s next to you. He’s facing forward, but he’s watching you. Almost like he’s trying to predict your next move.

Unfortunately for him, you don’t even know what you’re doing.

Except that you kind of do.

You lean one elbow onto the arm of the couch, propping your head up as you look at him. “Thank you for today.”

He turns toward you this time, stretching one arm across the back of the couch. “What about?”

You shrug, smiling at him. “Just— It was a good day. I haven’t had a good day in a long time, not like this.”

Sadness crosses his face, but so does something else, something you can’t place. “I’m glad it was good.”

“Did you have a good time?” you ask, suddenly a little too self-conscious and wondering if you’ve just been annoying him this entire time. That he’s only been putting up with it, and you, because he sort of has no choice.

He squashes all worry instantly, though. “Of course I did,” he says, voice shaking just a little. “You have no idea.”

“You could tell me,” you murmur. 

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, I— I don’t want to cross a line or—”

You drop your hand to rest on top of his on the back of the couch. His eyes immediately find yours, confusion swimming there, some disbelief too, like he just can’t believe that your hand has found his. 

You wrap your fingers around his. “You’re not crossing a line. I’m asking.”

He breathes deeply, like he needs as much oxygen as he can get. Like it still isn’t enough. “I wouldn’t know how to put it into words.”

You squeeze his hand, whispering, “Then show me.”

His eyes bore into yours, almost like he’s making sure you’re certain. You stare back at him, your gaze unwavering. You’re serious. He has to be able to see that.

He does.

He moves closer, closer, pauses just breaths away from your face. 

You keep watching him, unable to take the suspense. You give a small smile, hoping it’s the reassurance he needs. “Aaron…”

It’s all he needs to hear, apparently. With almost zero hesitation this time, his hand cups your jaw and he brings your lips to his. He moves slowly, savoring, coaxing, and you’re putty in his hands.

A tentative bite on your bottom lip has you whimpering, and when your mouth opens, he takes the opportunity, tongue meeting yours. It sets something off inside of you. Your hands that had once been idle now move, desperate, grasping for some sort of grounding. One finds home on his bicep, the other tangling in his hair, tugging.

Aaron almost growls into the kiss when your hands find his skin. He shifts, hands gripping your hips and hauling you onto his lap so you’re straddling him. You melt into him, wanting, needing to be closer.

His hands pull you into him, and it isn’t long before you feel why. It’s just like before. You in his lap, him hardening beneath you. You smirk into the kiss and he feels it, nipping at your lip again.

“What are you smiling about?” he asks, breathless, no doubt already knowing your answer.

“Nothing,” you giggle, pressing your hips down harder, widening your legs. “Someone’s enjoying this.”

He moans, low in his throat, breaking off into an almost hysterical laugh. “You drive me crazy.”

“I know,” you whisper, lips attacking his, taking the lead now, and he lets you. His moans are beautiful melodies to your ears, and you want more, so you move to his neck, finding out just how sensitive he is there when his fingers tighten on your hips. He just might bruise you, and it’ll be the prettiest sight. 

His hands move, arms wrapping tightly around your waist, clinging to you as you kiss and suck at his neck. 

“God,” he breathes. One hand comes up to rest on the back of your head and you grin. His hand lowers to the back of your neck, just barely holding you there, using his grip to lift your face back to his. “You.” 

“What about me?” you ask in between kisses. He’s taken the lead again, and he is not giving you any time to catch your breath or even think. “Fuck.”

“Exactly,” Aaron almost snaps at you, all teeth as he kisses you, hand just barely squeezing on the sides of your neck. “You drive me insane. You—” He pauses to kiss you long and slow, dragging it out, like he’s savoring the taste of you. When he stops, he leans his forehead against yours. “You make me feel like I— Like I have no control over anything—”

You nod against his head. You know. You get it. You feel the same.

“You make me lose my control,” he continues, still breathless, still pausing in between words to kiss your lips, your nose, your jaw, wherever he can reach. “I don’t know if I can hold onto it—”

“So lose it,” you say, not caring, and starting to rock your hips again as you kiss him, desperate. “Please.”

He’s still fighting it, and you don’t know how to get him to break through it. So you just keep doing what feels good, kissing each other senseless, going where he guides you with one hand on your waist and one on your neck. 

Your hands wander just a little lower, getting to his belt, and he guides you backwards, giving you more room to unbuckle it. And to unbutton his jeans. He hisses when your hand goes under the band of his boxers, just to feel his skin. You don’t move any further than that, not wanting to push him, not knowing what it is that’s holding him back.

You sigh into his mouth, letting out a happy whimper when he rocks you harder against his erection, tongue coaxing yours softly.

“Aaron,” you gasp.

“I know,” he whispers, the hand on your waist moving under your shirt, finally touching your skin, finally cupping your breasts. “I know, honey.”

“Please,” you murmur, hands wandering again, this time under his shirt, lightly scratching at his back. “Take me upstairs.”

He groans into your mouth, kissing you harder, slowing to a stop for both of you to catch your breath.

