hotchsmutrecs

[hotchsmutrecs]

Filthier Flat-Pack Thoughts

18+ MDNI pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: your boss rejects you the first time but what happens when he's the one in charge? (part 2 of Filthy Flat-Pack Thoughts, but can be read as a standalone) warnings: baso porn w/o plot, hotch has a filthy mouth, reader and hotch both have a thing for mirrors... p in v sex, fingering, idk man i got carried away, enjoy xx (not proof read, dont come for me) word count: 5.6k ✧ masterlist

You had taken the coward’s way out when Monday came. But really, what else were you supposed to do after throwing yourself at your boss and getting let down?

So, instead of facing the consequences of your actions – or worse, facing him – you sent Hotch a text claiming you weren’t feeling well and asked if you could use your PTO for the day.

He didn’t respond. Not directly, at least. But just before the usual morning briefing, Garcia had texted you.

Feel better soon, sunshine!!!

Accompanied by enough emojis to make your head spin. Which meant he must have told them. Which meant that it was fine. And yet, the thought of him seeing your message, reading it, and choosing not to reply left a pit in your stomach that you weren’t ready to unpack.

You just needed one more day.

One more day to shake off the mortification, to stop replaying every humiliating second of Friday night in your head, to convince yourself that come Tuesday, you would walk into work and pretend none of it ever happened.

You didn’t want the day to go to waste so you tried to be productive, throwing yourself into the thing that would keep your hands and mind occupied - finally unpacking.

And you had mostly succeeded.

Most of your boxes were empty, your things finally finding a place in your new home, and after an embarrassing amount of time, you had even managed to put together your bedside table. But despite the distraction, despite the minor victory of assembling furniture without Hotch’s help, the second you sat down, exhaustion settling deep into your bones, it was still there.

That awful, gnawing awareness that sooner or later you were going to have to face him.

You decided that a hot shower might help wash away the lingering shame clinging to your skin. You turned the water up almost too hot, as you stood under the shower head, hands pressed against the cool tiles.

It was fine.

You just needed to stop overthinking it. Hotch wasn’t cruel. He had let you down gently. He had done the right thing. So why did your stomach still twist at the memory of it?

By the time you stepped out, your body felt warm, relaxed - your mind, less so. You pulled on one of your softer, more delicate chemises – a small indulgence in comfort you desperate needed. Then, with a sigh, you settled onto the couch, grabbing your phone and tapping through your contacts.

Garcia picked up on the second ring.

“Ah, my fallen soldier! How are we holding up?”

You groaned, shifting on the couch, tucking your legs beneath you. “I’m fine, Pen. Just taking a day to recover.”

“As you should, my dear. Self-care is critical after a weekend of… whatever happened that has you hiding away.”

You rolled your eyes, stretching out against the cushions. “Moving, Penelope. Moving has be hiding away. It is truly an exhausting process.”

Garcia hummed, evidently not convinced by your little white lie. “Well, boss man seems exhausted too. Or just very tense and broody. I can’t tell anymore, his scowls are all starting to blend together. Did he maybe pull a muscle helping you with your furniture or something?”

Your stomach dropped.

“Penelope -” you started, only to be cut off by a knock at your door.

You froze.

“Okay, who have you sent to my door this time?” you muttered, pushing yourself up from the sofa.

“Excuse me? I’ll have you know I’m not the mastermind behind all surprise visitors.”

You didn’t believe her for a second.

Still, you pulled on your robe, tugging it over your chemise as you made your way to the door. The fabric felt softer than usual, almost fragile, like it wasn’t quite enough of a barrier between you and what was waiting on the other side.

Balancing your phone between your ear and shoulder, you tied a loose knot at your waist, fingers fidgeting with the belt as Garcia sighed dramatically on the other end.

“Well? Who is it? Spill.”

Your hand hesitated over the lock, a second of hesitation turning into two, three, before you finally turned the knob and pulled the door open.

Your stomach plummeted.

Because there he was.

Aaron Hotchner.

Standing on your doorstep – again. Looking every bit like the man you had spent the last two days trying to avoid, trying to forget, trying not to replay in your head on a never-ending loop.

“Let me call you back, Garcia,” you murmured absentmindedly, already pulling the phone away from your ear, hanging up before she could even think to respond.

Because right now, the last thing you needed was an audience.

You barely registered the sound of the line disconnecting, too focused on the man standing in front of you. Hotch didn’t speak right away, didn’t explain why he was here, didn’t offer you anything to ease the knot forming in your stomach.

He just watched you, which was almost worse.

You had been bracing yourself for tomorrow, telling yourself that by then, the weight of everything would have settled just enough for you to fake your way through the awkwardness, to act like Friday night had never happened.

But here he was. Now. And the fragile plan you’d built to protect yourself had just gone up in flames.

“Can we sit?”

His voice was softer than you expected. Softer than you were ready for.

You pressed your lips together, shifting on your feet, your fingers tightening around the knot of your robe, grounding yourself in the feel of the fabric, something real to hold onto.

A moment passed before you finally stepped aside, nodding slightly.

"Yeah."

Your lips pressed together as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, your fingers tightening around the knot of your robe.

He moved toward the couch, and you should have followed.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you lingered near the doorway, arms crossing over your chest, putting space between you. An invisible barrier, as if it could protect you from whatever was about to come next Hotch noticed, of course he did. His gaze flicked over you, reading every tiny shift in your posture, every hesitation, every instinct to put distance between you.

And still, he didn’t push. Not until he settled on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Sit, angel."

It was the way he said it – so soft, so steady – that you almost weren’t sure you’d heard him right. You sighed, resigned to the fact that there was no avoiding this conversation and lowered yourself onto the couch, leaving enough space between you.

A brief pause stretched between you. He was studying you, assessing you, trying to read you. And you suddenly felt so exposed despite the layers of fabric now separating you from him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his tone feeling dangerously close to concern.

You let out a small, dry laugh, shaking your head. “You came all this way to ask me that?”

“Did you take today off because of what happened Friday?” he countered your question with another, leaning forward.

You expected the question, but hearing it out loud – acknowledging it – made you ache all over again. You dropped your gaze, fingers toying with the edge of your robe, avoiding his eyes like that somehow could make this easier. “I just… needed a day.”

Hotch nodded like he understood, like he had already known the answer before you even said it. His expression softened, and when he spoke again, it was even gentler than before.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” you said quickly, too quickly.

Hotch didn’t look convinced, your name falling from his lips.

“I mean it,” you continued, making yourself sound certain. Trying to convince yourself as much as him. “You were kind, Hotch. You let me down in the nicest way possible. I appreciate that.”

“But –”

“I just needed today to clear my head,” you cut him off. “To remind myself that you were right.”

His brows furrowed. “Right?”

You let out a quiet, humourless laugh, dropping your eyes to your lap again. "That Friday night wasn't... real," you murmured, more to yourself than him. "It was stress and exhaustion and maybe a little too much wine. I let it get the best of me. It was a mistake."

The silence that followed was too long. Your fingers curled into the fabric of your robe, waiting for him to agree, to tell you that yes, it was a mistake, that it shouldn’t have happened, that you were right.

“Is that what you think?”

You looked up, brows pinching in confusion. “I mean…” You faltered, searching his face but it gave nothing away. “It was a mistake, wasn’t it?”

Hotch let out a breath, his fingers pressing into his thigh. “It wouldn’t have been right,” he said finally.

Maybe that should have been enough of an answer, maybe you should have left it alone. But you didn’t. Because something about the way he said it, the way his voice dipped slightly, made your stomach tighten, made the words slip out before you could stop them.

“That’s not the same as saying you didn’t want it.”

The moment they left your lips, you wished you could take them back.

His jaw clenched, his muscle ticking once.

And just as you started to convince yourself you had imagined this whole exchange, just as you prepared to backpedal, to fill the silence with some half-hearted attempt at smoothing things over, the most beautifully damning words falling from this mouth -

“I did want it.”

The air left your lungs in a sharp, breathless rush and you felt the room tilt.

“Then…why –”

“Because you deserved better than that.”

His words were firm, absolute, wrapped in the same conviction he carried into every case, every impossible decision.

“Hotch –”

“You’d been drinking,” he continued. “You’d had a long week and I know how quickly having too many things lined up at once overwhelms you.”

That sentence alone was enough to unravel you because he really did know you. He knew how your mind worked, knew how pressure built inside you until it spilled over.

“And I would have spent the entire next day wondering if I’d just taken advantage of you.”

Your throat tightened at the quiet honesty in his words, at the careful way he measured them, as if he had thought about this. As if it had sat with him just as much as it had with you.

And fuck, you didn't know what to do with that.

“You wouldn’t have. I didn’t need to be drunk to know that I want –” you hesitated, “–wanted you.”

He looked up at you, like he was weighing every single word you’d just spoken, turning them over in his mind like pebbles, making sure he heard you right.

“And what do you want now?” he asked lowly.

He was giving you the choice. No leading words. No hidden meaning. Just a simple, open-ended question.

Your stomach twisted, nerves and something warmer curling in your chest, in your belly, in the space between your ribs.

"You," you admitted, barely above a breath. "I still want you."

He nodded slowly. “Then take me to your bedroom.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d even heard him right, but the look on his face told you that you had. A sharp pulse of awareness ran through you, so strong it made your fingers clench into the fabric of your robe. You weren't sure you'd even be stable on your feet after hearing those words from his mouth, but you were sure as hell going to try.

Before you could move, he stood first. Your eyes followed the movement, unable to look away as he shrugged off his jacket, the rustle of fabric filling the space between you. Then came the cufflinks – carefully removed, set aside-before he rolled up his sleeves, revealing the strong lines of his forearms, the flex of muscle, the way his veins shifted beneath his skin.

And then, he reached for you. His hand open, waiting. Your gaze flickered up to his, searching, but all you found was patience and certainty.

“Only if you’re sure.”

Your fingers tightened around his.

You were sure. So damn sure.

You rose to your feet, and the moment you did, his other hand moved to undo the knot of your robe. His fingers worked it loose, the tie slipping free with ease, his breath coming just a fraction heavier as the fabric parted, revealing the delicate, pale pink lace beneath.

His tongue darted out, wetting his lips as his eyes dragged over you, taking you in inch by inch, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorize every detail.

And then he nodded toward the hallway. “After you.”

You turned, leading him down the hall, toward the first door on the right.

The soft glow from your bedside lamp spilled into the room, casting warm shadows against the walls. You silently thanked your past self for leaving it on –it was just enough light to see him, to see this, without feeling too exposed.

Pushing the door open, you stepped inside, moving toward the end of the bed. You didn't speak, didn't need to. You just waited, for his next instructions, for his next move.

Hotch's eyes swept over the room, taking everything in. It was still bare, not yet lived in, not yet filled with you –a work in progress, much like the two of you.

But then his gaze snagged on something. The full length mirror that rested against the wall, directly opposite your bed. You saw the moment he noticed it—the slight shift in his stance, the way his lips twitched, like he was already picturing something.

And then he moved.

Came to stand behind you, his hands finding your shoulders, warm and sure, guiding you just slightly until you were perfectly centered in front of it.

“That’s a very pretty mirror.”

Your eyes tracked every movement through the reflection, mouth parting, but for once you had no words. Then his lips brushed against your hair, barely there, but the heat of it lingered, seeping into your skin, into your bones, branding itself in a way you knew you wouldn’t be able to shake.

“Did you put it there so you could watch while you touched yourself?”

A slow, molten heat curled through you, pooling deep in your belly, spreading down between your thighs. Your legs tensed on instinct, pressing together as his fingers traced over the bare skin of your arms, feather-light, teasing, making you ache.

“Hm, sweet angel?”

You nodded meekly, biting down on your lip to supress the moan threatening to escape – one he had earned with nothing more than words.

“Did you do it after I left?”

Your sharp inhale gave you away, your body betraying you before you could even think of forming a response. Your back arched into him, fingers twitching as he intertwined them with his own, lips grazing the slope of your shoulder.

The mirror didn’t lie. You looked ruined already and he had barely touched you.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Use that pretty mouth before I find something else to do with it.”

That didn’t sound like the worst idea in the world.

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed. “Aaron, please.”

A slow, satisfied hum rumbled against your back as his hands finally moved higher, fingers ghosting over your nipples.

“Did you start from here?”

You felt dizzy. So dizzy that if you weren’t leaning into him, if he wasn’t holding you up, you were sure you would’ve collapsed. His right hand drifted lower, tracing the outside of your thigh while his left gripped you tighter, his palm kneading into your flesh.

“Or did you start with your thighs?”

You could feel his smirk against you skin, could see it in his reflection – the way his dark eyes met yours in the mirror, the way his lips curled at the edges as his fingers edged higher, inching toward the heat between your legs.

The fabric of your slip bunched up in his fist, silk riding up your thighs, baring you to him, exposing your lace panties.

Hotch exhaled slowly, watching the way the delicate material clung to your body.

“Show me, pretty girl.” His fingers flexed against your thigh, his grip firmer now. “I want to see what I missed out on.”

You looked at him through the mirror, eyes wide, lips parted in a soft pout because he couldn’t possibly be asking you to do this. Could he?

“Don’t make me ask again.”

Your thighs instinctively pressed together again, only to be met with his hand keeping them apart. A breathless sound escaped you, your body betraying you yet again, and his smirk deepened.

You knew what he wanted. And so, with shaky fingers, you moved your hand. His grip loosened slightly, giving you just enough space for your fingers to brush over the lace at the apex of your thighs.

“Atta girl.” His lips skimmed the curve of your jaw. “Show me. Show me how you thought of me.”

Your lashes fluttered, breath catching as your fingers dipped beneath the lace. Maybe it was a good thing it was your own touch and not his, because if he felt how wet you were, if he had proof of just how much you wanted him, it would only feed into his smugness.

And you weren’t sure you could survive that.

Hotch hummed in satisfaction, his right hand trailing up, covering yours, guiding it, controlling it as you started rubbing slow circles over your clit. His touch wasn’t hurried. Wasn’t forceful. It was intentional, like he wanted you to feel every second of this – feel what it was like to have his hand over yours, dictating the rhythm, deciding exactly how much pleasure you were allowed to take.

“Did you say my name?” he asked, voice rough. “Did you pretend it was me?”

Your lips parted, a desperate, needy noise slipping past them, your body trembling as he watched.

“Look at yourself.”

You forced your heavy eyes open, meeting your own reflection and you barely recognised yourself. Your body was trembling against his, your slip bunched at your waist, panties pushed aside, thighs twitching as you fought for air.

“What do you see, angel?”

Your breath hitched, your fingers faltering as his words wrapped around you, sinking deep into your stomach.

“I see a pretty girl who falls apart the second I tell her to.”

Your entire body shook. A fresh whimper broke free, your knees threatening to give out as his left hand tightened at your waist, keeping you upright, keeping you his.

“Please, Aaron –” Your voice was wrecked, desperate. “I don’t think I can keep going.”

His exhale was slow, like he was savouring the sound of you breaking. “Oh, sweetheart. Do you want me to take over?”

You nodded feverishly, too fast, your entire body screaming for relief. “P-please. I need you to.”

His grip on your wrist loosened enough for you to pull your hand away as he replaced it with his own. And then – God help you – his fingers moved.

A slow, deliberate drag through your slick folds, teasing, testing, until he found exactly what he was looking for. His touch was immediate and so much better than your own. A broken moan slipped past your lips, your head falling back onto his shoulder as your thighs quivered, struggling to hold yourself up.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice rich with satisfaction, like he had known this would happen. “So much better when I do it for you, isn’t it?”

Your only response was a chocked sob, your hands grasping at his forearm, nails digging in, pleading.

You felt him smile against your skin. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

His pace quickened, precise and devastating, and you pressed into him – your body instinctively seeking more, needing all of him. And that’s when you felt it. The undeniable proof of what the sight of you like this had done to him. The thick, hard press of his arousal against the curve of your ass, straining against his slacks.

A fresh wave of heat rolled through you, a cry slipping past your lips before you could stop it.

Hotch groaned – actually groaned – his hips pressing forward, just enough to let you feel him.

“You feel that? That’s what you do to me, angel.”

Your breath hiccupped, tears burning at the corners of your eyes, your thighs clamping around his wrist, body trembling on the edge of something catastrophic.

“Aaron –”

“Be a good girl for me, hm? Come for me.”

And you did.

Your body tensed, your back arched, and then you shattered, a strangled sob escaping your lips as he worked you through it, whispering low, filthy praises into your ear, his grip never faltering.

Your body slumped against his, boneless, spent, your breathing uneven as you struggled to come back down. And when your hazy eyes flickered up to meet his in the mirror, the sight made your stomach flip all over again. 

“How was that, angel?”

He knew you would never be able to touch yourself again without thinking of this. Knew he had achieved exactly what he wanted.

“Really good,” you breathed, head lolling back against his shoulder, your body still trembling from the aftershocks.

His lips curled into a knowing smile before pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Good, honey. But I’m going to need you to take everything off and get on all fours.”

Your stomach tensed.

Fuck.

He was trying to kill you.

His hands finally released you, giving you space to move, but not before he watched.

Waited.

Your fingers were unsteady as they found the hem of your slip, lifting it slowly, peeling away the last barrier between you. The silk slipped over your head, landing somewhere on the floor, followed by your underwear.

The air hit your bare skin, goosebumps trailing in its wake but it wasn’t the cold that made you shiver. It was him and the way he looked at you. You turned toward the bed, moving to crawl onto the mattress when his voice stopped you.

“Not the bed.”

You bit your lip as you turned back to face him, your pulse skittering in your throat. He was still fully dressed, still so composed when you were the exact opposite. His gaze dragged down your body at an achingly slow pace, taking his time, allowing himself to drink you in – every inch of you, every part he hadn’t gotten to see a few nights ago.

“The floor, angel. Right in front of the mirror.”

Your body burned as you complied, knees wobbling as you lowered yourself onto the floor. You positioned yourself exactly where he wanted, your palms pressing into the cool surface, your back arching slightly – offering yourself to him.

And the second you settled, the second you caught his gaze in the mirror you saw it. The way his eyes devoured you. The way his gaze landed between your thighs, locking onto your bare, glistening pussy, and the way his lips curled.

That bastard smirked.

Smirked at the mess between your legs, at what he had done to you.

You watched as he lowered himself behind you, his broad frame closing in, the warmth of his presence wrapping around you like a second skin. A sharp inhale tore through you as you felt the press of his thumb collecting the wetness from your folds, spreading it, claiming it.

And just as you started to adjust to the feeling, just as your body tried to catch up – his thumb was gone, replaced with his middle and ring finger, teasing at your entrance, then slowly, slowly pushing inside.

A sound left you, something between a gasp and a whimper, something utterly helpless, so desperate it made your skin burn.

He chuckled.

“You can use my fingers, honey. But you’re going to have to do the work.”

Your eyes snapped open, meeting his through the mirror.

He wasn’t kidding. His fingers stayed inside you, buried deep but he wasn’t moving them. Your walls clenched around him instinctively, desperate for friction, for more but he stayed still.

“Go on,” he said, his other hand pressing down on the small of your back, encouraging you. “Make yourself feel good.”

Your palms flattened against the hard surface beneath you, bracing yourself as you moved – tentative at first, a slow, testing roll of your hips as you slid down onto his fingers. The stretch had you sucking in a sharp breath, your lips parting around a whispered curse.

And he watched. His eyes never left you, locked onto your reflection in the mirror, tracking the way you rocked against his hands, the way your thighs trembled as you found your rhythm, the way you used him exactly the way he wanted you to.

But still it wasn’t enough. You needed more. You needed all of him, buried deep inside you, stretching you open in ways his fingers never could. But he wasn’t offering that, so you took what you could get. You bucked your hips harder, forcing more friction, forcing the stretch, chasing what you knew only he could give you.

A sharp cry slipped from your lips. “Fuck, Aar –”

“I know, baby.” His fingers twitched inside you, pressing just enough to make you gasp, just enough to remind you he was still in control “I know.”

And then, just as quickly, they were gone.

A desperate whimper spilled from your lips at the sudden loss, your body clenching around nothing, the emptiness leaving a sharp pang of need that made your head spin. And yet, before panic could settle in, before you could beg for him, you heard it.

The click of his belt buckle.

Your head moved up to meet his eyes in the mirror just in time to see him work the leather through the loops before letting it drop to the floor with a thud. He never broke contact as he reached for the button of his slacks, undoing it before the soft sound of his zipper filled the room.

He took his time.

Watched you squirm, watched the way your thighs could do nothing but press together.

His slacks slipped down, bunching at his feet, and then, finally, his boxers. Your pulse pounded against your ribs as he exposed himself, the tip of his cock already slick with precum, showing you just how much he wanted this – wanted you.

Once his shirt was discarded, he lowered himself back down, hands finding your waist, fingers pressing into your skin with just the right amount of pressure to remind you who you belonged to. Your back arched, your body responding before your mind could catch up, offering yourself to him in every way you knew he wanted.

You felt the hard, warm press of his cock against the back of your thigh, the slickness of it smearing against your skin, though you weren’t sure if it was from him or from you.

It didn’t matter because the next thing he was doing was dragging himself against your aching, soaked pussy. A sharp gasp tore from your lips as the thick length of him slid through your folds just enough to have you clenching around nothing.

He did it again, slow and deliberate, letting you feel him, letting the weight of his cock glide through your wetness, coating himself in it, using your own arousal to make you squirm.

"Jesus," he exhaled, his grip on your hips tightening, fingertips pressing into your skin like he was barely holding on. "So fucking wet for me, angel. You need it that bad, huh?”

The desperation in your body was humiliating, but you didn’t care. Not when he was teasing you like this, not when the heat between your legs pulsed and throbbed with every slow glide of his cock, not when he was so close to giving you what you wanted but still holding back.

“So bad, please,” you begged, pushing back against him, arching your spine, doing anything to get him where you needed. Every inch of you was trembling, every muscle coiled tight, your body nothing but pure, raw need.

He hummed, rolling his hips just enough for his tip to nudge against your entrance.