“Please,” you say again, not sure how much begging you have left in you. “Aaron—”

“Wait.”

You whine again, “I can’t—”

“No, I’m serious. Wait.” Aaron lifts his head from yours, eyes looking around the room. He’s alarmed, and that look in his eyes is like a bucket of ice water over the both of you.

You’re off his lap and standing up in a second, and he’s up with you, one arm protectively stretched across you.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I thought I heard something.”

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know, stay here.”

“Hotch—” you start to say, but you stop, because he fixes you with a look telling you to stay put and stay quiet. 

You don’t even have your gun on you. Neither does Hotch, as far as you know. You’re both off the clock; your weapons are sitting, useless, in Rossi’s safe.

And now you’re standing alone in the living room, the previous minutes flashing before your eyes. The moans, the sighs, the rocking. The desperation. The urgency.

But you— He’s your boss. The two of you have never gotten along. Having the reasons out in the open doesn’t mean anything. Those confessions don’t mean the two of you are meant for each other; none of this does. 

Especially not him escaping from underneath you after you asked to take it upstairs. He practically sprinted from the room over a noise that you didn’t even hear.

You fall back onto the couch, putting your face in your hands. You’ve got mere seconds before he comes back, and you need to set both of yourselves straight when he does.

[honeypiehotchner]

back on my rewatch of cm and 3x14 "damaged" is iconic on its own HOWEVER

the seeds of unsub!hotch were planted right then and there bc holy shit the look in hotch's eyes as he's staring down chester hardwick, ready to absolutely obliterate this dude

and staring at him from the shadows while reid rambles...jesus christ hotch looks horrifying in this scene

[honeypiehotchner]

"How can you like these very toxic and horrible characters that have done despicable and unforgivable things?" oh it's quite simple actually, this is fiction and I think with my dick.

[honeypiehotchner]

I FEEL INSANE!!!!!!!!

this is so good i am salivating foaming at the mouth gnawing at the bars of my enclosure etc etc etc 😋😋😋

HANDS WHERE THEY SHOULDN'T BE

pairing: aaron hotchner x ex!reader summary: it was supposed to be sangrias in the shade, but somehow you ended up wet....in rossi's bathroom....with your ex….based on this request. warnings | an: smut 18+ MDNI, tension relief via hands.... aka fingering, mutual pining, mirror kink making an appearance AGAIN!! use of the iconic ‘it’s nothing you haven’t seen before’ line🙂‍↕️ word count: 1.4k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

You hadn’t planned on actually getting in the water. When Rossi sent out a group invite for a ‘pool party,’ you assumed it was code for day drinking in expensive shade, not full submersion. You wore sunscreen, not swimwear, which, really, was poor planning on your end. And on Morgan’s, who elbowed you mid-sip, accidentally sending you plunging into the deep end of Rossi’s pool.

To be fair, you probably needed the cool-down. Rossi’s extra-strong sangria had been heating your body and face at an alarming rate, your skin prickling with that telltale flush of warmth that showed up whenever you were too hot or thought too hard about your ex-slash-boss in a navy polo (both of which were happening currently, all at once.)

Still, you could’ve done without the saturated walk to the bathroom, waterlogged, dripping, and tasting chlorine behind your teeth, your flip flops letting out a series of humiliating squelches that echoed like applause for your misfortune. 

Rossi’s guest bathroom was absurdly nice. Bigger than your first apartment and, if you were being honest, not miles off from beating your current one which you considered an upgrade. Though now, standing in the gleaming expanse of marble and mood lighting, your so-called upgrade felt more akin to the BAUs printer room.

Your reflection was…questionable. Your hair clung to every piece of skin it could claim and your eyeliner left faint bruises beneath your eyes. You grabbed a cotton pad from one of those silly little acrylic containers, and began undoing the damage to your makeup which stood no chance against Morgan’s clumsiness. 

A soft knock on the door interrupted your ministrations. 

“Better be a bottle of wine from Rossi’s cellar in your hand,” you called out, “because that’s the only form of apology I’m accepting from you.”

There was a pause.

“I can offer a towel.”

Definitely not Morgan.

“Hotch?”

“Are you decent?” he asked, tone infuriatingly polite. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” you blurted out, way too quickly.  “Sure.”

You reached for the door handle and opened it a few inches. He stood there, holding a neatly folded towel with both hands like the six perfectly rolled ones already stacked on the shelf somehow weren’t up to par. 

He handed the fluffy thing over wordlessly, his fingers brushing yours in the exchange.

“Thanks,” you murmured, using it to blot the water beading at your neck.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He took a step closer. “Did you hit your head?”

You shook your head, showing him that it was still attached and mobile. “No. Just slipped in gracelessly, that’s all.”

He nodded, his eyes cataloguing you. You dabbed the towel along your collarbone, suddenly aware of the movements you could control and use to deceive him. Control the hands, control the nerves. Keep your eyes low, keep your breathing even. Pretend you’re not trying to remember what it felt like to have his mouth on your shoulder instead of cotton. 