“Okay, sweet girl, okay.” His voice was gentle as he gave in. “But I need you to watch.”

His hand trailed up your spine before threading into your hair, gripping just firmly enough to tilt your head up, forcing your eyes to meet his in the mirror.

“Take a deep breath for me.”

And just as you sucked in that breath, he thrust inside you, the sudden, overwhelming stretch stealing the air from your lungs. Your fingers dug into the floor, nails scraping against the hard surface as your body jolted forward from the sheer force of it. The sensation was too much, not enough, everything all at once. Your head spun, struggling to process the way he filled you, how impossibly deep he was, how your body clenched around him, trying to adjust, trying to take him.

A ragged curse tore from his lips, his grip on your waist tightening, fingers pressing so hard into your skin that you knew you’d feel it long after this moment had passed.

His pace was slow – tortuous if you had to use one word to describe it. You watched him in in the mirror, the way his head tipped back, brows furrowed in restraint, chest rising and falling as he bottomed out inside you, taking a second to breathe before pulling back, leaving just the tip inside—before slamming back in.

A wet, filthy sound filled the room, followed by a broken sob from your lips as your body struggled to keep up with the intensity of it. The way he moved, the way he owned every inch of you, the way he was ruining you.

You didn’t know what you were begging for when his name slipped past your lips, raw and desperate. You just knew you needed it. More of him. Deeper. Harder. Just more.

"You're gonna come for me," he growled, his breath hot against your skin. "Gonna make a mess all over my cock while I fuck you through it, yeah?"

You nodded mindlessly, over and over again. “Y-yeah. Y-Yes.”

His hand slipped between your thighs, finding you clit once more, pressing down with just the right amount of pressure, unravelling you inch by inch. Your body was already trembling, barely holding on, every muscle tensed.  

And he knew it. Of course, he knew it.

He could feel it, the way you clenched around him, the way your breath caught, the way you pushed back against him like you were chasing something you were already seconds away from losing yourself to.

“Fuck, baby, your gripping me so tight.”

Your body reacted to the words, your head dropping forward, your hands curling into fists against the floor as another wave of pleasure crashed through you.

"That's it, angel," he coaxed, his fingers moving faster, his thrusts hitting deeper. "Let me have it."

You came again, your body shuddering, incoherent mumbles falling from you lips as the orgasm swallowed you whole. But it still wasn’t enough for him. If anything, feeling you fall apart only spurred him on, made him rougher, hungrier, his grip bruising as he held you there, as he used your body to chase his own release.

His movements turned sloppy, his breath uneven, each thrust deep and desperate, dragging out his pleasure just a little longer. And then – his body tensed, his hands tightening on your hips as a sharp groan ripped from his throat, your name spilling from his lips as he buried himself inside you, coming hard, filling you completely.

His hips rocked into you a few more times, slower now, savouring every last second, his breath warm against your skin, ragged and uneven as he rode out the final waves of his release.

Then, his forehead dropped to your shoulder, his lips grazing your skin. “You okay?” he whispered.

You let out a breathless, satisfied hum. “More than okay.”

His hands slid to your hips and with careful movements, he rolled you onto your back, pulling out slowly before settling you against the floor. The loss of him sent a shiver through you, but you barely had time to dwell on it before his body hovered over yours.

You stretched beneath him, your fingers trailing up his arm, tracing the muscles still tensed from holding himself back. A lazy smirk tugged at your lips as you teased, "Who knew Aaron Hotchner had such a filthy mouth?"

“Consider it payback for not wearing a bra.”

You let out a laugh. “Well if that’s payback, I might just have to start wearing short skits with no underwear at the office.”

“Is that so?”

You grinned, stretching your arms above your head in an indulgent, satisfied way. “Mm-hm. I mean, if this is how you handle insubordination, I’d say I have a pretty strong case for pushing the dress code.”

His laugh was quiet, but it vibrated through you, something warm and rare and entirely for you. His weight shifted slightly as he reached for you, one hand trailing along your side, stopping just below your breast.

“Angel,” he murmured, dipping his head closer, brushing against your jaw before dragging down your neck. “You do that and it’ll be your last day in the office.”

“You’d fire me?”

He shook his head, his teeth grazing the delicate skin of your neck before soothing the spot with his tongue. “Never, honey. You just wouldn’t be able to walk for a week.”

dividers by cafekitsune

[hotchsmutrecs]

IN MY OFFICE.

summary: anther late case, another night of aaron being worn out at the bureau. so your idea of visiting him with a cup of coffee and some good luck kisses doesn't sound that bad... except when he ends up fucking you in his office. bad aaron, bad!

pairing: aaron hotchner x afab!girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 4.5k words. pure smut. age gap. praise. semi-public. power imbalance. overstimulation. orgasm denial. fingering. oral sex (reader receiving). piv. slight dumbification. creampie. aftercare.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels, @sweetheartfaist, @lacelottie

The bullpen was almost entirely dark, the overhead fluorescents humming quietly as they flickered over empty desks and untouched case files. Only the soft glow from the corner office cut through the gloom—a lone light burning into the night like a beacon.

You walked toward it, heels muffled on the carpeted floor, holding two paper coffee cups and balancing your purse on your hip. A flicker of nerves tickled your chest—this wasn’t the first time you’d visited Aaron late at the bureau, but tonight he sounded particularly worn on the phone. Something in his voice had made you want to show up instead of just sending well wishes over text.

He didn’t look up when you pushed the door open quietly, his brows furrowed, jaw tense as he scrolled through something on his computer screen. His tie was loosened, the first few buttons of his shirt undone—just enough to make your mouth go dry.

You tapped softly on the doorframe. “Agent Hotchner?” Aaron finally glanced up, and the second his dark eyes found you, the tension in his shoulders eased—just barely, but enough.

“I thought you could use a break,” you offered, stepping inside. You handed him one of the cups, your fingers brushing his. “Decaf. I didn’t want you up all night.”

He took the drink with a ghost of a smile. “You’re an angel,” he said, voice low, already making your stomach flutter. “You didn’t have to come up all the way here.”

You moved around to perch on the edge of his desk, facing him, shrugging. “What are you still working on?”

He exhaled slowly. “Old case. Reopened it based on a new witness statement. It’s all procedural, but it has to be airtight.” His hand rubbed the back of his neck, flexing the muscles under his open collar. “I didn’t want to bring it home.”

You nodded, fingers curling around your own coffee. “You didn’t have to explain. I just... missed you.”

Aaron’s eyes softened as they slid over your face, your body. He looked like he hadn’t taken a breath in hours, and now he could finally exhale. “You didn’t have to come all the way out here, baby.” He repeated.

“You sounded tired. And miserable.” You smirked. “And I thought I might be able to cheer you up.”

The look he gave you then was a warning—and a promise. His eyes darkened just a bit, jaw flexing again. You were pushing buttons, and he knew it. But so did you. Because it wasn’t just about cheering him up and he understood the allusion you were making.

“Cheering me up?” he murmured, setting his cup down slowly. “Is that why you wore that?”

You glanced down at your outfit—fitted slacks and a soft blouse, nothing overtly revealing, but the neckline dipped just low enough to invite speculation and the pants were tight on your hips and thighs. You shrugged playfully. “I always dress like this for after-work visits to my boyfriend's government office.”

He stood, stepping in between your parted knees, and the change in proximity made your breath hitch. You could smell his cologne, something subtle and clean, mixed with the faint scent of coffee and stress.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” he murmured, one hand bracing beside you on the desk.

“No one’s here.”

“You’re still a distraction.”

“I’m trying to be.”

You tilted your head toward him, eyes soft but full of challenge, and he leaned in to kiss you—slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that said he’d been thinking about it all day.

His lips moved over yours gently, savoring every second. One hand slid around to cup the back of your neck, thumb brushing against your pulse, and you felt yourself melt against him, the warmth of his body grounding and igniting all at once. The coffee cup in your hand was long forgotten somewhere on your boyfriend’s desk.

When he finally pulled back, you were breathless. “I shouldn’t be doing this here,” he said, voice raspier now. You smiled, eyes half-lidded. “You say that every time.”

“And every time, you make it harder to stop.”

You slid your hands up his chest, feeling the tight muscle beneath his shirt. “Then don’t stop.”

He watched you for a long beat, like he was weighing the risk versus reward—but his hand was already sliding under your blouse, palm spreading against your waist. “I could lose my job.”

“You won’t,” you whispered, fingers brushing his jaw. “And if you do, I’ll support you. We’ll open a bakery.”

He huffed a soft laugh against your mouth. “You don’t even bake.”

“I’d learn. For you.”

The laugh turned into a groan as he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand moving higher under your shirt, warm against your skin. The age gap between you had never bothered either of you, but you could feel it in how he touched you—deliberate, experienced, worshipful.

His mouth trailed down your throat, lips brushing over your pulse point as he murmured, “You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.”

Your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him in closer. “Then die happy.”

Aaron’s hand dipped between your thighs, pressing through the fabric in a way that made your breath catch and your hips jerk forward. His fingers rubbed your center just to feel the fabric of your slack dampen. “Already wet?” he murmured against your ear. “For me?”

You nodded, biting your bottom lip. “Been wet since I got here.”

He groaned softly, like it physically pained him to hear that. His fingers slid under the waistband of your slacks and underwear, and you shivered as he found your heat—slick and ready.

“Jesus, baby,” he whispered, reverently. “You’re perfect.”

His fingers dipped deeper between your folds, slow and unhurried, just barely brushing over your clit—enough to make you squirm, not enough to give you relief. You whimpered against his neck, body instinctively trying to grind into his hand, but Aaron stilled you with the firm pressure of his other hand on your hip.

“Patience,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “You came here to distract me, didn’t you, angel? So let me take my time with you.”

His voice was a low purr, gravel-soft and authoritative in the way that always made you melt. You loved when he slipped into that tone—just shy of commanding, laced with the kind of gentle control that came from years of leading people under pressure.

You swallowed thickly. “Aaron…”

“I know, sweetheart.” He pressed a kiss to your temple. “You’re so worked up already.”

He dragged his fingers lower, circling your entrance but not pressing in yet, making you tremble with anticipation. He loved to tease you like this—loved watching you fall apart little by little, every breathy noise you made spurring him on like a reward. “Look at you,” he said softly. “Coming into my office in these tight little pants, acting like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.”

“I just wanted to see you,” you breathed, hips bucking slightly. “You’ve been gone all week.”

“And now you’re here.” His voice dipped lower. “And I’m going to make it worth your while.”

You moaned when he finally pushed one thick finger inside you—slow, deliberate, stretching you gently as your body welcomed him. He didn’t rush. He never did. Every movement was measured, made to draw out your pleasure, to keep you just on the edge of despair.

“God, you feel so good,” he murmured, watching your face intently. “Always so warm. So perfect for me.”

Your breath hitched, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt as he pumped his finger in and out, curling it just right. Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, trying to pull him closer, grounding yourself against the thick line of his thigh between yours.

Aaron added a second finger slowly, the stretch making your walls flutter around him.

“There you go,” he murmured. “That’s it, baby. Just breathe for me.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time—less teasing, more possessive. His tongue swept into your mouth, his free hand sliding up under your blouse to cup your breast through your bra. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and you moaned into his mouth, everything in you winding tighter.

“Aaron, please…” you whispered.

“Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t know,” you breathed, aching and unsure which craving to give voice to first. “I just need you.”

“You’ve got me,” he said gently, fingers pumping a little faster, curling a little deeper. “You always have me, sweetheart.” Your hips rocked against his hand, chasing friction now, but Aaron slowed again, pulling back just enough to leave you trembling, breathless.

He smirked slightly against your jaw. “Easy,” he whispered. “You’re not going to come yet.”

You let out a soft whine, frustration mixing with arousal. He pressed a kiss to your cheek in silent apology, though his fingers kept up their maddening pace—deep but controlled, hitting just the right spot to keep you teetering.

“I love how sensitive you get,” he murmured, lips grazing your ear. “How you clench around me when I talk to you.”

You gasped when he pressed his thumb lightly over your clit—not rubbing, just resting there, enough to make you shake. “Too much?” he asked quietly. You shook your head immediately. “No—just… more. Please, Aaron.”

“Such a good girl,” he whispered. “So polite even when you’re desperate.” The praise made you clench again, and he felt it, lips curling into something smug. He leaned in, kissing just below your ear.

“You like hearing how good you are for me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathed, voice barely a whisper.

“You’re my angel,” he said, moving his thumb in slow circles now. “So sweet. So good. Always take my fingers so well.” You were practically panting now, every muscle coiled tight. Still, he didn’t let up—didn’t speed up or push harder. He kept you right there, humming on the edge of too much and not enough.

Your thighs shook where they wrapped around his waist, body trembling with the effort to stay still under his slow, steady rhythm.

“I can feel how close you are,” he whispered, fingers still working deep inside you. “But you’re not going to come yet. Not until I say.”

You whimpered, biting your bottom lip hard, trying to stay grounded even as your body begged to come undone. “Good girl,” he said softly, brushing his nose against yours. “Just like that. Take it for me.”

You were soaked, clenching around his fingers rhythmically now, your slick making it easier for him to move even deeper. He kept up that maddening pace—no harder, no faster—just enough to keep you pulsing around him, your arousal steadily building without release.

And when your hips twitched and bucked again, he slowed down even more—pulling you back from the edge with almost cruel precision.

“Fuck,” you whispered, tears prickling behind your eyes, the need in you turning sharp.

Aaron kissed your cheek again, gentle, soothing. “I know, baby. I know. But I want you wrecked when you finally come. I want you to fall apart so completely you forget where we are.”

You whined again, hips lifting to chase his touch. “Then don’t tease me anymore,” you whispered. “Please.” He smiled, hand slipping out of your pants for just a moment—long enough to tug them down over your hips, panties following and off of your legs.

“Lay back, baby,” he murmured, pushing some case files aside to make space on the desk. “I want to see all of you.”

You obeyed, trembling slightly as you reclined across the wood surface, baring yourself to him. His eyes darkened as he drank in the sight of you—flushed, panting, soaked and trembling.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, kissing down your body, starting at your ribs above your blouse and working lower. “So fucking beautiful.” He knelt between your legs, one hand pressing to your stomach to keep you still as his mouth lowered to your inner thigh, just barely skimming the skin there.

And then he paused, lips just inches from your heat, breath warm against your soaked folds.

“I want to taste you,” he said softly. “But if I do… you might come.”

You swallowed thickly. “I won’t… I promise I won’t.” His head snapped up, eyes locking with yours—and something in him changed. “Baby…” he murmured, voice full of reverence.

Aaron didn’t speak again. He just held your gaze as he lowered his head, his lips brushing over your inner thigh—soft, reverent. One kiss. Then another. He took his time, mapping your skin with his mouth like you were a prayer he hadn’t yet learned by heart.

You gasped softly when his tongue finally grazed the crease between your thigh and your center, but he moved away again, teasing you with the promise of contact. His hand, still pressed to your lower stomach, kept you steady, grounded. The weight of it alone was enough to make you shiver.

“I could do this all night,” he murmured. “Just take my time with you.”

You whimpered, hips shifting, but he gently pushed you back down. “Let me enjoy you, baby.” Then his mouth was on you—at last.

He started with a soft lick, one slow drag of his tongue from your entrance to your clit, and your breath caught hard in your throat. His tongue was hot, smooth, the perfect pressure. He didn’t dive in right away—he savored, tasting you in slow, measured strokes like he was memorizing you all over again.

You let your eyes flutter shut, one hand reaching down to card through his thick hair. The second you tugged—just slightly—he groaned into you, the sound vibrating through your core.

“You like that?” you breathed.

Aaron didn’t answer, but he licked deeper, swirling his tongue in slow circles around your clit, teasing it just shy of overwhelming. He alternated pressure—sometimes barely grazing, sometimes flattening his tongue against you until your thighs trembled.

It was too good. You were soaked, panting, every nerve humming. And still, he kept it slow. Intentional. Controlled.

“Aaron, please…” He looked up at you briefly, his mouth glistening with your arousal, and your breath hitched. The sight alone nearly pushed you over the edge.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he said, voice thick with heat. “So sweet. So sensitive.”

He dipped his head again, this time sucking gently on your clit, pulling a long moan from your lips. Your hips arched off the desk involuntarily, but Aaron pressed his hand down firmly to still you. “Easy, angel. You’re so close—I can feel it.” His tongue flicked over your clit in tiny, maddening motions. “But not yet.”

You whimpered, fingers twisting in his hair. “You’re driving me insane.”

“I know,” he murmured against you. “You taste so good like this. I want to keep you on the edge forever.”

He sucked again—deeper this time—and then softened the pressure immediately, keeping you suspended in that unbearable, glorious limbo. Your whole body pulsed with need. You were soaked, your thighs shaking, your core aching for release.

“Aaron—God—it’s too much—”

“No, baby,” he whispered, licking you slowly again. “It’s just enough.”

You writhed on the desk, torn between begging him to keep going and pleading for mercy. He moaned again as he licked into you, nose brushing against your clit just enough to keep the heat simmering, never boiling over.

“Tell me how it feels,” he said softly. “Tell me what I’m doing to you.”

“You’re—fuck—you’re teasing me,” you gasped. “Making me crazy.” He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your thigh. “That’s not what I asked.”

You shuddered as his fingers traced lightly over your slick folds, spreading you gently again.

“It feels…” you tried, but your voice broke into a moan as his tongue flicked again. “It feels so good, Aaron. You’re so good with your mouth.”

“Yeah?” he rasped. “Say it again.”

“You’re so good at this. I—fuck—I love when you eat me out. You make me feel—like I’m gonna lose my mind.” Aaron groaned against you, licking deeper in response, and you felt the vibration all the way to your spine.

“Such a good girl,” he praised. “You’re so sweet for me. So responsive.”

His tongue moved in tighter circles now, and he slipped one finger back inside you, slow and shallow, just enough to make you clench. “Been thinking about this all week,” he murmured. “Tasting you. Watching you come apart for me.”

“You haven’t even let me come,” you whined, desperate.

“I will,” he promised. “But not until you’re begging for it.”

You were already close. Again. And he knew it—he could feel it in the way your walls fluttered around his finger, the way your thighs tried to close around his head. But then he slowed again, tongue softening its rhythm, pulling you back from the edge for the second—third?—time.

You sobbed, almost laughing from the frustration. “You’re such an asshole.”

Aaron laughed into your heat. “You love it.”

You hated how true that was. How much you craved this kind of attention—this kind of control. You trusted him completely, even when your body was begging for something he kept just out of reach. And when his lips sealed around your clit again, sucking with that same deep, aching tenderness, you arched off the desk with a cry.

But still—he didn’t let you go over the edge. “Not yet,” he whispered. “Almost, angel. You’re so close. I can feel you.”

He slipped in a second finger again, curling them just right, hitting that spot inside you that made you jerk against his grip. “Fuck!” you cried. “Aaron, please—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” He kissed the inside of your thigh again. “You’re doing so good. Just a little longer.”

You were sobbing softly now, not from pain—but from sheer, overwhelming pleasure. He was ruining you, and he knew it.

“I need to come,” you whispered.

“I know.” He kissed your clit, so soft it was almost sweet. “And I’ll let you. Just not with my mouth.”

You blinked down at him, dazed, trembling. “What?”

“I want to come inside you,” he said, standing slowly, towering over you again, voice low and reverent. “I want to fill you up while you fall apart.” Your breath caught hard at the thought, eyes wide as he kissed you—deep and messy, his mouth still tasting of you.

“Can you be good for me, baby?” he murmured against your lips. “Can you wait just a little longer?”

You nodded, desperate and breathless. “Yes—yes, I’ll wait. Please just fuck me, Aaron.”

You barely registered the sound of Aaron unbuckling his belt, the clink of metal drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the aching need between your legs. Your thighs were still trembling, wet and wanting, every part of you stretched tight with anticipation.

He leaned over you, one hand braced on the desk, the other gently stroking your cheek. “You look so pretty like this,” he whispered. “All needy. All mine.”

You nodded, dazed. “Yours. I’m yours.”

“I know you are,” he said softly, almost reverently. “My sweet girl.” You heard the soft rustle of fabric as he freed himself, and then the head of his cock was nudging at your entrance—hot, heavy, perfect. You whined, legs falling open even wider for him.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured, lining himself up. “Just let me in. Let me take care of you.”

He pushed in slowly—achingly slow—giving you every inch with deliberate care, letting you feel the stretch, the heat, the way your body molded around him like you were made for it.

You gasped, back arching. “Oh my God—Aaron—”

“I know,” he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”

He bottomed out with a groan, hips flush against yours, and paused there—deep and still, just holding you. His hands cradled your hips, thumbs stroking soothing circles into your skin. “You okay?” he asked, voice rough with restraint.

You nodded, barely able to form words. “Full… feel so full…”

“That’s right,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss your temple. “You’re so good for me. Taking me so well, baby.” Your arms looped around his shoulders instinctively, nails digging into the soft cotton of his shirt. You felt floaty—lightheaded and needy, brain half-fogged from how full he made you feel, how slowly he moved.

And when he started to thrust—long, deep strokes, gentle as a caress—you could barely breathe.

“Such a good girl,” he whispered against your cheek. “Just lying back and letting me fuck you. You don’t have to think, sweetheart. I’ll do it all.”

You moaned, the words sinking in deeper than they should have, making your walls flutter around him. You whimpered, lips parting, brain slipping into softness. “Yeah… yeah…”

“You don’t have to think,” he murmured again, hips rocking into you at the perfect pace. “I’ll take care of everything. You just lie there and look pretty for me.” Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, and he groaned at the way you clenched down on him, his pace stuttering for half a beat.

You whined, hands gripping his arms, your thoughts unraveling like ribbon with every stroke.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered. “Just let me hear those little noises, please. That’s all I want from you.”

You moaned helplessly, high and breathy, brain hazy with pleasure. His praise sank in deep, drugging you with every word. Every thrust was slow and deep and patient, drawing you closer without rushing, like he wanted to savor you forever.

“Such a good girl,” he breathed. “So sweet. So pretty for me.”

You couldn’t respond—not with anything coherent. Your body was responding for you—hips tilting to meet every stroke, walls fluttering wildly around him, tears pricking in your eyes from how overwhelming it all was. “Shh,” he whispered, brushing your hair back. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re doing so well for me.”

“A-Aaron,” you finally managed, voice wrecked. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” He kissed your lips softly. “You’re almost there, sweetheart. You’re taking it so good. Just a little more.” Your legs shook around him, whole body tightening like a bowstring. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Let me feel you come around me. Let me feel my sweet girl fall apart.”

And with one more deep, perfect thrust, the tension inside you snapped.

Your orgasm hit like a wave—long, rolling, impossible to escape. You cried out, clinging to him like a lifeline as your body shook through the pleasure. Your walls pulsed around him in waves, drawing a groan from deep in his chest.

“That’s it, angel,” he said, hips stuttering. “That’s it—fuck—you feel so good—”

He buried himself deep with a low, broken sound, and you felt him come inside you, warm and thick, filling you up just like he’d promised. Your pussy clenched around him greedily, milking every last drop.

He stayed there, deep inside you, forehead pressed to yours, panting softly.

“So perfect,” he whispered. “You’re so perfect, baby.” You blinked up at him, still floating, brain fuzzy and slow.

“Can’t think,” you mumbled with a sleepy smile. “You fucked all the thoughts out of me.” He chuckled softly, brushing your hair back again, tender as ever. “Good. That was the idea.”

You sighed contentedly, and he kissed your forehead, your cheek, the tip of your nose. “I’ve got you,” he said again, voice all honey and heat. “You’re safe, baby. You did so good for me.” You stayed wrapped around him like that, his warmth inside and all around you, his praises soft against your skin like lullabies. You were stretched, full, dazed, and blissfully used—in the best way.

Aaron didn’t pull out right away. He stayed nestled deep inside you, his weight warm over your body, his breath brushing against your cheek. The only thing that mattered was the rise and fall of his chest against yours and the afterglow curling through your limbs.

Eventually, he kissed your cheek and whispered, “You okay, sweetheart?”

You gave a soft, lazy hum. “Mmm. I’m pretty sure my brain’s still on your desk.”

He chuckled, low and quiet. “You were incredible.” He pressed one last kiss to your lips before slowly easing out of you. You whimpered at the loss, hips twitching. He caught it instantly.

“I know,” he said gently. “I’ve got you. Just stay there, baby.”

You let your head fall back with a soft sigh, basking in the tender ache and warm mess between your thighs. A few moments later, you felt the soft sweep of a warm towel—he must’ve grabbed it from the little emergency kit in the corner drawer. Ever prepared, even after fucking you senseless.

He cleaned you carefully, his touch warm and unhurried.

“You’re seriously the only man I know who stocks his office for post-sex cleanup,” you said, lifting your head just enough to catch his smirk. “It’s technically for spills,” he said, dabbing between your thighs like he hadn’t just creamed you full a few minutes ago. “But I adapt.”

You laughed, and he grinned, shaking his head as he tossed the towel into the trash under his desk and grabbed your underwear and slacks to give them back to you.

“I should bring you here more often,” he added, helping you sit up. “I’ve never seen you this quiet.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Ah ah ah. You’re so unfunny.”

He smiled, pulling your shirt gently over your head, helping you dress piece by piece. The tenderness of it—his hands steady and calm, the way he adjusted your hem like you were delicate—made your heart swell.

Once you were fully dressed and upright, you caught your reflection in the darkened window: hair tousled, lips kiss-swollen, eyes glazed with satisfaction. You looked thoroughly ruined. “I look like I’ve been railed in a supply closet,” you muttered. Aaron came up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist. “You look gorgeous,” he said simply. “Like mine.”

You melted.

He kissed the side of your neck, then reached down and laced your fingers together. “Let’s get out of here before someone catches us.”

“You mean before a janitor comes to clean and sees my assprint on your desk?” you teased.

He chuckled, hand firm in yours. “Exactly that.”

You walked out together into the quiet hallway, his coat draped over your shoulders, his fingers still linked with yours. And though the building around you was silent and clinical and cold, there was nothing cold about the way he looked at you.

Like you were the softest thing in his world.

Like he was already counting the hours until he could get you home and do it all over again.

[hotchsmutrecs]

How to Cure Insomnia (Hotchner’s Version)

about: Aaron likes to show up in your hotel room when neither of you can sleep

warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), fingering, aaron is a sweetheart, nicknames (call reader honey), aftercare, not really proof read

word count: 1462

You couldn’t exactly pinpoint the moment things had changed between you and Hotch.

Perhaps it was the weekend you’d spent cramped in a tiny motel room while doing an interview with a serial killer. There had been one queen bed and a lumpy couch. He was ever the gentleman and offered to take the couch. By night two you’d forced him to join you in the bed, even building a pillow wall to maintain a modicum of decency. 

Maybe it had been the night he’d knocked on your hotel door because he’d had a feeling you’d still be awake. And there you were, hunched over some case files even though you’d be flying home in the morning. He’d ended up staying the whole night as you two raided the hotel minibar and talked. 

It became a routine of sorts. 

When people had to share rooms, you bunked with him. If one of you couldn’t sleep you’d text the other – sometimes he’d even show up at your door unannounced – and keep each other company until one of you at least found some sleep. 

But eventually talking wasn’t part of the routine. Instead he’d press his lips against yours, peel off your clothes with expert precision, before he was pressing you into the mattress. The feel of his body against your own chased your thoughts away. He’d strip you down to your barest form where nothing else mattered – not your job, not the rest of the world, nothing but each other. It put you both to sleep. 

Today was another one of those nights. You’d gotten home from a particularly rough case the night before and you hadn’t slept a minute. Tonight was much of the same. You’d been trying to relax all day, considering you had only a few days off, but you’d been restless. 

You were a glass of wine and half an episode of a trashy reality tv show into your evening, before you finally texted Aaron. 

During cases you didn’t mind dragging him into your room. But when you were home, you felt like there was an invisible line drawn between you two. He had a son and a life outside of work. You didn’t want to interrupt that. But you hadn’t slept in nearly 48 hours. 

You: Hi

You chewed on your bottom lip – a nervous habit – as you waited for a response. 

A text never came but there was a knock on your apartment door. Eyebrows shot up as you clambered off the couch. You weren’t sure who was here considering you didn’t have many friends outside of the BAU. 

You weren’t expecting to see Aaron Hotchner standing in your doorway, holding his phone up. You could see your text message lit up on the screen. “Hey.” 

“Were you seriously already on your way over?” you asked, humor lacing your words. “Before I even texted?"

Aaron shrugged. “Jack’s asleep and Jessica was staying the night anyway. Figured you’d still be awake.” 

You opened your door wider, letting him step inside your apartment. He’d only been here a few times but it felt like he belonged in the space whenever he was inside. He’d slotted himself into your life like the perfect puzzle piece. 

He glanced around, taking in the sight of your wine glass and the faint hum of the tv. “Trying to bore yourself to sleep?” he asked, gesturing to screen. 

You shrugged. “Needed something to stop myself from thinking too much.”

“I think I can take care of that for you.” He moved towards you, gently pressing his lips against yours. 

“That sounds better,” you murmured against his mouth. 

He backed you up, guiding you to your own bedroom. Pieces of clothing were discarded as you stumbled through your house. By the time you made it to the bed, the only thing keeping you separated from him was underwear.

He nudged your thighs apart as he hovered over you. He dipped his fingers between your legs, dragging them through your slick folds.

“You were waiting for me to come over, weren’t you honey?” 

You nodded. “Yeah,” you replied breathlessly. You were always waiting for him. 

He sunk two of his fingers into your wet heat, curling them. He knew your body well by now. He knew just how to make you cry out for him, back arching off the mattress. As he slowly pumped his fingers, he pressed his thumb to your clit. 

“Aaron,” you keened. 

“Shh,” he hushed you gently. “It’s late. Don’t want to wake your neighbors, hm?” 

“N-no…” 

He pressed his lips against your, muffling any noise that came out of your mouth as he thoroughly fucked you with his fingers. Each pass of his thumb over your clit had you careening towards the edge. The knot in your tummy was close to snapping. And Aaron didn’t stop until your thighs were shaking. 

He slowly worked you through your first orgasm of the night. He never only left you with one. His goal was to tire you out and to make you feel good. 

You watched as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, peeling them down his legs. His cock was already hard and leaking precum. It was a sight you’d never tire of seeing. 

He ran the tip through your folds. “You want my cock?” 

“Yes,” you nodded, voice breaking off into a moan as he pressed his cock into your aching cunt. 

“Fuck,” he groaned as he bottomed out. “You always feel so good, honey.” 

Nails dug into his back as he rocked his hips against yours. Each roll of his hips had him hitting depths you didn’t know anyone could, brushing up against your g-spot with each movement. Moans tumbled out of your mouth. 

He hushed you again, hand coming up to cover your mouth. “What did I tell you about being loud, hm?” 

It was late. This was always what happened – he’d have to quiet you one way or another while he pounded you into the mattress. And you didn’t exactly want your neighbors to complain about the noise. So you let him clamp his hand over your mouth to muffle your sounds. 

His free hand moved across your body – raking across your tits, pinching at your nipples until they were hard, before moving down to find your clit. He rubbed tight, quick circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he asked as he felt your cunt tighten around his length. You were gripping him like a vice, making him groan softly. His head dropped down and he pulled his hand away from your mouth, to claim your lips in a heated kiss. 

You nodded as best you could as you returned the kiss. 

Aaron was spurred on. He needed to feel you come undone around him. The feel of your perfect, warm cunt, squeezing him was the closest he’d ever get to heaven in this life. 

“Come for me, honey,” he mumbled against your mouth. 

That was all the encouragement you needed before the knot in your stomach was unraveling. Warmth spread through your body – like every nerve was on fire – and your toes curled. He worked you through your second orgasm of the night until he himself was coming undone. 

He buried himself to the hilt, as his body shook. “God, you feel so good,” he groaned. 

He tried not to totally collapse on top of you, but you seemed to have different plans. You tugged him all the way down so his body was completely blanketing your own. 

“You gotta let me clean you up,” he said, trying to untangle his limbs from your own. 

Reluctantly you let him leave your bed. He pulled his boxers up his hips as he headed for the bathroom. He’d been in here enough that he knew where you kept all your things. He grabbed a washcloth from the cabinet, wetting it, before returning to your bed. 

His hands were gentle as he cleaned up the mess he’d made between your thighs. 

“Thanks,” you murmured. 

He smiled softly. “Of course.” 

Once your body was cleaned up he pulled an oversized t-shirt from your drawer for you to wear. He settled back in bed next to you, letting you snuggle up against his side. 

While the multiple orgasms always helped you fall asleep, being tucked against him helped you sleep even more. With your head on his chest, you were already getting sleepy, eyes drooping shut. He played with your hair as you drifted off. 

“Thanks for coming over,” you whispered. 

“You know you don’t have to thank me for that, honey.” 

“I know. But still… thank you.” 

He kissed the top of your head. “Just go to sleep, honey. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight, Aaron.” 

[hotchsmutrecs]

Hotchner and reader sneaking around to fuck

content warning:  Secret Relationship, Office Sex, Sneaking Around, Light Dom!Hotch, Mutual Desperation, BAU Setting

a/n: YESSSSSSSSSS i love hotch

word count ~ 1k

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

You’d gotten used to the ache of wanting Aaron Hotchner. The problem was — he wanted you just as badly.

But with the walls of the BAU lined with profiling experts, and every hallway filled with prying eyes and gossip-hungry ears, discretion became an art. Every glance across the briefing room, every hand brush at the coffee pot, every low “Agent Y/L/N, in my office,” came soaked in tension that made your stomach twist with anticipation.

It was dangerous. It was addictive.

And somehow, you both kept getting away with it.

You were just about to clock out — it was nearly 9pm, the bullpen dark and silent except for the soft hum of the ventilation system — when your phone buzzed. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Conference Room C. Now. Lock the door behind you.

Your breath caught. God, he was so direct.

You slipped your bag over your shoulder, casually strolled down the hallway like it was any other night, and ducked into the conference room. You turned the lock without a sound and stood silently in the dimness, your pulse hammering in your throat.

Then you heard it — the low click of another door opening. Aaron slipped in through the adjoining office access, already pulling off his suit jacket.

"You're late," he murmured.

"You said 'now,' not five minutes ago," you replied, voice teasing.

He didn't smile. Not really. But his eyes dragged over you with such slow, dark hunger that your knees nearly buckled. He looked tired — worn from back-to-back cases and endless paperwork — but the second his gaze landed on you, a new sort of energy took over him.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he muttered, stepping into your space.

You barely had time to whisper his name before he had you against the wall, one hand fisted in your hair, the other sliding up your thigh beneath your pencil skirt.

"Tell me to stop." You didn’t. You never did.

Instead, you clutched at the front of his shirt, dragging him down for a kiss that was all teeth and need. His mouth crushed against yours, tongue sliding in deep, greedy. Your hands were in his hair, his belt, his buttons — fumbling and frantic, all while your back scraped lightly against the drywall.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he growled into your mouth.

“Good,” you whispered.

He spun you, pushing you against the long glass window that overlooked the bullpen. Frosted enough for privacy, but not enough to erase the thrill of knowing how exposed you really were.

You felt his hands bunching your skirt up around your hips. Then — the harsh sound of his zipper. His fingers dipped between your thighs and you gasped, head falling back against his shoulder.

“You’re wet already?” he breathed. “Fuck. Do you even know what you do to me, sweetheart?”

“Why do you think I wore this skirt?” you managed, grinding back against him.

He groaned — low and deep — and shoved your panties aside. Two fingers slipped into you as his other hand covered your mouth to muffle the whimper that escaped.

You clenched around him instantly.

"You're so fucking tight," he hissed, voice gravel and sin. "I can feel how desperate you are. Bet you’ve been dripping since lunch."

“Since the moment you said my name in that voice,” you whispered.

He chuckled, dark and satisfied. “Yeah? Let’s see how well you listen to orders, then.”

He withdrew his fingers and sucked them into his mouth like he was tasting dessert. You moaned, clenching your thighs together at the sight.

Then he lined himself up and slid in without warning — one long, slow stroke that had you gasping into his shoulder, trembling against the glass.

"Shhh," he breathed. "You have to stay quiet. Can you do that for me?"

You nodded, dazed. But when he started to thrust, slow and hard, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you, it got harder and harder to keep your promise.

He fucked you like he needed it to stay sane.

Hard hips slapping into you, hand over your mouth, mouth pressed to your neck. Every breath was heavy, every inch of your body trembling from the mix of pleasure and fear and adrenaline.

"You're mine," he gritted. "No one else gets to see you like this."

You whined beneath his palm and nodded, arching back against him. He reached around and rubbed your clit in time with his thrusts, making your whole body jerk.

"You're going to come for me," he said, gritting his teeth. "Here. Right here, where anyone could walk by."

And you did. You came so hard your vision went white.

He didn't stop. Not until you were a limp mess in his arms, held up by the firm grip around your waist. Then — with one last thrust, a ragged groan, and his lips buried in your shoulder — he came too. Deep and warm, spilling inside you as his body trembled against yours.

You stood there in the aftermath, hearts thundering, limbs tangled.

Then he kissed you — soft and slow this time. Reverent. Like you weren’t just his secret, but his sanctuary.

“Think anyone heard?” you whispered when you found your breath.

“I hope not,” he said, smoothing your hair back with a smirk. “But if they did…” He kissed you again. “…they’ll just have to get used to it.”

[hotchsmutrecs]

GAME NIGHT, RUINED

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (was supposed to be nanny!reader but lit rally no mentions of her being a nanny LOL) summary: one question you refuse to answer gives you the best sex of your life. warnings | an: p in v sex, choking, one bite, fingering, oral (f receiving), praise kink?? hotch profiling reader and its so sexy i want to kith him on the mouth, there is aftercare i just didn’t write it, oopsies, established relationship word count: 2.9k

✧ masterlist

In all fairness, you hadn't actually read the rules of the game before suggesting it tonight. But maybe Penelope had – and maybe that's exactly why she'd wrapped it in floral paper with a gingham ribbon, like it was some sweet little gift and not a trap in disguise.

Because now here you were, cheeks warm, pulse ticking too fast, staring down a question that made your soul want to leave your body.

Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad.

You liked being manhandled. Liked a little choking – nothing too wild, just enough to feel it. Worst things have happened. Honestly, it wasn't even that big a deal.

Until you looked up... and saw Aaron’s eyes on you.

You swallowed, looking back down at the card again just as a breathless little laugh slipped out.

Name a turn-on your partner doesn’t know about but should.

“Pretty sure we’ve already had this one,” you said, maybe a little too brightly, as you tucked the card neatly under the deck like it was nothing. “Next!”

You barely brushed the edge of a new card before Aaron’s hand closed over the stack, pulling it right out of reach.

“Oh, are we done playing?” you asked innocently, sitting up a little straighter as your hands slid to your thighs. “Good idea.” You were on your feet now. “Pretty sure there’s a pile of laundry upstairs with my name on it –”

“Sit.”

Your hands hovered for a second before landing on your hips, a half-formed protest catching in your throat, but you obeyed, lowering yourself back down onto the couch, trying to act unbothered. Trying to ignore the way your heart had picked up speed.

“We haven’t been playing this game long enough to get the same card twice,” he said calmly, a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Really? Huh. Could’ve sworn we already had that one.”

He arched a brow. “What was it?”

“Aaron come on,” you deflected, waving a hand like it didn’t matter. “It was something silly.”

He didn’t say anything, just flipped the deck over in his hand, eyes scanning the top card.

“Name a turn-on your partner doesn’t know about but should,” he read aloud. “Hm. Definitely don’t recall hearing your answer to this.”

“You don’t?” you said weakly.

“Just because you keep repeating everything I say doesn’t mean you’re going to get out of answering.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“You begged to play this game,” he continued calmly. “And now you’re skipping cards?” He gave you a dry look. “That hardly seems fair.”

You let out a quiet huff and leaned back into the couch, suddenly very interested in the ceiling. Your heart was beating faster than it should’ve been. Not because you didn’t trust him – you did. Completely. You knew he’d never shame you or make you feel small for wanting something.

But he’d also seen the worst of humanity. He’d spent his career staring into the darkest corners of people’s minds. You weren’t sure how he’d feel knowing his girlfriend got turned on by things like rough hands. The feeling of being pinned down and utterly helpless, even when she wasn’t.

It sounded a lot messier out loud than it did in your head.

“I just…” You hesitated. “It’s not a big deal. It’s probably not even your thing.”

“Well, if you’re unhappy in that department, I’d absolutely like to know what it is.”

“Oh my God – no, no. Not at all. I’m not – unhappy.” Your voice pitched as high as your hands flew up in protest, and now you were spiralling. “I’m very happy. I’m, like, obscenely happy. I think your ability to give me more orgasms in one night than I’ve had in my entire life before meeting you should be studied. Or patented. Or possibly banned in several states –”

He blinked once. Then bit back a smile.

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I do, unfortunately,” you muttered into your palms.

“Then tell me,” he said, voice dipping just a little. “Or am I going to have to profile it out of you?”

You peeked out from between your fingers. “You wouldn’t.”

He gave a mild shrug. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Your heart thudded.

“You get flustered when you lose control of the conversation. Especially with me. You fidget more. You avoid eye contact like you’re doing right now.”

You shifted almost immediately.

“You like routine and structure. You’re organised to a fault, but the second I step into your space and do something unexpected, you melt.” He tilted his head. “You act like it annoys you, but I’ve watched you for long enough to know it doesn’t. When I back you against the counter. When I pull your hair back mid-sentence just to kiss your neck. When I don’t ask and take instead. You don’t stop me, you lean into it.”

Your mouth went dry.

“You like being told what to do,” he said simply. Like it was a fact. Like it was always obvious. “In little ways. Safe ways. And when you’re overwhelmed, your instinct isn’t to push back, it’s to submit.”

He watched as your throat worked around a hard swallow.

“You like it when I’m in control.”

Your legs pressed together tight. Too late to pretend it hadn’t happened.

He smiled. “You throw around sarcasm, roll yours eyes, push back, pretend to fuss when I get bossy. But the second I tell you what to do – really tell you – you listen.”

You stared at him, cheeks flushed, lips parted.

“And the truth is, you don’t want to say it out loud because you think it’ll sound messed up. But it doesn’t.” He paused for a second. “I understand you and I’m not judging you. I want to give you what you need.”

Another moment of silence passed before he added, “But if you keep pressing your thighs together like that, I’m going to start thinking we’re done playing this game.”

You let a breath out before speaking. “I…I think we’re done playing,” you managed, voice hoarse.

“Yeah? You sure?”

You nodded before your brain could catch up. “Yes.”

“Then get upstairs.”

You rose on shaky legs and turned towards the stairs, amazed you didn’t trip over yourself on the way up. You could hear him following behind unhurried, while your vision nearly swam from what he’d managed to do to you with just words.

Inside the bedroom, you stopped at the foot of the bed, unsure whether to turn around or stay still. But you didn’t have to ask.

“Turn around.”

You obeyed immediately.

He stepped in close, the heat of him pressing into you just as his hand gripped a firm handful of your hair giving it a tug.

“I can feel you shaking,” he murmured, his mouth brushing against your neck. “You’ve been so worked up since downstairs.” His lips trailed along your jaw slowly, down the curve of your neck, before you felt him bite down gently, his tongue smoothing over the sting.

“Clothes off, sweetheart.” He took a step back, giving you space.

You reached for the hem of your shirt and peeled it up over your head, letting it fall to the floor. His eyes tracked every inch of newly exposed skin, like he was cataloguing every place he intended to touch.

You pushed your pants down next, shimmied them over your hips, then stepped out, standing there in just your bra and panties, chest rising and falling.

“All of it.”

Your fingers trembled as you reached behind and undid your bra, letting it slide off your shoulders. Then finally, you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear and slid them down your legs, stepping out of them and standing bare in front of him.