“Could you, um…” You cleared your throat, setting the towel aside. “Undo the back of my dress? The knot’s too tight.”

He looked like he was considering your request with caution. His eyes dropped briefly to the damp straps clinging to your collarbones, trailing upward in dainty lines to the knot at your nape, fabric embedded gently in skin.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” The phrase tumbled out carelessly, making you cringe a little.

“Turn around,” he said softly. 

You turned like he asked, gathering your hair to one side and exposed the knot at the back of your neck. In the mirror, you caught him stepping closer, his warmth already bleeding into your skin, a feeling that pulled you straight back to all the times he’d sneak up behind you mid–morning coffee, or in the evenings when you were taking off your makeup.

Your hands dropped to the counter, trying to keep the memories at bay. His fingers touched your shoulders first. Almost tracing the straps of your dress, as if remembering where they used to lead.

You held your breath. 

He worked on the knot with the same precision you’d watched him exude in everything he did, a reminder of how deeply it lived in him, spilling into even the most simple tasks. The fabric loosened quickly under his fingers, the damp straps slipping free from the bow. You felt the front of your dress begin to slide—not all at once—peeling away in the more precarious places, clinging stubbornly to the rest.

Your hand shot up to your chest, clutching the fabric against you. 

Hotch stilled. 

His hand hovered near your shoulder, caught between choices with vastly different outcomes. Then, slowly, he let his fingers brush the curve of your arm. His touch traced up, settling at your shoulder. 

He stepped closer, and then his lips were on your skin, just below your neck.

A kiss. Then another, lower.

It might’ve seemed unlike him, if you hadn’t already seen every side of him. Words could’ve been cleaner than this, less complicated, but they’d never come easy to either of you. So you chose to believe that this was his way of speaking, of saying I missed you, without letting it tremble in his throat. 

You let your hand fall, the dress slipping completely. The air got to your skin before he did, a cool breath across your chest, followed by the warmth of his palms as he cupped one of your breasts, the other sliding around your waist and pulling you to him until there was no space left. 

Your head tilted back, resting on his shoulder. You reached one hand behind you, finding his cheek, holding him there as his mouth worked its way down your neck. He leaned into the touch, into you, his hips pressing forward.

The hand at your waist shifted, gathering damp fabric in his fist, and then he was lower. Sliding between your thighs like he’d never unlearned you. His fingers found your clit and began to move in circles. You pressed your palms flat against the counter while the rest of you burned. Your eyes fluttered shut, not from modesty, but from the overwhelming feeling of being touched like this again. 

“Look,” he murmured against your ear, his breath brushing your neck. “Open your eyes.”

You obeyed just as your other hand reached for his thigh, gripping him as he began to pick up the pace. 

“Still know what you like.”

“Yeah,” you managed, tilting your head to the side, giving him more of your neck, your shoulder, whatever he wanted. “You never forgot.”

“Not once.”

Your eyes flicked back to the mirror, to the image of yourself, the image of him working you over and through. “You always did like watching.” 

“Only when it’s you.”

You would’ve scolded him for that comment, because he wasn’t allowed to say things like that anymore. But clearly neither of you were great at following boundaries, your current predicament becoming your prime example. You felt his fingers grab your waist a little tighter, like he couldn't believe you were his again, even if it was only for now. 

Then your balance wavered as he slid his fingers inside you, one, then another, your mouth conjuring a moan before you had the chance to stop it. You could feel yourself getting close, the release edging up fast after months without anything that didn’t start and end with your own hands. 

“Right there, isn’t it?” he asked, fingers curling in a way that made it impossible to answer. All you could do was nod, over and over again until his name tore from your lips as you came. 

His palm braced against your stomach, keeping you upright as your body bowed forward. He didn’t say anything, just gave you a minute to collect your bearings. And when your breathing started to even out, you felt him reach around you, gathering the straps of your dress that had fallen before he retied the knot at your neck. The same one you’d asked him to undo. Go figure.

A knock at the door brought the two of you back to reality, causing you both to stiffen.

“Everything okay in there?” Emily’s voice called.

“Yeah,” you answered, mid cough. “All good. Be out in a sec!”

There was a pause, just long enough to think she’d walked away, before you heard her add, “Will that be both of you?”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley @wowitsafemale @cinnamoncunt @keiminds @mggslover @iyskgd @Mystic-rox @insured-by-the-mafia

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[honeypiehotchner]

ch. 32 of the gambit is going to be so long oh my god (usually they're around 3k words...this one is almost 4k and i'm not done...because they're Doing Things)

[honeypiehotchner]

not an ask but i LOVE your autistic reader works i feel so seen! 😽😽😽😽😽

thank you so much!!! i want to do more autistic!reader, it’s so therapeutic to write, so i’m glad it makes you feel seen!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

[honeypiehotchner]

The gif you used of Hotch in c.27 of The Gambit is something that both makes me giggle. he's got full range of his facial expressions all right

that gif is too good!! i love that scene in general but esp for aaron’s facial expressions 🤭🤭🤭