He nodded toward the bed.

You turned and sat on the edge first, heart racing, then eased yourself down, your back meeting the cool sheets as you settled into place beneath his gaze.

It didn’t take long before he was hovering over you, one hand spreading your thighs as he settled between them, the other coming up to rest lightly – so lightly – around your throat.

You whimpered.

“There it is,” he whispered, kissing just beneath your ear. “That little sound you make when you’re starting to let go.”

Then his fingers found your clit, and you arched off the bed with a gasp, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure landed exactly where you needed it

“I can’t possibly imagine why you’d think this isn’t ‘my thing.’” His fingers kept working you. “Feel what you’ve done to me.”

Your hand moved down between you, palming him through his jeans – and Christ, was he hard. Straining against the fabric, so much so that it almost felt painful.

He groaned at the contact, his hips instinctively pressing into your touch.

“See?” he murmured, slipping a finger inside you without warning, drawing a moan from deep in your chest. “This is exactly my thing. And you—” he kissed the corner of your mouth, “you like this is my thing.”

You gasped, your back arching again, but his other hand was already moving, finding your neck again, pressing down just enough to hold you in place.

He leaned in close, brushing his nose along your cheek, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear as he added a second finger. “You don’t even realize how pretty you are when you’re desperate, do you?” he whispered. “The way you shake. The way you clench around me when I take my time.”

“Aaron…”

He smiled against your skin. “I could keep you like this all night.”

“Please –” was all you managed, the word falling out in a half-broken whimper.

His hand at your throat tightened just enough to make your breath hitch, the same time he curled his fingers inside you. You clenched around him so hard you thought your body might unravel right then and there.

“Fuck – I – I –”

“What is it? Tell me exactly what you need.”

You bucked against him, unable to stop it, hands flying to his forearms – not to push him away, but to hold on. He didn’t move, didn’t ease up either of his hands.

“Or… do you want me to decide for you, hm?”

You couldn’t answer, not in words. Your mind was a haze of heat and ache, your breath catching somewhere between a sob and a moan. Your nails dug into his forearms, desperate for some sort of release.

“Too overwhelmed to answer?”

And then he stilled.

Fingers deep inside you, his body caging yours, hand still resting at your throat but no movement. No friction. No relief. You whined, your hips shifting in an attempt to chase more.

“I’ll decide, then,” he said softly, like he was offering kindness. “You want release? Earn it.”

He withdrew his fingers slowly, achingly slow, and the loss had you nearly sobbing. But before you could even begin to beg, he brought his slick fingers up between you and pressed them to your lips.

“Taste it,” he murmured. “Taste how worked up you are. Taste what you do to me.”

Your lips parted without thought, wrapping around his fingers. You moaned as your tongue slid over them, tasting yourself on his skin. He pressed a little deeper, a little further down your throat, and you hollowed your cheeks, sucking greedily.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice rough now. “So fucking good for me.”

He began making his way down your body, peppering kisses over your chest, you stomach, your hips. You could feel him everywhere, his breath fanning against your skin, his hands sliding down your thighs, spreading you open again.

He lowered himself between your thighs, and when his mouth finally met you again, it was everything.

His tongue lapped at you, circling your clit before dragging lower to taste all of you. He groaned into you, the sound deep, pushing you that much closer to the edge.

You couldn’t stop yourself from moving – hips bucking, thighs twitching, grinding against his face, desperate for more. But he only gripped your hips harder, strong arms pinning you down like it was nothing. Like your squirming didn’t even faze him. Like it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

You whimpered, barely coherent and all you could think about was how badly you wanted those bruises. You wanted to see the outline of his fingers tomorrow. You wanted to remember exactly how they got there.

The pressure built low in your stomach, your thighs beginning to tremble, clenching around his face.

“S’okay baby,” he mumbled against you, voice muffled by your skin. “I’ve got you.”

And that was all it took.

Your thighs clamped around his head, your hips jolting up off the bed, and you cried out, high and breathless, one hand flying to your mouth, the other tangled in the sheets. You writhed beneath him, overstimulated and soaked, gasping through the aftershocks. Your whole body was twitching, lips parted, chest heaving.

He finally pulled back, mouth and chin glistening. “You should see yourself. You don’t even know how beautiful you look when you come.”

You were still catching your breath when you heard the sound of his zipper, the clink of his belt hitting the floor. You reached up to brush a strand of hair off your damp forehead, but your hand dropped the second you felt him between your thighs again, tip dragging slowly along your soaked slit.

Your entire body went still, mouth falling open and he hadn’t even pushed inside you yet.

“You okay?” he asked, pausing just long enough to check in.

“Yes,” you breathed, eyes wide. “More than okay. So okay.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Now you want to talk?”

“I’m just –” you started, breath catching every time the head of his cock slid through your folds. “I’m just saying, I didn’t know it could feel like this, and I – God, Aaron –”

And then he thrusted into you.

One deep stroke that filled you completely, stealing the rest of the sentence right out of your mouth. Your eyes flew open, a strangled gasp caught in your throat as your head tipped back against the pillow, hands flying to his shoulders to hold on.

“Yeah,” he gritted out, his voice hot against your ear. “I thought that might shut you up.”

You could only whimper in response, nails digging into his skin as he stayed there, buried to the hilt, giving you no room to think.

“You feel that?” he murmured, rocking into you once, slow and deep. “You take me so fucking well.”

You nodded, mouth open, breathless. “I wasn’t done talking,” you managed to whisper.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to drag the tip out to your entrance and paused. “Go ahead,” he encouraged. “Try.”

“Fuck y–”

He slammed back in, cutting you off mid-word with a thrust somehow deeper than the last.

“Fuck you?” he echoed smugly. “Yeah. I think I will.”

And he did – hips rocking into yours, each thrust pushing you further into the mattress. Then his hand came up, wrapping around your throat again and you clenched around him, a moan escaping your lips. He let out a low tsk, like he’d caught you misbehaving.

He leaned in closer, his chest pressing against yours, his thrusts slowing. They were deeper now, rougher, grinding into you with so much intensity you weren’t even sure where your body ended and his began.

“This,” he murmured, squeezing just a little tighter, “this is what you were so scared to ask for?”

You opened your mouth to answer, to give him something, anything, but he slammed into you before the words could form, another deep, brutal thrust that knocked the breath out of you.

“I—Aaron, I—” you tried again, voice thin.

Another thrust. Harder.

You gasped, your back arching off the bed. “You’re not even letting me –”

He did it again, cut you off with a stroke that had your vision going white at the edges.

“Fuck—you’re doing this on purpose,” you whimpered, dazed and desperate.

“I sure am.” His hand tightened just a little more at your throat. “You want to know what my turn-on is?” he muttered, not waiting for an answer. “Seeing you fucked senseless.”

Another thrust hit that perfect spot, making your entire body jerk beneath him. You tried to speak, to respond, but he snapped his hips again and you mewled out whatever nonsense your uncooperative tongue could muster.

“You want to come?”

You nodded frantically, words useless now, tears brimming from the sheer overload.

“Good. Then do it.”

He reached down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, setting a pace in perfect sync with his thrusts. Your hips began to stutter as you screwed your eyes shut, the pressure building too fast to stop.

It took mere seconds before your body seized around him.

“Jesus – fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. “You’re so fucking tight when you come –”

His rhythm faltered, stammered and then he was slamming into you one last time, your name falling from his lips as he came.

He loosened his grip on your throat, both hands sliding to your ribcage, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

Neither of you spoke. Both of you were too focused on catching your breath, sharing the same shallow air like it might not be enough.

Finally, after a minute, he leaned in, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. “Think we should play card games more often.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic

dbf!bodyguard!hotch using food as foreplay coming up next to an alina-blog near you!🌟

dividers by cafekitsune

[hotchsmutrecs]

That Attitude’s Gonna Get You Fucked - A.H

Aaron Hotchner x coworker!reader | secret relationship |

You always knew better than to poke the bear. But Aaron Hotchner, in all his quiet, commanding control, made it impossible not to.

You’d worked at the BAU for three years, joined the team right after an impressive stint in VICAP, and very quickly realized that your biggest weakness wasn’t the killers—it was Hotch.

You walked into the precinct—another missing woman, twenty-three, last seen leaving a bar just off campus. You watched Hotch pace behind the glass wall of the makeshift conference room, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow drawn like he was physically restraining the storm he lived with daily.

You leaned against the doorframe, letting your gaze linger. “You know, boss, if you walk another lap you’re going to wear a groove into the laminate.”

Hotch barely glanced up. “You’re ten minutes late.”

You smirked. “You’re lucky I’m here at all. You didn’t text me good morning.”

“Don’t start.”

“What, me? I’m just observing. It’s what profilers do.”

“Behave yourself, agent.” He answered sternly, shooting you a warning glare.

You leaned in, voice just for him. “Careful, Aaron. If you keep scolding me like that, people might think we’re sleeping together.”

He stepped close. Too close. Close enough that you could smell the ghost of his cologne—clean and understated like him. “I told you—when we’re in the field, it’s work.”

“But that’s what makes it fun.” You arched an eyebrow, lips curling with the threat of a grin. “Don’t you like the thrill, Hotch?”

The room behind you filled with movement—Spencer rattling off victimology, JJ handing out files. You both turned back into character instantly. You were just another profiler, and Hotch was your boss. Nothing more.

“Focus,” Hotch said as you slid into the chair beside him, your thigh brushing his. Spencer launched into his profile: “The unsub is likely in his mid-thirties, a disorganized killer who targets women that resemble—”

“So, what are we thinking? Some kind of purity fixation? Religious overtone?” Hotch was sitting so close, his knee bumped yours beneath the table. You didn’t move.

“Don’t speculate until we’ve reviewed all the evidence,” Hotch shot back immediately, not looking at you.

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “She’s not wrong, Hotch. That positioning—”

“I didn’t say she was wrong. I said we don’t jump to conclusions.”

The team shifted awkwardly. You tilted your head at him, goading. “So, we’re ignoring logic now? Or just my logic?”

Rossi looked between the two of you, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Well. This isn’t tense at all.”

“Enough,” Hotch snapped, his gaze cutting to you. “If you have something useful to add, say it. If not, drop it.” You held his stare, pulse spiking, before rolling your eyes and looking away.

JJ cleared her throat. “Maybe we should just… hit the field.”

You were paired with Hotch to re-interview the family of the third victim. He didn’t speak to you in the car. Not a word. Not even when you fiddled with the AC just to piss him off. He kept his eyes on the road, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap.

“You’re mad,” you finally said, “but Jesus, Aaron. You couldn’t wait five minutes before pulling the power trip in front of the team?”

“I warned you about undermining me.”

“You warned me not to think for myself,” you countered. “And if you want a lapdog, I suggest you start recruiting from the Academy.”

He didn’t look over. “I’m working.” Hotch exhaled slowly. “You disobey me in front of the team again, and I will bench you.”

That pulled a genuine laugh from you. “Wow. You ever try dirty talk that harsh in bed? Or just save it for morning briefs?”

His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “You don’t get to blur lines in front of the team. We talked about this.”

“Oh, is that what that was? I thought it was pillow talk after you came on my stomach and told me I was the only one who made you forget the rest of the damn world.”

“I am your superior.”

“And I’m not your subordinate when your mouth is on my neck at 3 a.m.,” you said flatly.

His eyes darkened. “That’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?” You finally turned to face him. “You want to act like we’re nothing during the day, but when we’re alone—”

“This is the job,” he interrupted. “We don’t let it get in the way.”

“No,” you snapped. “You don’t let it exist.”

Silence stretched between you.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I, Aaron,” you snapped, voice suddenly tight. “I’m not just a fucktoy for your off-hours. I’m your partner in the field, and I know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t act like it.”

You turned your face to the window, jaw set. “Then maybe you should find someone easier to control.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. The air was thick with everything unsaid.

Later that day: Hotch gave orders to wrap it for the night and debrief in the morning. You don’t say much. You don’t need to.

You know exactly where you’re going when the others turn in for the night. You knock once on his door. Room 117. The numbers are already burned into your memory like the rest of him.

He opens it shirtless. “Problem, Agent?” he asks, voice casual, like you didn’t spend the whole day teasing him. Like he didn’t spend every briefing wishing you’d shut up or bend over.

You walk past him. “Yeah,” you say, toeing your shoes off. “My boss is a total asshole.”

Aaron shut the door behind you with a quiet click. “My agent is reckless and insubordinate and acts like the rules don’t apply to her.”

“Funny.” You answered sarcastically, turning slowly, meeting his eyes.

“You disobeyed a direct order earlier,” he says.

You look up at him, lashes lowered. “Yes.”

“You deliberately tested me.”

“Yes.”

“And what did I say?” His eyes glaring into yours.

“I said,” he repeated, voice low and lethal, “if you push me again, I will remind you exactly who’s in charge.”

You stepped closer, breath catching slightly as your chest brushed his. “Is that a threat, Agent Hotchner?”

He looked down at you, jaw tight. “No. It’s a promise. On the bed. Now.”

You didn’t move fast enough. He grabbed your wrist, yanked you, threw you down on the soft plush mattress. “Ass up,” he snapped.

You turned over slow, giving him a look over your shoulder. “Like this, Agent Hotchner?”

“Don’t say my name like that.”

You grinned. “What—‘Hotch’? Or ‘Agent’? Or—”

His palm landed hard on your ass. You gasped, biting your lip. “Keep it up,” he growled, tugging your shorts and panties down in one rough pull.

He stood, unbuckled his belt, pulled down his pants, and his cock was thick and hard and already leaking. He stroked it once, eyes locked on yours. The mattress dipped behind you, and then you felt him—hot and heavy—sliding through your folds, teasing you. “I told you,” he said, fucking into you, “you don’t get to act like a brat in front of the team and think I won’t make you pay.”

You whimpered, trying to hold it back, thighs trembling. He pulled you up against him, his cock still buried deep as his other hand came around to grip your throat.

“You gonna talk back again tomorrow?” he rasped, hips slamming into yours as your legs wrapped tight around him.

“Maybe,” you panted. “Depends if you fuck me like this again.”

He fisted your hair, forcing your head back as he drove into you, harder now. He set a punishing pace, fucking you deep and relentless, hand gripping your ass to keep you steady as your moans grew louder and filthier with each thrust. “You think you deserve to come, baby?”

You moaned, nodding frantically. “I’ll be good. I swear—just—please, Aaron—” You come hard, clenching around him, legs shaking as he rails into your dripping cunt. He follows your orgasm seconds later, grinding deep as his warm cum spurts into you.

After, his hands softened on your hips. His lips brushed your shoulder giving you a soft kiss, “I’m sorry,” he says.

You blink slowly, still breathless. “For what?”

“For making you feel like this is something I’m ashamed of.”

Your throat tightens. “It’s not just sex to me,” you whisper.

He leans in and kisses you again, softer this time. “I know,” he says. “It never was.”

a/n: this fic is sponsored by my whoremones

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[hotchsmutrecs]

something only you can have

pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!reader genre: filthy depraved smut w.c.: 4k a/n: this is a result of peer pressure /j but uhm seriously if you dont like, dont read :)

summary: You and Hotch try something new.

c.w.: 18+ MDNI, PISS KINK/DESPERATION, squirting, newly established relationship, dom/sub elements, no prior kink discussion (dont be like them), fingering, m masturbation, THERES PISS BTW

read below or on ao3 here <3

It all started while you were out on a case.

This unsub was pissing you off. Scratch that, it was pissing you all off.

You had been stuck in Texas for almost two weeks with nearly every single lead falling through spectacularly. You could tell everyone was close to their wit’s end, based off of Spencer nearly biting your head off this morning when you greeted him and Penelope not even giving you a silly nickname when you called her earlier.

But now, finally, you had received an anonymous tip and everyone was scrambling to get strapped up and out the door. The sigh of relief in the room was palpable when Hotch found the tip credible, everyone secretly hoping that this would work out and you guys can finally fucking go home.

Stress was starting to eat away at you as well— with the precinct’s AC breaking down yesterday, you were starting to run out of clean clothes, and you really had to pee.

You already had your vest on, shifting in place while Hotch barked out orders to the other officers. You’re seriously regretting the amount of water you’ve had today, but with the AC out and having had sweat through your shirt within the first hour of arriving at the precinct, you didn’t really have a choice.

“I’m going to go use the restroom real quick,” you whisper into Hotch’s ear, leaning in close enough to get a whiff of his cologne.

You don’t even wait for a response, about to turn on your heel and ready to sprint to the restroom because you’re seconds away from having to squeeze your legs together, when Hotch’s voice stops you.

“Can you hold it?”

You blink up at him, incredulous enough that it almost distracts you from the increasing pressure of your bladder and the sweat dripping down the side of your neck. “What?”

“We need to go now. Do you think you can hold it?”

You want to tell him no, you can’t fucking hold it, but there was something in his voice that has you pausing.

You’re not sure if it’s because you haven’t had time alone with Hotch in weeks, having to be content with light brushes of fingers and lingering looks before saying good night. You’re not sure if it’s because Hotch just looks really good in his vest or if it’s that voice. Stern, low and a bit too similar to the same kind of voice he’s recently started using in the bedroom, eyes dark and calculating.

You’re not sure if the heat or the lack of sleep has gotten to you, but it’s the way his voice tugs at you, low in your stomach in a completely different way, that has you huffing out an exhale and obeying.

“Yeah, I can hold it.”

Hotch raises his eyebrows at you, as if shocked, like he didn’t actually think you were going to listen to him. You don’t blame him, you seldom do.

You’re not exactly sure why you feel nervous, heat crawling up your neck and heart thudding a little bit harder.

Despite this thing between you and Hotch still being… new, it was still comfortable. It was even more comfortable in the bedroom, where you learned that Hotch liked to take control and you liked to give it to him, if only with a little bit of defiant teasing to get him riled up.

But this? Relinquishing this sort of control to him had your mind reeling and the air knocking out of your lungs.

It must show on your face, because suddenly his eyes darken and his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Heat pools at the pit of your stomach, curling at the edge of your spine, and when you have to squeeze your thighs together, you’re not sure whether you’re trying to stave off your bladder or your arousal. Or both.

You watch as Hotch’s mouth opens, like he’s about to say something, maybe to say that he was just kidding and that you can go to the restroom or another implicit order that would have your knees buckling.

But then Derek’s poking his head through the doorway, eyebrows raised like he knows he’s interrupting something but doesn’t care. “We’re ready to head out whenever you are, Hotch.”

Just like that, Hotch’s face transforms from heated to something more professional, rigid, as if he wasn’t seconds away from pressing you up against the wall. His shoulders tighten, mouth closing and twisting as he trying to formulate a response that didn’t give him away.

“We’ll be right there.”

You deflate a little, arousal still barely humming underneath your skin, as you try to come to terms with the fact that you’re about to barge into an active crime scene with a full bladder.

You two don’t get a chance to talk about it—too caught up in taking down the unsub and then planning who would take charge of the interrogation.

The pressure in your bladder has slightly subsided by the time you had climb into the SUV, adrenaline starting to take over the daze that melts into your brain after you interact with Hotch in that way. He seems to have forgotten as well, based on how engrossed in the road he was while driving.

When you find out that you didn’t have to be involved in the interrogation, you breathe a sigh of relief, muttering a thank fucking god, and then sprint to the restroom.

You’re too busy to notice the curious gaze Hotch wears as he watches you waddle down the hallway.

-

It’s been several weeks and you’ve nearly completely forgotten about the whole incident.

Until now.

The team had just gotten back from dinner after successfully wrapping up another case. Relief at finally catching the unsub and being able to go back home for a much-needed weekend settled satisfyingly into your bones. It was still hot out, humid enough where your hair was starting to cling to the damp skin of your neck, so you didn’t notice how Hotch kept waving his hand for the waiter to refill your glass of water, that bastard.

Not only that, but he was getting handsy—tracing circles on your thigh with his thumb underneath the table and his palm heavy at the small of your back. It was nice, especially since he usually wasn’t a fan of being so touchy around the rest of the team, but it also provided an inkling of what kind of mood he was in.

You weren’t surprised when he pushed you up against the door as soon as it clicked shut, the drowsy farewells of your teammates fading into the background as Hotch kissed you like he hadn’t seen you in weeks.

His mouth was soft, persistent, as they moved against yours. He takes advantage of the surprised gasp you let out, deepening the kiss further and overwhelming you with the taste of spice from the drink he had at dinner.

He brings an infuriatingly large hand up to cup the back of your neck, tilting your chin up further, while his free hand trailed down your shoulder, down your side, leaving behind trails of heat, until he was grabbing a handful of your ass and pulling you further against him.

You felt the line of his hardening cock against your hip, even through the fabric of your dress pants. It had been torture for you to not fuck your incredibly hot boyfriend/boss during a high-strung case, but it seemed like it was affecting him much more than you thought it was.

When he pulls away, your head still cradled in his palm, the wild glint in his eyes has you smirking. Pupils blown wide, a tinge of pink on his cheeks from both arousal and alcohol, and his hair slowly coming loosened from his hair gel and flopping against his forehead in a way that was starting to become strangely endearing to you.

“Get on the bed,” he orders, voice low, and you quickly obey.

The both of you scramble to tear off your clothes, strangely reminiscent of your teenage years, and then you’re crawling back onto the bed with that youthful kind of giddiness warming up your chest.

You sit back on your elbows and watch with bated breath as Aaron tugs off his boxers, his cock already half-hard and slapping against his stomach, before his dark eyes are set on you. He doesn’t say anything as he kneels onto the edge of the bed as his large hands wrap themselves around your ankles to tug you down.

You let out a squeal as he brings your ass to hang over the edge of the mattress before Aaron leans over you to capture your breathless giggles with a kiss. One of his elbows was digging into the sheets next to your head, the other running up your stomach and to your breasts, and your legs hitched up high around his waist. His mouth was hungry, starving, as he delved into your mouth like he couldn’t get enough of you.

It would be surprising, especially as Aaron didn’t usually prefer to have sex on cases, but you could tell there was something on his mind as his mouth peppers open-mouthed kisses along your jawline and down to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there. It’s nearly desperate, the hurried way he was tasting the sweat off your skin and the way he was squeezing your breasts, his thumbs skimming against your nipple and bringing them to stiff peaks.

You let out a breathless sigh, your arms coming to wrap around his broad shoulders and tangling your fingers with the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck. Heat curls at the pit of your stomach, swirling with the beginning pressure of your bladder threatening to cry out at you. You attempt to push it away to the back of your mind to focus on the warm wet mouth gradually drifting down your chest.

“Been thinking about you all day,” Aaron murmurs, pressing another kiss to the top of your breast before wrapping his lips around your nipple.

“Someone’s impatient,” you attempt to say cockily, however it comes out strangled, your back arching before you could help it to chase the sharp pleasure as he nips at you, soothing the sensitive bud with a swirl of his tongue.

He pulls away and the cold air of the hotel room brushing against your wet nipple has your hips grinding up against him. The hot weight of his cock presses against your inner thigh, desperately close to where you needed him the most.

“You have no idea,” he says, and then he’s moving to suck your other nipple and give it the same attention as the other.

Even if your relationship was still new, Aaron somehow was able to learn your body better and faster than anyone else you had been with—what made your hips squirm, what made you whine into the open air, or what made you feel so good you made no noise, just letting your jaw drop open in ecstasy. He always took his time with you, and his tendency to focus on your pleasure over yours was a breath of fresh air.

You felt the result of his attentiveness now, wetness nearly dripping from your aching pussy and undoubtedly clinging to Aaron’s lower stomach. The tip of his cock would brush against your core every time you canted your hips up, notching against your entrance, and you hoped that he would hurry up and just fuck you already.

He groans every time his cock brushes against your folds, tempted to just slam himself into you. He pulls away, sitting back on his knees as his fingers trace the soft curves of your stomach, your waist, before dragging his fingertips along the apex of your thighs.

“Sweetheart, you’re already so wet,” he coos, briefly dipping his thick fingers between your sopping folds.

You shiver as Aaron makes a show of displaying just how wet you were as he brings his slick fingers up from between your thighs. He separates them, and the both of you watch transfixed as your pearly strings of your arousal clings between them.

“See? She’s practically begging for my cock.”

“Fuck,” you mumble, face growing hot at the filth of his words. He really must be hornier than you thought.

“I have to get her ready first, don’t I?” Aaron says before he’s pushing a thick finger inside of you.

You gasp at the sudden intrusion, because he’s right, he always needs to get you ready first because his cock was always so thick, always felt like he was splitting you open like the very first time.

He’s gentle, slow, despite the fact that you were so wet and ready for him his finger slid right inside.

“Fuck, Aaron…,” you moan, reaching out for him aimlessly until your hand wraps around his wrist, his hand splayed out on your hip.

And then he’s thrusting his finger in and out of you, just as slow, and the lewd squelching of your wetness fills the hotel room as your mouth drops open, your grip on his wrist tightening.

He wordlessly inserts another finger inside, undeniably stretching you even further. It’s intoxicatingly delicious, the difference, because the pathetic whimpers coming from your mouth grows higher in pitch, your blood nearly singing at the pleasure flooding your veins.

“There she is,” Aaron whispers reverently, voice raspy as his eyes drink in the way your pussy swallows his wide fingers and the sheer bliss on your face as you squeeze your eyes shut.

He starts a steady rhythm then, avoiding your clit and plunging in and out of you in a way that he knew wouldn’t get you to come.

And he’s right, he’s always infuriatingly right, however there’s that pressure in your lower stomach, vastly different from white-hot arousal, that’s slowly starting to make itself known.

You try to ignore it, focusing on the weight of his hand against your hip and the way the filthy noises of your wet pussy filtered through your ears, but it was like the faster Aaron fucked you with his fingers, the more that pressure grew.

He must notice your distracted mind, the uncomfortable scrunch on your face, as he slows his fingers. He doesn’t take them out. “Are you okay?”

You blink your eyes open and is met with genuine concern on his face despite the way his eyes continuously drift down to his fingers and then back up to your face.

“Yeah, I just…” you whisper, throat dry. You clear your throat and shift your hips, unsure if you wanted to meet his fingers or scoot away. You pause, unsure how truthful you wanted to be.

It was a normal bodily function, you think, as normal as breathing. You knew Aaron wouldn’t shy away from something as harmless like a bodily fluid like that. “I just really have to go pee.”

A pause. Something unreadable flashes over his face, but it has a strange thrill running up your spine.

And then, he starts moving his fingers in and out of you, slower, curled enough just slightly that had you gasping and your thighs squeezing together around his wrists.

“We haven’t really talked about it,” Aaron says, voice rough. His brown eyes, usually so pretty and gentle around you, were dark and dangerous. “But do you think you can hold it?”

An incredulous laugh escapes you. It’s breathy, and your eyes are threatening to roll back into your head as he begins to increase his rhythm. The way his thick fingers have curled in on you has him nearly brushing that sweet spot inside of you, but also strangely pressing up on your aching bladder.

You’ve squirted before, when you had forgotten to go to the restroom before having sex, but this was a whole different level. It was nearly uncomfortable, having to clench in an effort to refrain from letting go, and your bladder was fuller than ever.

“I don’t know…” you whisper. “I think I really have to go.”

He slowly pulls his fingers out of you and leans over to press his lips to your temple. You whimper at the loss, the pressure at the pit of your stomach increasing without the distraction of his fingers.

“You can do it, sweetheart.” And it’s the low tone of his voice and the way his calloused fingers rub over your puffy folds, wetter than you’ve ever been, that has you legitimately thinking maybe you can hold it. “Do you trust me?”

You slowly realize it actually feels good—not only the added pressure mixing with your arousal, but the sudden desperation you feel, panic clawing its way up your throat, and the small comfort Aaron’s thumb rubbing over your hipbone provides. Somehow, the strain of your bladder just enhanced the pleasure. It was sharper, more intense, and made you feel a bit drunk despite only drinking water all night.

And you do trust him, willing to do anything for him, but not only that, you wanted to be good for him too.

You swallow, meet his eyes, and nod.

He releases a harsh breath against the side of your face, as if in relief, as if he was actually worried that you wouldn’t want to keep going with him and continue exploring your sex life that was slowly becoming a little bit out of your comfort zone. When he leans up a little to capture your lips in a kiss, it’s hungry and frenzied.

When he pulls away to sit back on his knees again, wearing a small, wicked smile on his face that sends your heart doing backflips in your chest, he stops holding back.

He drags the pads of his fingers through your folds, gathering the wetness and smearing it around your pussy, making a noise at the back of his throat. He briefly nudges against your swollen clit, a teasing touch, and it makes your hips jump and mouth drop open in a sharp gasp. He pushes his fingers into your entrance, two at the same time this time, and even though he was just fucking you with them earlier, you let out a low moan at the delicious stretch and being filled up again.

The slow drag of his fingers inside of your pussy has you feeling dazed, your breath escaping your lungs with each thrust. A light sheen of sweat covered your body despite the increased chill of the hotel room. Your nipples were tight and aching, your hips trembling underneath the firm hold Aaron had on you as he curved his fingers inside of you and reaching all of your sensitive spots. All of it felt good, better than good, like you were drowning in white-hot pleasure that was quickly being coaxed out with each thrust.

Despite it all, you couldn’t focus on your orgasm when your desperation to pee grew higher and higher.

“Aaron…,” you whispered, voice strained. Your breaths were growing heavier, the ache in your bladder growing stronger with each second, with each thrust of Aaron’s thick fingers hooked inside of you. The panic climbing up your throat was starting to make itself known again, anxiety at the possibility of not being able to clench and hold off for much longer.

“Just a little bit more, honey. And then you can let go for me.”

When you blink up at him, you’re shocked to realize that there were desperate tears forming at the corner of your eyes and clinging to your lashes. Your thighs were trembling, squeezing together and trapping Aaron’s wrist.

He makes a disappointed noise, and then separates your thighs with his free hand and spreading you open. He keeps your thighs apart with his forearm, his elbow digging into your thigh and his hand grabbing your other knee. He starts fucking into you faster, the filthy squelching of your soaked pussy filling the room.

You moan unabashedly, eyes fixated on the veins protruding in his forearms and the flex of his biceps as he plunges into you. You’re able to see Aaron’s heavy cock bobbing between his thighs, the tip, flushed a pretty pink, wet and leaking with precum so steadily it made your mouth water.

You feel yourself clenching around him, and usually you would be frantically wishing and begging for him to fuck you with his cock, but now you couldn’t think, couldn’t even breathe from the continuous pressure against your fucking bladder.

His hand is a blur between your thighs as he keeps fucking you with his fingers, unwavering in his pace, and your breath stutters, chest growing tight. You squeezed your eyes shut, throwing your head back against the mattress as he didn’t let up. You could feel the beginning tendrils of your orgasm sneaking up your spine, but you didn’t know what would happen if you relaxed and let go.

Before you could even make a decision, you heard rather than felt a gush of liquid coming out of you and the sounds of your pussy getting even wetter. You craned your neck to look down, eyes half-lidded and glassy, and you gasp when you notice actual liquid coming out of you with every thrust of Aaron’s thick fingers and every slap of his palm against your clit.

“There she is,” Aaron growls, gaze fixated on your pussy swallowing up his fingers and the droplets splashing out onto the sheets. “Come on, sweetheart. You can let go.”

You want to argue, tell him that what the fuck do you mean by letting go, but it was as if the more liquid shot out of your pussy, the faster and more intense your orgasm was crawling up your spine. And he doesn’t let up. In fact, it seems like he increases his speed, fucks his fingers into you harder, his palm continuing to slap against your clit, with eyebrows furrowed and lips parted.

A sharp gasp wretches out of you, your arm shooting out to grip his forearm he’s still using to separate your thighs, your muscles tensing and your pussy clenching around his fingers as your orgasm slams into you. You’re distantly aware of more liquid gushing out of you, your release painting your thighs, Aaron’s hands, and the hotel bed sheets.

Aaron lets out a long groan, his fingers slowing but still pushing, pressing and curving against your bladder as if to coax everything out of you. He releases his hold on your knee, letting your legs fall apart while he wraps a large hand around his own cock to bring himself off.

It only takes a couple of strokes before he’s cursing under his breath, voice strained, and then you feel the hot ropes of his come painting your inner thighs and on your stomach and pussy, mixing with your release.

The feeling of warmth against your lower stomach has you clenching again, dazed from your orgasm. The ache of your bladder was slightly alleviated, but it still felt horribly urgent.

Just as you were about to sit up to wobble to the restroom, Aaron stops you with a large hand in the middle of your chest. When you peer up at him, blinking through the tears at the corner of your eyes, he’s trying to catch his breath and his hand was still wrapped around his cock to squeeze the last remnants of his orgasm.

“I said you can let go, didn’t I?”

He slowly takes his fingers out of you before he’s pushing that hand on your lower stomach, pressing on your bladder. You jump, weakly grabbing at his wrist, but you’re still exhausted from your orgasm so your words die in your throat as you felt the beginning trickle coming out of you.

Luckily there’s not a lot, still able to hold some semblance of control, but there’s the unmistakable sound of you pissing on your hotel sheets because your boss wanted you to.

Hot embarrassment floods your face, your ears burning and shame making tears spring up again, but Aaron’s there. He’s watching you, arousal and affection swimming in his dark eyes, as he rubs his thumb back and forth against your hipbone. He’s shushing you, praising you and saying what a good job you did for him, and it provides some comfort that gently washes over you.

You can’t deny the relief you feel either, melting with the aftershocks of your orgasm, and when the flow stops, you softly exhale and drop your head back onto the sheets to stare at the ceiling.

You can’t move, don’t even want to move, but Aaron is there again, taking care of you. He tugs at your hips until you’re laying on a dry spot and wipes a warm wet towel over your thighs, your aching pussy, and even your stomach where some droplets of your release landed.

He’s pressed flushed up against you in the next five minutes, your shoulder pressing into his chest and his hand coming up to brush away the hair that had fallen into your face. He noses along your cheekbone. “Are you okay?”

When you twist your neck to get a good look at him, anxiety prickles at you. You almost expect him to look grossed out, disgusted at you, or even want to break up with you despite this whole thing being his idea.

What you find instead is fondness, as well as concern that he went too far and had made you uncomfortable. His eyebrows are pinched together and he gently cradles your face, his hand smelling like vanilla and lavender. God, you love him.

You lick your lips, still catching your breath, and then you say “It’s your turn next time.”

taglist <3 I AM SO SORRY IF THIS IS NOT SOMETHING UR INTO @kiwriteswords @solardrop @knitmeatardis @mggslover @maeintree @pastelpinkflowerlife @storiesofsvu @actualdeemon @khxna @ssa-writerminds 

[hotchsmutrecs]

THOROUGHLY DEALT WITH

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: you're angry with aaron for missing an important event, so naturally, he fucks the anger out of you. warnings | an: UMMMM ok so! p in v sex, fingering & oral (f receiving) spanking, drooling, overstimulation, masturbation, light d/s elements, choking & mirrors (can u tell i have my favs) somnophilia mentioned, errthang consensual, age gap, just filth yalllll word count: 4.2k… i wrote this when i was ovulating,, my cycle unfortunately decides what content i post LOL

✧ masterlist

You began with his shirts. The infuriatingly pristine, colour-coded, pattern-matched shirts hanging in your closet. The one you once shared. After tonight, however, you’d have ample room for your winter coats.

It felt harsh, thinking that way. And perhaps, once the adrenaline had ebbed, you’d be curled up among those coats, using the sleeves as tissues. But for now, you let the mindset of pure rage, slight dramatics and fury take the lead.

You knew what you were stepping into, a relationship with a man who might as well have been the crown jewel of the FBI, given how seldom he was home. And you bore it with grace. You never demanded much, only ever asked for compromise when it mattered, when it truly mattered.

So one by one, the shirts sailed over the bannister, landing in a crumpled heap by the entryway. Cotton casualties of yet another one of his spectacularly poor decisions.

He’d missed it.

The one thing you’d asked him not to miss. Not a work dinner, not some meaningless social obligation, but your event. The one you’d planned for months, circled on the calendar, reminded him of over and over. The one he looked you dead in the eye and promised he’d be there for.

What did you get instead? A text.

I’m sorry. Something came up.

Something came up, indeed. The collapse of your relationship, for starters.

Okay, maybe that was the dramatics talking. Maybe you didn’t want it to end, but you wanted—no, needed—him to take you seriously. Because how dare he? How dare he treat your life like the flexible one? As if your moments were optional, but his moments, ones that revolved around blood, caution tape, and sirens were the ones that ever mattered.

And the worst part of it all was the fact that despite all your anger, you still missed him in a way that language couldn’t quite capture. He’d been out on a case for two weeks, and even before that, he was barely home, glued to that damn bureaucratic chair in his office like it deserved more of him than you did.

You’d spent the last eight hours convincing yourself you were done. Done making excuses for him. Done watching your life conform to his schedule, his job, him in general. But your body, the ultimate traitor, didn’t seem done with him at all. Not when your hand drifted between your legs in the shower, picturing the way he used to pin you there, palm flat against your sternum.

Not even now, when you were supposed to be standing your ground. You still found yourself wishing he’d walk through that door and press you against it, like he needed it just as badly as you did.

Maybe that’s all this was. Maybe all you needed was a good fucking.

And you knew that was exactly what you would’ve gotten, had he shown up like he promised. He would’ve started in the car, hand gripping your thigh, maybe even slipping under your dress, getting you all worked up before you’d even made it home.

Then he would’ve railed into you, bent you over the piano in the foyer, lights blazing because of course he’d want the neighbours to see exactly how he rewarded your hard work. But no. You went home alone. Worked up, pissed off, with every intent of emptying your wine stash. Which you did.

And now, you stood at the top of the stairs, breath uneven as your pulse pounded in your throat. And that’s when you heard it.

His car in the driveway.

Shoes. Yes. Shoes seemed poetic. Fitting. The perfect thing to hurl at him with all the grace of a woman scorned and denied an earth-shattering orgasm. Actually, orgasms—plural. Because he wouldn’t have stopped at just one. He would’ve teased the first out of you, held you at the edge until you begged, then made up for it with two more. Rewards for being so damn patient.

You turned on your heel and marched back into the closet, snatching the nearest pair of his smug little leather loafers. Polished, arrogant things, much like the man who owned them.

By the time he stepped through the front door, you were already back at your vantage point, arm cocked, waiting until he turned to launch the first shoe.

It missed his head by a fraction and slammed into the doorframe with a satisfying crack.

He froze, jacket slung over one arm, briefcase in hand, tie loosened and all.

“Hi, honey,” you called out, your voice sweet enough to rot teeth. Then came the second loafer which landed just short of his feet. “Figured I’d give you a hand with the packing,” you added, gesturing to the shirts across the entryway. “Consider it a head start. I assumed your schedule wouldn’t allow for sentimentality.”

He set his briefcase down first, then his jacket, but you didn’t stay to watch the performance. You were already halfway down the hall, disappearing into the closet like a woman possessed, and thoroughly, furiously sexually frustrated.

You grabbed as many of his jackets as your arms could carry, yanking them from the rack with such force—hangers still hooked—you were genuinely surprised the bar hadn’t come crashing down with them.

You heard him then, just shy of the dressing room, steps clear as day. You paused in the hallway and dropped the pile right where it met the doorway, letting the expensive fabric fall into a heap like a makeshift barricade.

Then, back into the closet you went. You reached for what was left, another jacket, two more blazers, and his beloved cashmere sweaters. You snatched them from their hangers like they were the ones that were responsible. And with your arms full again you turned, only to find him standing there. So close that you nearly walked right into him.

“Unless you’re here to carry these to the curb, I suggest you get the hell out of my way, Aaron.”

His eyes dropped briefly to the pile in your arms, then back to your face. “I’m not leaving.”

“Like hell you’re not—”

“Just put my things down and we can talk about this,” he said, with that infuriatingly calm voice that made you want to scream, in two very different ways. “I know I made a mistake.”

You scoffed and stepped closer, close enough to breathe him in. Not the crisp, clean scent you were used to in the mornings when he’d leave for work showered, shaven and put together.  No, this was him at the end of the day. The faint remnants of cologne clinging to his skin, mixed with something more worn-in, and when he exhaled, you caught the faintest trace of bourbon on his breath. Rossi’s doing, no doubt.

Probably his way of trying to calm him down.

You’d heard Dave refer to you as a ‘fiery one’ more than once, always with a little too much amusement in his voice. He’d even joked, right in front of you, that Aaron wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like you. Said he’d fold if you ever gave him real attitude. Clearly, Rossi had sensed what kind of storm Aaron was walking into tonight and had handed him a glass like some kind of offering from the gods.

“So not only are you incapable of being unselfish for one night that doesn’t revolve around you, you also seem to have a stunningly poor ability to follow basic instructions,” you snapped, voice rising in a way that was rare. “Are you absolutely certain you went to FBI school, or did you half-ass that the way you half-ass everything else you claim to care about?”

“Are you done?”

“Not even fucking close. But go ahead, interrupt again. You’re great at that, right?” You shoved the pile of clothes into his chest, hard enough to make him take a step back. “Talking over people, brushing them off, missing everything that actually matters until it’s already too late.”

He stood there for a second, holding the clothes before letting them drop to the floor without a word. You let out a bitter laugh at the sight and moved to shoulder past him, but his hand shot out, catching your wrist.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” you hissed, turning back to face him. “Don’t walk away from the man who didn’t show up? Don’t stop screaming because it’s the only thing that gets through that thick, federal skull of yours?”

“Don’t do this. Not when you want me more than you want me to leave.”

“What? Are you—are you actually insane? Delusional? Is this the sleep deprivation talking? Because if so, you can take that smug little fantasy and get the hell out of my house.”

He let go of your wrist, but only to step behind you. His hands moved to your hips, turning your body to position you in front of the island in the centre of the dressing room.

“You want me gone?” he asked.

You cocked your head slightly to the right, catching his reflection in the mirror ahead as he began to undo his tie.

“Say it,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours in the glass. “Say it while I’m inside you.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Not because you lacked words, lord knows you had plenty. And he hadn’t even scraped the surface of the venom still burning at the back of your throat. But your body—traitorous, wretched thing—had already betrayed you.

You were supposed to be holding your ground. Not standing there, spine taut, with him behind you, visibly restraining yourself from folding over the island and handing him all your anger, gift-wrapped in a neat little bow that read please, fuck me senseless.

His fingers brushed your waist, and your lungs locked up. Your throat was so dry your heart had taken to skipping two beats at a time, just to remind you to swallow.

“I missed one night,” he continued, his fingertips now trailing up the length of your forearms. “But I haven’t missed this. Not once.”

You let out a flimsy exhale, turning your head to meet his eyes in the mirror once more. “You think this makes it better?” You knew it did. Maybe this wasn’t the kind of answer that made sense in a normal relationship, but nothing about you and Aaron had ever been normal.

“No,” he answered like the gentleman he was pretending to be, knowing exactly what was coming. “But I think you want it anyway.” And then his hands dropped from your arms completely. “So…what’s it going to be?”

Your hands moved before your mind did, bracing yourself against the island, knuckles whitening as your spine arched over the marble.

He hummed in approval, hands moving to your neck, brushing your hair aside. “That’s what I thought.” You felt him press into you, the weight of him flattening you against the surface as his fingers found the zipper of your jeans.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you lied, needing to put up some kind of fight.

He stilled for half a second, then let out a quiet laugh. “No?” he mocked, dragging the denim down your thighs until it was bunched at your knees. “Then why are you shaking?”

“Because I can’t fucking stand you,” you spat, forehead pressing to the marble, breath fogging against it as you tried—really tried—to remember why you decided his wardrobe would look better scattered across the entryway.

You heard him click his tongue behind you.

“Honey,” he drawled, his voice so pleased and full in all the ways that you were seconds away from being.“You’re so wet your underwear’s turned three shades darker.” And just to prove your point, his thumb dragged slowly over the soaked fabric making your body jolt, forehead nearly smacking the marble with the force of the reaction.

“Step out of the jeans for me,” he murmured, tapping your right thigh first, then your left.

You kicked the material off one leg at a time, your balance swaying as you did, hands tightening around the edge of the island for strength because it was the only thing keeping you upright.

His hand slid up the backs of your legs again, brushing that spot where your ass met your thighs. Then, without a word, his fingers slipped underneath the gauzy material of your panties.

You sucked in a breath as his middle finger dragged through your folds.

“Do you remember what had you so pissed off in the first place?” he questioned, like he genuinely expected you to form a coherent sentence right now.

“Yes,” you groaned into the counter, hips bucking shamelessly against his hand.

“So greedy,” he tutted, pulling his finger back just enough to watch your hips chase it. “Want me out of the house. Throwing my things out like some scene from a bad divorce. But one finger and you’re already a whiny little mess?”

A strangled noise tore from your throat, something between a curse and a moan, as your hands gripped the counter tighter.

“How many times did you touch yourself while I was gone, hm?”

“I—fuck, I don’t—”

“You don’t know?” He pushed a thick finger inside you, making you hiss at the stretch. “That’s not a real answer. Try again.”

You bit down on your lower lip hard enough to sting, eyes fluttering shut as your body betrayed you all over again.

“I asked you a question.”

“Three,” you gasped. “Maybe four.”

He let out a low, satisfied noise. “Maybe? You lost count?”

“D-Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I don’t need to,” he laughed, adding a second finger. “You’re doing it for me.”

Your right hand curled into a fist, accidentally knocking a bag off the side in the process. “I hate you,” you mewled, the words barely making it past your throat.

“Liar,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your spine as his fingers worked deeper, curling just right. “You don’t hate me. You hate that I know exactly how to make you come before I’ve even unzipped my pants.”

Your mouth was parted against the marble, and when a moan caught in your throat, you managed to drag it back down just barely. Coaxing it into a shaky breath instead, trying to cling to the last scraps of pride you had left. Because he was right. Infuriatingly right.

“Well?” you hissed, breath catching. “Are you going to unzip your pants, or are we still pretending your fingers are doing anything I didn’t handle on my own while you were gone?”

Your heard an unbothered chuckle from him first and then felt the sharp sting of his palm landing against your ass, second. The impact was muffled by the fabric of your underwear, but the message landed all the same.

“That’s sweet, dear. But I don’t remember hearing you make these kinds of noises the last time you decided to take care of yourself…right next to me.”

You jaw clenched.

It had only happened once. You thought he was asleep—clearly, he wasn’t. He’d gotten in late from work, and you hadn’t wanted to bother him, so you took matters into your own hands… literally.

In hindsight, it explained the sudden burst of sex drive the next morning. You’d woken up to his mouth between your legs like he was trying to make a point that he could always make you come harder.

His free hand fisted in your hair, tugging your head to the side as he angled your face toward the mirror. “This isn’t how you sounded then, is it?” he taunted, fingers slipping out of you just to circle your swollen clit instead.

You gasped, body jerking at the sudden change in pressure.

“And just for that—” his hand stilled, the contact vanishing altogether, “—you can wait.”

You took the chance to catch your breath, heart pounding as you clenched around nothing, blinking back the tears gathering in your waterline like they’d scheduled a meeting.  

Glancing at the mirror you saw his hands work his belt free and you were tempted. So incredibly tempted to prove him wrong, to reach down between your legs and finish what he so cruelly started. Just a few strokes, that’s all it would take. But before you could even move—

“Don’t.”

You stilled. Every muscle locked.

“Put one hand between your legs,” he continued, the sound of his belt sliding from the last loop sharp in your ears, “and I’ll bind both behind your back. You won’t come tonight. Or tomorrow.”

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, barely managing to pull air in. The fabric of your top clung to your skin, sticky with sweat and a rage that seemed to be dissipating by the second. All that remained in its place was a desperate, aching hunger for him.

You pressed your thighs together without thinking, chasing some kind of friction, some kind of relief, but Aaron’s hands were already on your hips. His fingers slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear, tugging them down your legs.

You knew it was his favourite part, especially when he had you bent over nearly every surface in the house. He loved watching the strings of your wetness peel away with the fabric, loved when it dripped down your thigh.

Once you were free of the only barrier between the two of you, you braced yourself flat against the counter, arching your back just enough to let him swipe his thumb through your pussy, allowing him relish in your wetness like a ritual he never dared to skip.

“Still want me to go?” he asked, though his voice carried a gentler note.

You turned your head, eyes back on the mirror. “Just fuck me,” you whispered—no, begged. “Please.”

He leaned in, bending over you to press a kiss to the inside of your forearm. Then another, trailing lazily up the length of your arm to your shoulder. Behind you, you felt his hand move between your bodies, hearing the rustle of fabric as he pushed his boxers down.

He aligned himself with you, dragging the thick length of his cock between your thighs, letting you feel everything. Every vein, every throbbing inch, the obscene heat of him paired with the wet slip of precum he spread over you.

You keened out a moan, barely managing to keep yourself upright even with the counter beneath you, legs beginning to shake with the effort it took to stay still.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” he murmured, voice rasping just below your ear. “I wanted to be there. More than anything.”

“I know,” you breathed just as he guided your hips, braced his feet, and buried himself inside you in one devastating thrust. The stretch sent you spiralling, tears spilling freely down your cheeks as your forehead found comfort in the marble once more.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He pulled out just enough to make you clench around the absence, and then slammed back in harder.

One hand slipped under your shirt, calloused fingers grazing your nipple while the other found its way back to your slick clit. All that came from your mouth were broken, pathetic sounds. Half-moans, half-sobs, every syllable caught between nonsense and pleading.

“A-Aaron, oh my f—god—oh—” Your voice wavered as he hit that spot again, and again, and again, until you were shaking with every thrust.

Drool slipped past your lips, a thick string trailing down to the countertop, followed by more, clinging to your chin, catching in the strands of your hair as you trembled under the weight of his body.

You felt Aaron release your nipple before his hand moved to your neck, his palm firm against your throat, holding you in place just as another string of spit slipped past your lips, landing on his hand.

“Look at you,” he grunted, tightening his hold as his hips lurched forward again. “Dripping from both ends.”

“Please don’t stop—I’m—I’m—”

“You’re close,” he chuntered, breath hot against your skin. “I can feel it, baby. You’re squeezing me so fucking tight, I don’t think I can last much longer.”

Your whole body locked, spine arching violently off the counter, eyes rolling back as the coil deep in your belly finally snapped. Your mouth opened in a silent scream, nothing coming out but air, tears, and barely intelligible sounds that might’ve been his name.

But Aaron didn’t stop.

Not even when your legs gave out beneath you, not when you slumped forward against the marble, sobbing through the aftershocks that tore right through you. He held you up, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other sliding up your back, fucking you through it, slow and deep now, like he needed to feel every last twitch and tremble your body offered him.

You could feel his rhythm start to falter, each thrust getting sloppier, his hips stuttering against you. Then, with a muffled moan into your shoulder, he pushed into you one final time and stilled, cock pulsing as he came. His grip eased, but his whole body shuddered against yours like he’d been hanging on just long enough to make sure you came first.

He made sure you were completely filled before he pulled out slowly, causing you to whimper at the emptiness. You barely managed to brush the damp hair from your face, to wipe away at the trail of drool on your chin, before his arms were around you again, this time gently guiding you down to the floor of the dressing room.

“Aaron,” you panted, landing on a pile of clothes you’d thrown there earlier. Soft cotton, rumpled cashmere, the ghost of his cologne clinging to it all. “What…what are you doing?”

“Shh, honey.” He knelt between your legs, his knees cracking on the way down.

“Sure this is good for your old man frame?”

He spread your legs open, fingers moving to push his come back inside you. “If I throw my back out eating your pussy, I’ll die a happy man.”

Your breath caught, hips jerking instinctively at the contact. “Jesus—Aaron—”

He lowered his head, mouth hot and wet as it latched onto your cunt, tongue dragging through the mess he’d just pushed back into you like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

Your hands shot to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, undecided if you were pulling him closer or trying to push him away. “I don’t think I can go again, baby,” you gasped, your thighs twitching from the overstimulation.

You heard a sloppy, muffled, “You can,” just as he sucked your clit into his mouth, hard enough to make your vision white out for a second.

“Motherfuc—” Your legs locked around his head with such force that it had to be uncomfortable for him, maybe even a little painful. But when you opened your eyes and looked down, he didn’t look bothered in the slightest.

You caught the way his hips were grinding slowly into the rug beneath him, telling you this might not even be for your pleasure anymore but for his.

“I really, really don’t think I can come again,” you cried out, hips lifting into his mouth. “Please, Aar—”

Your voice broke off as he groaned against your pussy, loud and filthy. The vibration of it paired with the way he lapped at you, coaxed that familiar feeling, winding tight in your abdomen.

You shook your head, back arching, mouth open but no sound escaping as he sucked your clit into his mouth and circled it with his tongue over, and over and over again.

“Aaron, I—fuck—I’m gonna—”

The words dissolved into a sob as the pressure inside you reached its peak, crashing over you with a dizzying force. You came again, harder this time, legs spasming, hands clawing at the rug and his hair, tears slipping down your temples as your body convulsed under him.

You felt his mouth finally ease up, the warmth of him pulling away only for a moment until he was crawling up your body, bracing himself on his elbows as he hovered over you.

He scanned your face, watching the way your chest heaved, the way your eyes were still screwed shut as you tried to come down from the high he’d dragged out of you. He didn’t say anything, just let you come back to him on your own terms because he was generous like that.

Your fingers slowly loosened their grip on the rug, the tension bleeding from your limbs. Finally, you blinked up at him, dazed and thoroughly fucked-out.

“Think I went to heaven.”

He huffed a laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Yeah?” he murmured. “Were they impressed?”

You let out a weak laugh, your hands dragging up from the rug to rest on his shoulders. “I’m still mad at you. Just… now I can do it with a clear head rather than a—”

“Horny one?” he supplied, earning a nod from you.

“Mhm. Was this your idea of an apology?”

“I mean…” He looked down at you, then at the mess around the closet. “It stopped you from throwing any more of my clothes, didn’t it?”

You snorted. “Temporarily.”

“I’ll take it.” He leaned down to press a lazy, unhurried kiss to your cheek. “Now, come on, let’s get you cleaned up. Then you can go back to yelling at me properly.”

[hotchsmutrecs]

all bark no bite || Aaron Hotchner

pairing → Aaron Hotchner x Reader

summary → It starts with your boss slash older boyfriend's hand simply resting on your thigh while driving in one of the team's SUVs through the night. But it soon turns into your hand on the noticeable bulge in his tight pants, teaching him a long overdue lesson.

warnings → smut (18+ only), fem!reader, BAU!reader, secret relationship, age gap, teasing, handjob, car sex...?, heavy on the dog imagery, shamelessly pushing the desperate loser bottom Hotch agenda

author's note → This was supposed to be a blurb but after the first 500 words the story looked me dead into the eyes and told me it's a full fic. And now, a few days and this year's ESC later is! And I really don't what happened here, all I can say is that I am but a mere slave of the freaky spirits that possessed me to write this. Let me know what you think about it ;D

word count → 4k

masterlist(s)

The countryside outside your window passes by in a blur of various shades of black, the darkness closing in all around you, broken only by the blindingly bright headlights of the government-issued (and in your humble opinion, incredibly ugly) massive SUV you're currently driving in.

Well, you're not actually the one driving, Hotch is, because he insisted like the annoyingly caring boss, slash gentleman, slash secret older boyfriend he is, his focus solely and sternly on the road in front of you to keep the car from crashing into the thick line of trees standing next to your path through nowhere America, population: just you and him, and some forest dweller thankfully smart enough to wait for you to pass by them before stepping their paws or hooves on the cold and bumpy asphalt.

You're just sitting prettily in the passenger seat, bored out of your mind with a headache brewing behind your eyes from the long and exhausting day you had that is already bleeding into the next one, examining the different secluded locations your current unsub dumped his victims' bodies to be discovered by unsuspecting hikers weeks or sometimes months later.

You scrub your hands over your face and rub your tired eyes which earns you a sympathetic chuckle from your personal chauffeur beside you, his eyes never leaving the road ahead of you. You resign yourself to fiddle with the fancy radio of the SUV, skipping from obscure local station to obscure local station, from generic country song to generic country song before turning the stupid thing off for good with a huff of grouchy frustration.

"Don't worry, the motel isn't far anymore, okay?"

If his low and gentle voice isn't enough to appease your mood, the big big hand that leaves the steering wheel in favor of coming to rest on top of your thigh definitely is. He softly squeezes your leg, his doting eyes finding yours for just a moment and you can't help but to smile at the man who stole your heart with his brown eyes following you longingly whenever he thought he was unobserved, with his awkwardly gentle touches and his sad attempts of what he thought qualified as flirting. The warmth of his palm seeps steadily through the fabric of your trousers into your own skin, the pleasant feeling spreading from there through your whole body and you relax into your seat, immediately mollified by this simple touch of his.

But as his thumb starts to rub slow circles into your clothed skin, even absentmindedly tracing along the inner seam of your pants, the depraved part of your brain that embarrassingly is always just a little bit horny for him deliberately misreads your boyfriend's innocent gesture and suddenly, your whole body is wide awake. You try to be good and ignore the tingling sensation between your legs each slow and heavy drag of his thumb against your skin feeds, but it gets more and more insistent by the second and you can't help but hope against hope that his deliciously thick fingers will be shoved down your soon soaked panties to toy with your clit and fill up your lonely cunt within the next minute.

You're 99.8% sure that Hotch isn't sharing this particular vision of yours, with the remaining 0.2% wishful thinking at best, but that doesn't stop you from curling your fingers around his much larger hand and slowly, playfully bringing it closer to where you so desperately need it, need him.

Regrettably, your boyfriend, who is much more concerned with decorum than you could ever be, proves you right.

"Behave, will you?" he gently scolds you, a lovingly exasperated smile playing on his lips as he wiggles his hand from your insistent fingers. He shifts slightly in his seat then, raising his hand to your face, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear before simply cupping your cheek, his thumb caressing your skin softly.

You lean into his touch immediately, the whine that spills past your lips making you sound incredibly pathetic but you don't care about that right now. You're exhausted and frustratingly turned on and just want him to make you feel good while you're enthusiastically returning the favor. If he actually loved you, like he always tells you he does in the stolen moments during cases or in the privacy of your apartment, he'd just stop the car on the side of the road and let you climb over center console onto his lap, let you spit in your palm to work him to complete hardness before pulling your panties to the side and sink onto his cock that you're actually convinced ruined you for any other man on the planet—not that you would admit that in front of him, ever. And then he'd let you ride him to your heart's content, you gasping and moaning on top of him as his infuriatingly perfect dick hits all those sweet spots inside of you with every sharp thrust while he hides his face in your neck, groaning wetly against your skin, his hands leaving bruises against the soft skin of your hips while desperately chasing his own release, until you're both shaking with ecstasy and exhaustion, the tinted windows of the SUV fogged up from your exertion and your shared spend dripping from where you're connected so intimately making a sticky mess of his trousers and the black leather of his seat.

But instead his thumb brushes lightly over your pouting bottom lip before he's leaning into your space to place an infuriatingly deep and lingering kiss to your lips, his talented tongue tracing the seam of your lips teasingly while his eyes flickering between your half-lidded and blissed-out ones and the dark road stretching in front of you.

The only thing that that kiss accomplishes is to stir the simmering arousal deep in your belly into a blue-flamed fire and make you a little bit stupid which he's completely aware of, smugly smirking against your lips before pulling back completely, even placing his other hand back on the steering wheel.

This time, you swallow the pitiful little noise rising in your throat, clinging to your last measly shreds of dignity with burning ears and the miserable throbbing of your neglected clit between your legs.

You stubbornly turn your head with your chin held high to watch the blurry darkness rush past your window instead of desperately staring at his side profile and strong jawline for the rest of the drive like your heart—your pussy—wants to. (Same difference, really.)

You hear him chuckle quietly to himself which only makes you raise your chin higher, visibly flinching when you suddenly feel the tips of his fingers ghost over the naked skin of your arm. He immediately squeezes your elbow in apology for startling you and you can't help the smile tugging at your lips at the sweet gesture, hoping he doesn't feel the goosebumps that his initial touch caused to rise on your skin.

Then he says your name all adoringly with that stupidly attractive voice of his and you aren't strong enough to not look at him then. The slow grin forming on his handsome face and the cocky rise of one eyebrow however tell you that you fell right into his trap. Because apparently, he's not done teasing you yet—far from it.

But two can play this game he started, you decide with an overdramatic roll of your eyes, especially when he opens his mouth again, drawing out his words just slightly.

"Be good for me, sweetheart, and I promise you I'm all yours when this case is over and we're back home."

The indignant huff that pushes past your lips at his words only makes him grin harder, the enticing crow's feet framing his eyes and the dimples at the corners of his mouth mocking you with how stupidly attractive you find them—find all of him, really.

But you're quick to wipe that grin off his face when you reach over and drop your hand to his lap, unceremoniously cupping him over his tight dress pants.

His reaction is everything you knew it would be—and then some.

Instinctually, his hips roll forward, pushing himself more insistently into your touch, into the warmth of your skin bleeding through the layers of fabric and the delicious pressure you're squeezing him with, his jaw going slack in the process, his control immediately slipping through his fingers as they're gripping the steering wheel for dear life. You revel in this sight without shame, without mercy, the realization of how much power you're holding over him giving you a headrush like it did the first time. And you're really not a good enough person to not unashamedly exploit this little fact, not when he was acting like that, toying with you like that.

He may have you wrapped around his little finger, but his leash is in your hands and you're keeping him on a tight rein.

Because for you and only you, this big bad, scary FBI agent becomes a docile little lapdog, one single assertive touch of yours and he's presenting his belly to you.

All bark and no bite.

Because while you're playing the role of his probably hypersexual younger girlfriend perfectly, not only easily 10 years his junior but also his subordinate for the extra sprinkle of office drama wrapped in an HR nightmare, he's the pathetically repressed and touch-starved middle-aged, overworked and divorced father who wallowed in shame and guilt over his 'inappropriate' thoughts and feelings for you until you showed him absolution by shoving him into his office one night when the bullpen was completely deserted already and simply yanking his tie down until his lips crashed into yours.

And you're very happy with your complementary roles in this still-secret relationship of yours, because you know you're only acting like you are with him, because he's the first and only man you have ever fully trusted with your body and soul, with every fiber of your being, knowing with absolute certainty that your trust won't be broken.

You're even more pleased about it when his head falls back against the headrest of his seat and a rough moan reaches your ears, a guttural sound coming from deep within his chest that resonates between your legs. And for now, you're kind enough to not stop your ministrations, not when he's standing at attention for you so nicely after only these light and teasing touches of yours.

Your usually so composed boyfriend curses under his breath which in your humble opinion is one of the hottest things he can do, only surpassed by staring down patronizing and sexist small town police officers with a superiority complex and calmly but sternly putting them into their place, or rolling his shirts above his elbows to do literally anything. Bonus points if he's wearing his bulletproof vest for any of these three scenarios.

"What are you doing?" he manages to grit through clenched teeth before his breathing hitches delightfully, your hand purposefully stroking over the mouth-watering shape of his generously sized and equally aroused dick clearly outlined against the tight fabric of his pants. Your fingers close around him as best as they can like this, the sheer girth of him shutting down your brain momentarily as you're reminded just how perfectly he fills you up when sink down on his cock, the stretch toying deliciously with the fine line of absolutely heavenly and almost painfully, your poor neglected cunt clenching around nothing and you feel your arousal turning your panties into an uncomfortably sticky mess.

You're brought back to reality when you feel his cock twitches pitifully against your hand in its confinement and you remember your boyfriend asked you a question that you haven't answered yet. How rude of you.

So you look at him with your eyes fluttering innocently, your head tilted to the side in mock-confusion, all while your hand continues to stroke him and make him lose his mind, the realization that he will finish in his pants if you keep your sweet torture up only makes the coil in his stomach tighten, his ears and cheeks burning in humiliation.

"What do you mean?" you chuckle lightly, mirth dancing in your bright eyes, getting drunk on the sight of your usually so commanding and imposing boyfriend being turned into this pathetic mess of a man from just your nimble hands. "I'm only returning the favor."

Not even a second later your face falls and your eyes widen in belittling concern, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth before you ask him gingerly, "Or do you want me to stop?"

You're cruel enough to pull your hand back, too, folding both of them in your lap while searching his suddenly panicked eyes, looking almost earnestly, but the condescending smile on your lips gives you away immediately. Not that you were really trying to hide it.

The wanton little whine that spills past his lips is answer enough, pleading with you out of the corner of his eyes, his gaze torn between your pretty and mean face and the road he's still driving the massive SUV on.

You however are not merciful enough to answer his pleas, too entertained by watching your poor boyfriend figuratively and literally squirm in his seat. But like the misbehaving and greedy mutt he is he blindly reaches for your hand in your lap, his shaking fingers curling tightly around it before pressing it back to his erection straining against the dark fabric of his pants, stroking himself with your hand swallowed by his own, his hips rolling mindlessly into the touch.

Your surprised little sound that was decidedly not a moan is drowned out by the relieved sigh pushing past his lip. You only allow this crude stunt of his because you're literally too stunned by it to do anything else but watch him with your mouth hanging open, letting him use your hand as he pleases, debauched and desperate, your touch the only thing on his mind.

Oh, you'll have to seriously put him in his place.

Because if he really thinks he can get away with misbehaving like this, denying you earlier what he's doing right now, there is a horribly rude awakening waiting for him on the horizon.

That's the only thing on your mind as you struggle to regain your composure even as your fingers curl around his twitching dick, squeezing him harder than is probably comfortable in punishment, before wrestling your hand out of his grasp.

"Fuck, don't stop—"

You ignore how your name leaving his lips in a moan makes your thighs clench together, ignore how your poor clit throbbing with want screams at you to just shove his hand down your pants to finish what he wouldn't earlier, ignore his words and not dignify him with any spoken answer.

Instead, you lean closer to him over the car's center console, your fingers making quick work of his belt before unceremoniously popping open the button of his trousers. His hips shift closer to your touch again while both of his hands have the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grasp, his tongue peeking out to wet his dry lips briefly.

"Sweetheart—"

His eyes snap down to his own lap where you're slowly pulling down his pants' zipper but pause halfway through when you notice where his attention has shifted to.

"Eyes on the road, Agent Hotchner," you scold him sternly and he obeys at once, firmly fixing his gaze to the dark road still stretching out in front of you, humming appreciatively when you open his fly all the way. You bring your hand closer to your lips then, shamelessly spitting in it while you have front row seats to your boyfriend hurriedly pulling his erection out of his underwear without his eyes straying from where you've told him they should be. He's well-behaved enough to immediately return his hand to its place on the steering wheel, even when you take a moment to appreciate him in all of his glory like this. His cock stands up proudly for you, coming to rest against his stomach, gently twitching. Even in the dim lighting your eyes can clearly follow the prominent vein running down his considerable length, the head of him a miserable shade of red and the drop of pre-cum shining on the tip beckoning you closer.

You give into the temptation, your spit mixing with the sticky clear fluid as you bring your wet palm to his sensitive head, your hand closing around it before you slowly, deliberately work your way down, making sure every single inch of his stupidly big cock feels the delicious tightness and warmth of your fingers wrapped around him, keeping the same maddening pace when you reach the base and retrace your path back to his weeping tip.

He sighs your name oh-so gratefully and you're almost willing to forgive this blatant misbehavior of his during tonight's drive now that your hand is wrapped so nicely around his cock, burning hot to the touch, his skin silky-smooth and soft, your thumb tracing along the vein at the side. Especially now that you feel the whole weight of him against your palm, real and perfect and twitching desperately, and only for you. Yours to play with, caress and tease until his whole body goes rigid as his orgasm hits him, his dick pulsing in your hand as you work him through it, thick ropes of cum spurting from his tip, covering your fingers and running down your hand, his length, little drops of it getting caught in the coarse dark hairs at the base.

But you square your shoulders, figuratively that is, reminding yourself that you can literally drool over his cock after you're finished with this basic lesson, teaching your unsuspecting boyfriend that actions have consequences and that he should know better than to string you along like he did.

Without warning you pick up your hand's pace, deliberately neglecting his most sensitive spots while you steadily jerk him off, the sounds of the car rolling a little less than smoothly over the bumpy road drowned out by all of his enticing noises, groans and gasps and moans, high and breathy, by the sound of your hand guiding him closer and closer to the edge.

You're attuned well enough to his body by now to keep him from falling before you want him to, expertly dancing around his point of no return, slowing down when he gets too close, replacing your palm with just the tips of your fingers or stop moving altogether, simply holding him with your hand wrapped around the thick base before beginning to gently stroke him again.

So with all that petty torture you're subjecting your now writhing boyfriend in the driver's seat of the still moving SUV to, you're admittedly a little surprised when you look up and see the red neon sign of the cheap motel the team is staying at for this case glowing like a beacon in the dead of the night, the bold "M" flickering sickly, instead of ending with your whole engine block wrapped around a tree somewhere in a ditch next to this desolate road like you expected you would.

With his last ounce of strength and sanity, your boyfriend jerkily maneuvers the car onto the motel's premises, pulling up next to the other two government-issued SUVs before carelessly and quite crookedly throwing the car into park. He impatiently unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches over to do the same to yours, giving you no further warning before his strong arms wrap urgently around your waist and back, half-lifting, half-dragging you over the center console to place you squarely on his lap.

His big hairy paws immediately cage your face between them, insistently pulling you closer until his hungry lips are pressed to yours, groaning deeply against your mouth in pure, bone-deep relief, all but devouring you like the starved mutt that he is.

And you let him, meeting his desperation with the same hunger, the same greed, your fingers far from gentle where they grab onto a fistful of dark strands of hair at the back of his head, pulling on them just for the sake of it, just to swallow the curse that tumbles from his mouth into yours when his tongue finds yours.

His arms are wrapped almost suffocatingly tight around you, trapping your body against his while his fingers are digging into your soft skin, and it doesn't seem like he plans on letting you go anytime soon, wanting you just like this. Right here, right now, parked in front of a little motel with the car's headlights not even turned off, the engine still idling—a motel, you might add, that all of your medically certified insomniac teammates are staying at too.

How adorably hypocritical of him. At least you wanted to fuck him on the side of a deserted road in the middle of nowhere.

So finally, it's your turn to grin wickedly against his lips and slowly pull back from him. You chuckle quietly at the way he immediately sways forward, blindly chasing your touch, his dark and dazed eyes blinking open sluggishly when he doesn't find it again because you're moving out of his reach further.

He searches your face in stupefied confusion, the warm brown hue of his eyes swallowed almost completely by his blown-out pupils, while you only smile serenely at him, your arms wrapped around his shoulder lightly while your fingers are playing with the short strands of hair at his neck.

"Sweetheart, please."

He actually whimpers and you don't know what that says about you, but it's probably the hottest sound you've ever heard coming out of his mouth. His fingers dig deeper into your skin, hard enough to leave bruises and bordering on painful but you really don't mind, too drunk on this beautifully debauched sight in front of you. His usually carefully and strictly styled hair is a mess, the apples of his cheeks rivaling the red glow of the motel's neon sign and his lips kiss-swollen and shining with spit while his belt is unbuckled and his pants are open, his painfully hard dick trapped between your bodies, begging for the release you denied him over and over again during the drive. Release, he realized in desperate dread, you're not planning on allowing him now as well.

You lean closer to him again, your chest pressed against his while your breath fans over the shell of his once-pierced ear. He didn't try to deny it when you asked him about it, after all, you could see the little mark left on his earlobe from when he was younger, but to this day he heartlessly refuses to show you a picture of him back then even though you promised him you would be normal about it. (You absolutely wouldn't. You know that. And he knows that too.)

Your low voice so close to his ear makes a shiver run down his spine, but the words leaving your lips in a condescending purr turn the blood in his veins to ice.

"You didn't seriously think I'd let you come after teasing me like this, did you? Oh, you poor, delusional man."

You catch his earlobe between your teeth and with one last dirty roll of your hips you reach for the door handle on his side and hop out of the SUV, striding to the entrance of the motel, letting the metal ring of the key to your single room spin around your finger.

"Have a good and restful night, sweetheart," you sing-song without looking back, your lips curling into a devilish smile when you hear your boyfriend's broken "Fuck—!" that sound like a sob echoing through the dead of the night.

You really hope he will remember tonight's lesson from now on—for his sake.

Because only well-behaved good boys get their treat.

[hotchsmutrecs]

[hotchsmutrecs]

SFL: You’re so Sweet

Old and revised. I wrote this excerpt last summer. It was a part of a shape shifter horror one-shot... it was insane it was the craziest thing I've ever written like the smut was devious. Anyways, I'm still working on a lot of stuff, so I hope this tides y’all over.

⬚̶ᰱ▪︎580+ words, grinding, no penetration, somno(just to be safe), hypersensitive from previous sexual activities, pet names( little thing, pretty, baby) , sloppy kissing, tears, etc▪︎⬚̶ᰱ▪︎

You wake up, the room suffocating in the heavy silence of the night. The air feels thick, almost too warm, your body still aching from earlier. You try to shift, but his arm is still wrapped around you, a constant weight at your side, pinning you down.

You glance over at the clock. 3:23 AM. The digits blink in the dark, taunting you, pulling you out of whatever fragile sleep you had managed to slip into. The room is dark—only the soft, ambient moonlight filtering in from the window—but even in the shadows, you can feel him.

You can feel him next to you.

He’s still asleep, but even that does nothing to calm you. He’s too close. Too present. And you can’t escape it.

Your body aches. The lingering memory of what he did to you, the way he took over and over— position to position. The way he made you cry and cum all over him still clings to your skin. You’re wet. And so sensitive. But still.

Your heart thuds in your chest, slow and heavy. You don’t move at first. Just watch him. Watch the rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint hint of a smile still curled on his lips as if he knows exactly what’s running through your mind.

Slowly, your hand slides down your body, over the curve of your waist, and between your legs. You bite your lip, but there’s no denying the heat growing between your thighs, the pulsing ache of needing him again.

Your mind is clouded. The weight of everything you’ve been through presses in on you, but you don’t care. You want more. You need more.

And as if a everything came together, clear and true...you move.

Your hands tremble as you slide your body over his, straddling him with a slow, controlled motion. His dick is still soft, but you know it won’t stay that way for long. You don’t hesitate, pushing down against him, the friction sending waves of heat through your body as you grind slowly, deliberately, letting the sensation build in you.

You lean down, your mouth brushing his neck, and begin to suck, softly at first, but then harder, more needy. Your body moves against his, each roll of your hips an invitation, a desperate plea for more.

Your breath quickens as you grind against him, feeling him begin to harden beneath you. You can’t stop. You don’t want to stop. It’s like an itch you have to scratch, something primal that takes over your mind.

His hand shoots up, gripping your waist, fingers digging into your skin as he lets out a soft groan.

“Greedy little thing,” he mutters, his voice husky with sleep—but there’s something darker behind it. Something that tells you he’s not asleep anymore.

You ignore it.

Your hips move faster, rocking against him with a rhythm that feels like it’s in your blood now. You can feel him growing, pressing against you, your body begging for more. But you keep grinding, each roll of your hips making you wetter, more desperate.

His fingers tighten on your skin, pulling you harder against him. “Do you really think I’d let you keep going?” he whispers, his voice low and warning.

But it doesn’t stop you.

You suck harder on his neck, your body jerking with need, pushing against him, not caring anymore if it’s right or wrong.

Because you don’t want to stop. You can’t stop. You're so wet, his dick is covered in your cum. You got him all sticky and messy.

And when he pulls you in, hard, his lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “You’re all mine,” you fall apart.

He shifts beneath you, his body fully awake now, hard and heavy under your hips. His grip on your waist doesn’t ease, but there’s something in the way he holds you now—less cruel, but firm. You’re still trembling, still grinding down on him, chasing the pressure like it’s the only thing keeping you breathing.

“You don’t sleep,” he mutters, dragging his hand up your spine, “unless you’re sore… or desperate. Which one?”

Your lips leave his neck, swollen and wet. “Maybe both,” you whisper, barely audible. He can feel it in the way you move—how raw you still are, how you don’t care. You’re not teasing. You’re needing.

He presses up into you, just enough to make you gasp. Then his hands cradle your hips, slowing your rhythm, dragging you forward and down in smooth, possessive rolls.

“You were so fucking pretty earlier,” he murmurs into your collarbone, his breath warm. “Now you’re all soft and needy." He teases. "You’re so sweet,” he says, putting his hand on the make of your head, moving to kiss you deep and sloppy

Your nails curl into his chest as your eyes flutter shut. You hate how good he is at saying things that feel like praise but sound like possession. He doesn’t worship—he claims. He touches you like you were built for him, and he talks to you like you know it.

But this time… it’s gentler.

His mouth brushes your shoulder. A kiss—not quite soft, but intentional. Focused. Like he’s keeping you here, not because he wants to break you again, but because you’re his, and you came to him on your own this time.

“You should’ve just asked,” he says, voice lower now, threading his fingers through your hair. “Could’ve given you everything you wanted. Just like this.”

Your breath hitches. His dick slides between your folds as you grind, slick and hot, not quite inside—but your body pulses like it is.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper.

“I won’t.”

He lets you move again—lets you take your pleasure on him, slow and messy, grinding until your thighs ache and your eyes water. You feel you clit getting hypersensitive. Your close already. He tilts his head back and watches you, hands on your waist, steadying you, guiding you.

You lean in again, brushing your nose against his jaw, lips parting like you want to say something, but you don’t. You just breathe him in. Let him feel it.

And when your body finally starts to unravel, when you’re whimpering against his skin, he holds you tighter and mutters into your ear:

“There you go, baby. That’s it. Just like that.”

You cum all over him, hips stuttering, breath caught in your throat, tears streaking your cheeks—not because he hurt you, not this time—but because you’ve never felt so overwhelmed, so full from something so simple.

He doesn’t push it further.

Just lets you collapse onto his chest, tired and dazed, your breath hitching as he wraps his arms around you again. Tighter than before. One hand stroking your spine—slow, slow, like he’s not even thinking about it.

“Sleep now,” he says, voice quieter.

And you do.

Dividers by @uzmacchiato and @anitalenia

All works © liliacwiine 2025. Do not modify, plagiarize, or repost my work. 

[hotchsmutrecs]

Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[hotchsmutrecs]

Nowhere to Hide -- Chapter 8

Summary: The days trudge on and on the fourth day a heat wave washes over Baltimore that pushes you and Hotch over the edge. MINORS DNI!!!!

Content warnings: Strong language, Smut, PinV, oral (giving and receiving), use protection (I mean it)

W.C: 6.5k

Nowhere to Hide Masterlist

CHAPTER 8

That promise kept as the morning sun rose. The first night you have actually gotten some sleep. 

Tomorrow came. And the next day. And the next. The only contact was updates from the team, that they had no updates. 

The unsub seemed to disappear off the face of the earth, doing exactly what you expected. You were out of sight and he was trying to find you. 

There’s no need to perform for someone when they’re not watching you. 

Day one was fine, you managed to distract yourself with the dusty books hidden on the shelves.

Day two, cabin fever starts to rear its ugly head. You could have thrown punches at Hotch when he told you to relax. Rage swirled but also a feeling that pulsed in a similar way. 

Day three, Paranoia hit. You practically sat catatonic at the window all day, until Hotch pulled you away, forcing you to take a break.

You wake on the fourth day to the thick weight of heat clinging to your skin.

The air inside the cabin that is playing the role of a safe house is suffocating, heavy and unmoving, like a held breath. Sweat beads at your hairline, runs in slow rivulets down your neck, and the thin sheet twisted around your legs feels more like a trap than a cover. In the haze of waking, you faintly remember the weather report from yesterday, a heat wave signaling the end of spring into summer. 

You blink up at the wooden beams above you, the ceiling fan still and useless, a limp accusation of power that ran out sometime before dawn. The hum of the small generator that powers the basics—lights, fridge, phone charger—is absent, and that means the fans are gone too.

The silence is too complete.

You swing your legs off the bed and instantly regret it. The floor is warm underfoot, like it’s been baking in the sun even though every curtain in the place is drawn tight. The shadows inside the cabin are long and dim, and when you open your bedroom door, the hallway smells faintly of sweat and wood.

Hotch is already up. Of course he is.

He’s sitting at the small kitchen table, stripped down to a dark gray T-shirt and jeans, sleeves pushed up, collar damp. There’s a glass of water in front of him, sweating almost as much as the two of you. His gun is within reach. His eyes flick to you immediately—sharp, assessing. Concerned, maybe, though he masks it well.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quieter than usual.

You nod, though it feels like your brain is swimming in molasses. “It’s hot.”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile exactly, more like a grimace shaped into something gentler. “Yeah.”

You both know what the easy answer would be. Open the windows. Let in the breeze, if there is one. But the thought makes your stomach tighten.

You glance toward the front door, where every lock is thrown and the thick curtain remains pinned shut. Beyond it, somewhere in the stretch of forest that surrounds this isolated cabin, someone is waiting. Watching. Hunting.

You don’t know what they look like. Not for sure. But you remember the package left at the precinct. The pictures. The notes. And then the way Hotch’s face looked when he read them—carefully blank, like he was trying not to let you see how bad it really was.

So no, you’re not opening a window. No matter how much the heat presses in, thick and unrelenting.

Hotch pushes the glass toward you without a word.

You sit across from him and take it, drink deeply. The water is lukewarm but still welcome. Your skin itches, sticky with sweat, and your shirt clings to your back. You wonder if there’s anything left in the cabin that isn’t drenched in heat. Including him.

He doesn’t look comfortable either. His hair is slightly damp, and he’s trying not to touch the table with his forearms. You can feel the tension radiating off him—not just from the heat, but from the pressure of stillness, from the watchfulness that’s becoming harder and harder to maintain after days without movement.

“How long do you think we’ll have to stay here?” you ask, softly.

Hotch looks toward the window, not pulling the curtain back, just… listening. Like maybe he can hear the answer in the windless branches outside.

“Until we know it’s safe,” he says.

You nod, and neither of you says the obvious: that might be a while.

The power flickers once, a cruel tease, then dies again. You close your eyes.

And when you open them, Hotch is watching you—not with pity, but with a quiet kind of steadiness. His voice is lower when he speaks again.

“We’ll get through this. One day at a time.”

It’s not a promise he can guarantee, but somehow it still helps. Maybe because he means it. Maybe because, right now, he’s the only thing that makes the heat bearable.

You exhale slowly, take another sip of water, and wait for the next hour to pass.

The phone vibrates on the table between you. Once, then again.

Hotch picks it up instantly. His brows draw together as he reads, then he tilts the screen so you can see.

Garcia: No update yet. Still checking security cameras. I'll keep you posted the second anything moves. Stay low. Stay safe. Miss you both.

You stare at the message longer than you need to. Not because it says anything useful, it doesn’t, but because it says something real. That the outside world still exists. That someone is still looking for answers.

Hotch sets the phone back down. “She’s working nonstop,” he says quietly.

“I know.” You glance toward the curtain-covered window again. The light behind the fabric is brighter now, hotter. The kind of sunlight that feels personal. Like it’s aiming for you.

The day creeps forward with agonizing slowness. Every hour is heavier than the last. The cabin, insulated and sealed for your protection, is quickly becoming an oven. The walls seem to pulse with warmth. Even the shadows are hot.

You peel off your shirt around midday, replacing it with a tank top that feels barely better. The sweat has nowhere to go—it just lingers on your skin, a constant, clinging reminder that you’re trapped.

Hotch eventually takes off his T-shirt, folding it over the back of a chair. He doesn’t comment on it, just moves with the quiet practicality he always has. Still, it’s jarring. You’ve seen him in only suits so seeing him like this, bare-armed, chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths, is enough to make the room feel even warmer. 

He moves to his designated bedroom and grabs a new t-shirt. 

You sit in opposite corners of the small living room now, each trying to claim a patch of air that isn’t soaked in body heat. The silence stretches long. The occasional buzz of an insect outside, a creak in the cabin’s old frame, the drip of sweat down your back.

At one point, you shift your legs and feel the cushion beneath you squish, damp from the back of your thighs. You grimace. “This is unbearable.”

Hotch’s mouth twitches again, that half-not-there thing he does when he’s at the edge of discomfort. “It’s the safest place we’ve got.”

You know he’s right. You also know that if someone really wanted to find you, all they’d have to do is follow the stillness. The one cabin without open windows. The one place where nothing stirs in the wind.

“They’ll find something, right?” you ask. You’re not sure if you’re asking about Garcia, the team, or fate in general.

Hotch’s voice is low. “They will. They don’t stop.”

You nod, but the certainty doesn’t land this time. Not fully. Not with how long this has gone on. Not with the heat pressing into your temples, your collarbone, your spine.

You stand and go to refill your water again, avoiding his gaze. The coolest part of the cabin is the kitchen floor, and you lean against the counter, your hand resting on the coldest patch of metal you can find—an old drawer handle, slightly rusted.

Then, another sound.

Not the phone. Not a creak.

Outside.

You freeze. Hotch is already moving—silent, fluid. He grabs his gun from the table and crosses the room, pressing himself against the wall beside the window.

You don’t breathe. You don’t move.

Nothing.

Maybe it was an animal. A branch. Heat-induced paranoia.

Or maybe not.

Hotch lifts two fingers—stay—and inches toward the door, peering through the edge of the curtain without disturbing it.

He stands like that for a long time.

Finally, he lowers the gun slightly and steps back. “I don’t see anything,” he says. “But stay sharp.”

The silence afterward is louder than before. Tighter.

You swallow past the dryness in your throat, your body buzzing with leftover adrenaline and heat. You wipe the sweat from your temples, but it comes right back. The cabin hasn’t cooled. If anything, it’s gotten worse. You think you see heat shimmer near the ceiling.

“Maybe they’re trying to smoke us out,” you say before you can stop yourself. You’re half-joking, half-not.

Hotch gives you a look, unreadable. “They’d be smarter than that.”

The implication that your stalker might be exactly that smart is not reassuring.

You sit again, closer to him this time. Not touching. Just near. There’s nothing else you can do but wait. And sweat. And hope the next vibration on the phone is something more than no update yet.

You last half an hour before cracking.

The bottle of bourbon in the cabinet is meant for emergencies—Hotch said it himself when he stashed it there on day one. Which was a lie, you cracked it open on day one.  “In case we’re here longer than we want to be.” You’re well past that point. 

You don’t ask. You just retrieve it, twist the cap off with slippery fingers, and pour an inch or two into a glass. No ice, of course. The freezer’s a silent, empty box now. The liquor burns its way down your throat, and you savor the sting, a sharp, clean distraction.

Hotch doesn’t comment, but you feel his eyes on you.

“Want one?” you offer, voice a little too light.

He shakes his head once. “Not while we’re not in the clear.”

Of course. You knew he’d say that. You nod and take another sip, turning towards the window in the kitchen, trying to occupy yourself. 

Your tank top clung to the curve of your spine. A single drop of sweat traced a slow path down your neck. 

Behind you, the floor creaked.

You didn’t have to turn around to know it was him. Standing at the juncture between the front door and the window next to it. Just watching, but it wasn’t outside he was watching. 

You’d felt it for days now, his eyes. The weight of them. The way the atmosphere shifted when he looked at you, like gravity had chosen sides. You swallowed, your fingers tightening around your glass. Still, you didn’t move.

You could feel it, the heat of his stare sliding over your shoulder blades, lingering. You felt small beneath it. Exposed. There's nowhere to hide. Not in a way that scared you, something that made your breath go shallow and your throat dry. 

You take another sip.

It doesn’t help much. The heat is still oppressive, still absolute. But the bourbon fuzzes the edges of your panic, dulls the constant flinch in your shoulders. You stretch out a little farther on the couch, letting your head fall back, neck exposed to whatever air might still be moving—though there’s none, really. Just damp, heavy stillness.

You try not to stare. You fail. It’s your turn.

He looks drenched. Sweat soaks the waistband of his jeans, darkening the denim around his hips. His neck glistens in the dim light, the t-shirt sticking to the lines of his torso taut, sharp, streaked with sweat. Even his forearms—strong, steady, scarred—are slick, his veins more pronounced than usual.

He rolls his shoulders like they’re aching. His jaw is tense. Tighter than before.

You wonder if it’s the heat, the tension, or something else entirely.

“Do you ever relax?” you ask, your voice a little huskier than you meant it to be.

Hotch glances at you. The corner of his mouth twitches, not a smile. Not quite. “Not really.”

You smirk, finishing the rest of your glass. The burn hits you again, but this time, you welcome it. Anything to stop you from thinking about how close you are to losing it. How the walls feel like they’re closing in, not from fear now, but from need. From heat. From him.

You set your glass down, slower than you need to. “I think we’re past the point of pretending this isn’t hell.”

Hotch turns to face you fully now. His face is flushed—whether from the heat or something else, you can’t tell. There’s a drop of sweat clinging to his temple, sliding past his jaw. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“We’re still breathing,” he says. “Still alive.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, eyes dragging over him. “But for how long?”

The silence that follows hums between you, electric.

You don’t break eye contact. Neither does he.

And you wonder—just for a second—if the heat might not be the most dangerous thing in this cabin.

You don’t speak again for a while.

The bourbon hums low in your blood, not enough to dull your senses, just enough to make everything feel a little too vivid. The way the air barely moves between you. The slow drip of sweat crawling down your spine. The way Hotch’s chest rises and falls with measured control—as if he’s keeping something in check that you can’t name.

You rise and refill your glass. 

This time, when you drink, your eyes linger on him a little longer. You wonder if he notices. You think maybe he does.

“Do you want a glass now?” You ask, your words drawn out and a little slurred.

He hasn’t moved from the wall. He’s positioned like a sentry, one shoulder braced against the wood, watching the sliver of curtain that shields the door. His whole body is tense. Not the kind born from fear—this is something different. Contained. Restrained. Deliberate.

You study the line of his jaw, the vein in his neck, the way his fingers flex slightly where they rest near his holstered weapon.

You know how dangerous he is. That’s never scared you. In fact, right now, it’s grounding.

But you also know that this kind of stillness, that controlled burn he always carries, doesn’t last forever.

Hotch’s eyes flick to you, unreadable. “Probably.”

Your stomach flips. You sip again and make him his drink.

Hotch nods in a thank you type gesture. “Get comfortable.” He says taking a sharp swig of his drink, finishing it in one go. Something about that was insanely hot to you, watching him swallow. 

You avert your eyes and look around the sweltering cabin, where every breath feels like it sticks to your lungs. “Comfortable isn't really on the table.”

Hotch’s mouth curves, faintly, like he’s about to tell a joke. “Exactly.” 

You walk to a chair but find yourself too restless to sit. The liquor has made you bold, or reckless, or maybe just tired of pretending that this is normal. You cross the room slowly, feeling every inch of sweat-slick skin under your tank top and shorts. You stop just a foot away from him, close enough to see the way his pupils have darkened slightly.

The silence stretches again—thicker now.

“Why aren’t you cracking?” you ask, tilting your head, frustrated. Bothered. “You’re just as hot. Just as trapped. Just as hunted.”

Hotch’s jaw tightens. He looks down at you, his voice quiet but firm. “Because I can’t afford to.”

You nod slowly. “Because of me.”

He doesn’t confirm it. He doesn’t need to.

The space between you feels charged. Unsteady.

You can smell him now—clean sweat and faded soap and something else, something warm and familiar that makes your heart beat faster in your chest.

You take another slow step forward. You’re almost close enough to touch him.

Hotch doesn’t move. Doesn’t retreat. But his hand flexes at his side again.

You wonder how long it’s been since he’s let himself want something.

You wonder if he wants it now.

The bourbon is warm in your veins. The heat is a living thing against your skin. And the only cool spot in this entire suffocating cabin is the one you haven’t dared reach for yet—him.

You meet his eyes and say, “You’re sweating through your jeans.”

Hotch’s breath hitches, just a little. Barely enough to catch. But you see it.

The tension doesn’t break. It tightens.

And suddenly, the question isn’t if it will snap—it’s when.

The air between you feels like static. Alive. Ready to catch.

You’re so close now that you can see the way a drop of sweat slides down from Hotch’s temple, tracing the line of his jaw. It hangs at the edge of his chin for a heartbeat before falling, disappearing against his collarbone.

He still hasn’t stepped back. Hasn’t said a word.

Neither have you.

You lift your glass slowly, not to drink, but just to do something with your hands. It hovers near your mouth. You’re not even sure what you’re thinking anymore. You just know that your nerves are shot and your heart is pounding and the heat is pressing against your skin like a demand.

“I can’t tell if this is cabin fever,” you say, voice soft, “or if it’s just you.”

Hotch exhales—sharp, almost like a laugh, except there’s nothing light in it. His gaze finally drops—down your face, your throat, the line of your collarbone where your tank top sticks to your skin.

“I’ve been trying not to think about it,” he murmurs.

“Trying,” you echo. “So you are thinking about it.”

His jaw works once. Then he nods. Barely. “I’m human.”

You swallow, hard. The silence stretches again, a fragile thread strung tight between the two of you.

You lower your glass. “So am I.”

You see it happen before it does.

His restraint wavers—not enough to make him move, but enough to see it. The way his body shifts toward you instinctively. The way his fingers twitch at his side, like they’re aching to reach out.

And maybe it’s the heat. Or the bourbon. Or maybe it’s just the fact that you’ve both been locked in this place for too long, breathing the same stifling air, afraid to open a door, afraid to want anything.

But you step in closer.

Close enough that your chest nearly brushes his. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him like it wants to brand you.

“You don’t have to hold it together for everyone,” you say, voice just above a whisper. “Not all the time.”

His breath is shallow now. Controlled, but barely. His hand lifts slowly—just a few inches—and then curls into a fist like he’s stopping himself at the last second.

“I don’t want to cross a line,” he says tightly.

You don’t look away. “What if I do?”

Something cracks then. You can feel it.

He steps into you, fast—his hand at your waist, warm and firm, but not rough. His other palm finds the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek, leaving behind the heat of his skin and the weight of everything he’s been holding back. His mouth doesn’t meet yours yet—but it’s close. So close.

“This doesn’t leave the cabin,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours. “You say stop, I stop. No questions.”

You nod once, and it’s the only permission he needs.

The kiss hits hard—more pressure than finesse, more desperation than form. His mouth is warm, insistent, and you feel his body finally relax against yours as he lets go of every ounce of careful distance he’s kept for days. 

You gasp against his mouth as his hands move, not rough, but purposeful, grounding. His skin is hot against yours, and you can taste the heat, the bourbon, the weight of everything neither of you could say out loud until now.

Outside, the sun is still burning. The stalker is still out there. The world is still dangerous.

But at this moment, inside this too-hot cabin, the danger isn’t out there.

It’s here.

And you’ve finally stepped into it.

Aaron looks at you, really looks at you, eyes roaming over your legs and your hips and your chest and your mouth, all the places he hadn’t allowed himself to notice until now. The distance between you closes much more easily, much more quickly, this time. “Never thought we’d do this,” he murmurs, and then corrects himself, “Never thought you’d want me to.” Your laugh is soft. Disbelieving. You meet his eyes and lean up towards him, “That’s because you’re stupid. You really haven’t noticed?”, and the words dissolve into his mouth as you kiss him– or maybe he kisses you, or maybe a little of both. It doesn’t matter, anyway, and you don’t care. 

He pulls away and rests his forehead on yours. There’s something about the way you glow in the warm dim lighting of this sweltering house that has him entranced. The words come out as a whisper. “ Of course I have.” He frames your face with his hands and slants his mouth over yours and deepens the kiss, his tongue parting your lips and pushing in and scraping over your teeth, across the roof of your mouth– You taste exactly how he imagined, exactly how he thought you would, sweet like chapstick and strawberries and whiskey and so fucking perfect that for a moment he’s left wondering if this is even real.

 Aaron’s hand moves down from your face to the curve of your waist, fingers digging in, and he’s urging you closer until your body is pressed up so close to his that you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, the rapid rise-and-fall of his breathing as he keeps kissing you. Your hand wraps around the back of his neck and your teeth scrape over his bottom lip, half-smiling against his mouth when he makes a sound almost like a grunt and kneads your hips, yanking you closer, causing a yelp to escape your lips. He moves one hand up under your sweat damp tank top, skin burning, finally able to touch. Your skin is soft and warm under his calloused hands and when he drags his thumb across your nipple through the sheer fabric of your bra you make a noise akin to a sigh, or maybe a moan, shallow and soft. It’s still not good enough. You want him to touch you everywhere.

Hotch’s hand finds the small of your back and pulls you in until your bodies are flush. Your skin meets his—fever-warm and damp with sweat, the slide of heat-on-heat that makes you gasp against his mouth. He swallows the sound like he’s starved for it.

You clutch at his shoulders, his back, fingers sliding against slick skin as he backs you toward the wall. Each step is slow, deliberate—measured only in how close he can bring you, how much he can feel.

The wood behind you is warm. His chest is warmer.

When his mouth leaves yours, it travels down—along your jaw, the side of your neck. You tilt your head without thinking, giving him space, your breath catching as his lips graze sweat-damp skin and linger just under your ear. The heat there has nothing to do with the weather. It’s the tension finally snapping loose.

You can feel him trying to stay in control. His breathing is tight. His movements precise.

But then your hands slip down his chest, tracing the heat-glossed muscles through his damp shirt, and he groans—quiet, deep, like he didn’t mean to let it out.

“Tell me if this is too much,” he mutters, voice rough against your throat.

“It’s not enough,” you whisper back.

That does it.

Aaron yanks your tank top off, fabric clinging stubbornly to your skin. His hands fumbles with the clasp of your bra for a moment before discarding that, too. You’re beautiful, and he had known that, but it’s not the same– not when it’s like this, when he can so easily reach out and touch, and maybe he stares for a second or more than a second– Which causes you to shrink into yourself a little.

“Say something. Please…” You half whisper, half whine out, desperate for him to touch you in ways no one has in a while. “You’re beautiful” he whispers, a little more frantic than intended, and almost immediately his mouth descends over the soft column of your throat and then down to your collarbones, your breasts, kissing and biting every inch of skin he can reach with a sort of reverence he hadn’t known he was capable of. You lean into the feeling of his mouth, gasps out his name in a breathless, needy way that hits him hard, makes his cock ache in the rough confines of his jeans as he sucks a bruise into your skin where your shoulder meets your neck– half because he wants to and half because it’s proof that this is real. In the back of his mind, he thinks of all the ways he could talk himself out of this, all the countless reasons why he shouldn’t let this get any worse or any more permanent, but he finds that he doesn’t care. You kiss him and you tug him closer, a low groan vibrating somewhere in his throat at how effortlessly your body fits against his. You're the one who pulls him towards the bed. “Come on, Aaron,” you say, and it’s probably supposed to sound teasing, sarcastic, defiant, even, but mostly it just sounds breathless. There’s a bruise blossoming on your neck and your mouth is swollen and red, and Aaron stops and stares. “Fuck,” he bites out, the noise low and unsurprisingly aggressive. He hears the rustle of the comforter against the mattress as you move onto it, and he follows the sound, and then easily pushes your legs apart at the edge of the bed to take the space between them. You grab the fabric of his sweat drenched shirt and you drag him down into another kiss, the movement of your mouth against his mirroring the slow, languid roll of your hips against the mattress trying to find any kind of friction for the heat pooling below the surface. “Take your clothes off, I wanna see you” you mutter into his mouth, half demanding, he bites your bottom lip just hard enough to make you gasp against him, relishing in how you react to him, honest and real in a way he hadn’t expected.

He complies with your demand, taking off the shirt that he mentality cursed at himself for still wearing despite how hot it had gotten. 

Your shorts are off too before he even has time to think about what he’s doing, and then your underwear too, in a messy, haphazard pile of clothing on the floor, and he’s looking at you and you’re staring right back, his shoulders, biceps, the lines that disappear into his jeans. Your mouth parted as you wondered what was waiting for you right below-

His breathing is ragged. Your pulse is thundering. The air is thick with something that feels like static electricity, sharp and heavy, like in the moments before a storm. His eyes rake up your body almost of their own volition, taking in the swell of your breasts and the curve of your stomach and then trailing down, down– “Aaron,” you mutter, squirming under the heat of his gaze, and any hint of defiance is gone at this point, replaced by pent-up, repressed longing, and it suddenly clicks that this entire fucking thing had never been one-sided. It had never just been you, he had watched and waited and wanted you too, and– “(Y/N),” he rasps, not sure if he had even meant to say it out loud, and then he’s fumbling with the zipper on his jeans, and closing the space between you with a newfound desperation.

He practically picks you up and moves you further onto the bed, him following suit, crawling on top of you. You lean up and meet him halfway, and the kiss is frantic and messy and perfect. His weight pins you down to the bed and your desire is all-consuming, white-hot in the pit of your stomach as he rocks up against you, the friction making you both groan. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s wanted something this badly, and the feeling of your bare skin is like a fucking drug. His hand slips down your stomach, moves in between your thighs. His fingers are slick against your skin and when he finally touches you were you need it, you choke out a soft, trembling moan, and he realizes distantly that he’s so fucking hard it hurts– “More, please,” you whisper, a little desperately, rocking your hips up into his hand, looking for friction, and his breath just falters, the arm supporting his weight on the bed is trembling and he can’t think of anything he wants more in this moment than you.

“You’ll get it, be patient, pretty girl,” he groans, pressing a finger inside of you and curling it up, and your answering moan is needy and helpless and when he starts to fuck you with his fingers you melt underneath him in the best way– “Stop fucking– teasing,” you say, trying to sound irritated but failing miserably as your voice wavers and dissolves into a moan. Aaron exhales shakily. He stops touching you. A pathetic whine escapes your lips at the loss of touch. But then he moves, not depriving you for long as his mouth makes contact with your messy cunt. You suck in a labored breath as his tongue circles your clit. 

You try to call out to him but the words escape your lips. You’re reduced to a trembling mess as your hands find their grip in his hair. He eats like a man starved, sucking and licking on the most sensitive parts like it was his last meal on earth. His fingers found their way back inside you and it’s all too much. 

Your hips stutter and buck, his other arm drapes itself across the top of you holding you in place, making you take everything he gives you. 

“Aaron, I- Im gonna… fuck-” 

“ Then cum.” He says, the vibrations of his words on you send you over the edge, your back arches off the mattress in a way that’s almost painful and you finish.

You’re both aware of it, he knows, his cock pressed up against the inside of your thigh, hot and hard and insistent inside of his jeans. Then you rock your hips up against him and he groans, the sound frantic, desperate, dragging you into a kiss–

Your hands travel down his back to where his jeans meet his hips and start pushing them down. He immediately stands, you follow him to sit on the edge of the bed. You find your way back to the jeans and the briefs beneath them. Taking them off slowly, taking your time. 

His cock springs free and fuck it’s bigger than you thought. Your hand wraps around and pumps slowly. Hotch sucks in a breath through gritted teeth as his head rolls back ever so slightly. 

His hand grips the back of your hair as you lean forward, licking a stripe up from the base to the tip. His eyes meet yours, staring up at him through your lashes. 

You open your mouth and take in the tip. You hum and relax your jaw as he guides you further down his shaft. He fills your throat as you place a hand on his thigh for support. He lets you take the lead on this, just gentle pressure on the back of your head as you bobbed and swirled your tongue. 

The suffocating cabin filled with little gagging noises as his cock hit the back of your throat. Aaron groans out a curse as you pick up your pace. Your gaze remains set on him, watching his eyes shut and reopen to make sure he doesn’t miss anything. His breath grows ragged and uneven. He’s close.

“Damn sweetheart, that's enough.” He practically begs and you peel yourself away from him. 

He pushes you back onto the bed, him following suit on top of you. His lips back on you leaving no time for you to catch your breath. 

“ You’ve been driving me insane,” He mutters between kisses. “It’s unfair what you’ve been doing to me.”

A moan escapes you upon hearing his words. Or was it him lining his cock up at your folds. 

He runs it up and down, the tip hitting your clit on every pass through. 

“Aaron-” A meek attempt to push him.

“Ask for it.” He says his thumb drawing lazy circles around your clit.

Your body pulses at the new contact, lost for words, fumbling at forming a sentence. 

“ Ask for it.” He says again, stronger in his statement.

“Aaron… please, I need it. I need you.” You manage you get out in gasps.

He thrusts into you in one fluid motion. “Ah– fuck,” he groans, against your open, waiting mouth, eyes closed and face tense and the muscles in his arms and upper back strung taut, tense with the effort of holding himself still. There’s a moment of silence– a moment of stillness– that’s strangely intimate, warm and familiar and right, his breathing unsteady against your neck as he struggles to hold on to the quickly-fading remains of his self-control. Aaron moves slowly. Your answering moan is soft and the warmth of your combined body heat is heady and suffocating–sweat beads on his forehead and your breath ghosts hot across his collarbones as he moves and as you roll your hips up to meet him. His forehead is pressed against yours, noses bumping, as he kisses you, open-mouthed and messy, catching your gasp and his answering groan as you tighten around him, hot and wet and perfect. The way you drag your palms down his chest and across the wide expanse of his shoulders is desperate, almost like your looking for something to hold on to as he thrusts in a little harder, watches, seemingly entranced, as his cock moves, in down to the base until your hips are pressed together and then back again. “ Aaron ,” you moan, biting on his lip, making his rhythm stutter, and make his hips snap forward hard, and whatever he was going to say in response is replaced with a desperate, needy growl at the way you moan with the rock of his body. 

A shiver trembles down your spine, liquid and involuntary, and he can feel the way your muscles tighten around his cock, can hear the creaking of the bedsprings and the sharp sounds of his own breathing and nothing else really seems to matter except what’s happening right then. 

You don’t care about anything except the way his body feels against yours or the way he seems to fill you up perfectly. He snaps his hips forwards and you tremble, he watches your mouth part for a gasp and how you never stop looking at him, not even for a second. “I– fuck, fuck, I’m–” you gasp, tripping over the words, a little desperate and a lot frantic as you grind up against him, one hand tangled in his hair and the other somewhere on the expanse of his shoulder, reaching for purchase, something to hold on to– He’s acutely aware of your body pressed up against his own, slick with sweat and incredibly fucking warm, your face buried in his shoulder and your breath hot against his skin and your body soft and pliant and perfect underneath him. Everything about this is driving the both of you fucking crazy, that it’s hard to focus, that everything else is a colorless, meaningless blur in the background and all you  can see is each other, back arching and muscles tensing and calling out each others name. You tremble and tighten around him and finally reach the second release building in you. The moan you release is wonderfully helpless and whatever remaining scraps of decorum he had left just fucking dissolve. His thrusts become erratic, his rhythm falters and he realizes, distantly, that he’s not going to last much longer as you rock against him until he can barely think straight. “(Y/N),” he mutters, and chokes out a curse, buries his face in your shoulder and relishes in it, in the closeness and the shared body heat and the feeling of being here, with you, like this, until his body falters and his weight comes down onto his forearms and his orgasm is wrenched through him like a fucking revelation. And then it’s over. He doesn’t move for a long moment. You don't make him. Nothing seems to matter anymore except the warmth of where your bodies are still joined, the sound of your combined breathing, and the ache of the emotions you had unleashed on one another. It’s a brief moment of peace for you, and you think he must feel the same. “You can get off of me now,” You complain, softly. Breathlessly. Your normal personality shining back through. Aaron huffs out a laugh, deep and warm, and moves away. He hesitates, only for a second, before pulling you to his bare chest with his hand curled over your hip. The silence isn’t as suffocating as you expected. It’s almost– comfortable. “Dumbass,” you say. There’s an honest sort of affection in your voice, as you throw an arm over his chest and bury your face in the crook of his neck. “Shut up,” he mumbles, sleepy and sated and not really meaning it at all.

There was no more room for doubt, no room for distance anymore. Just two people, finally giving in to what has been brewing for almost two weeks. 

And in the heat of the safe house, you knew: nothing could remain the same that next morning.

[hotchsmutrecs]

Sleeping Beauty (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- one shot

Nobody look @ me this is the filthiest thing I've ever written I need to go take a cold shower

Summary: With the demanding jobs you both work, you and Hotch see each other more often when one of you is asleep. An idea pops into your head.

Warnings: SMUT mdni 18+ only etc, somnophilia (if that's not your cup of tea, feel free to scroll bc it's the entirety of this fic lmao), angst if you squint, established relationship, consent/ground rules are established before anything happens, fingering, oral (f recieving), unprotected sex (don't be like them), mentions of phone sex, dirty talk, Hotch is just pussy-whipped as y'all say

WC: 3.8k bc I clearly have no self-control

It started as a joke. Mostly.

Both of your jobs are demanding — you and Hotch knew this from the start. It was first date material, after all. The usual, surface-level questions including So, what do you do for work?

He told you later that he thought about giving you a vague answer, so as to not scare you away. But you had opened up first, said that your job at the courthouse meant your hours were long and somewhat unpredictable, no matter how hard everyone tried to stick to the 8 to 5 routine. There were nights you wouldn’t leave your desk until nearly eight. Hotch’s chest had tightened at that, even on the first date, the idea of you overworking yourself, but he’s no better.

You told him some nights it was a miracle if you got home before ten; he joked with you and said it was a miracle he made it home some nights at all.

It was like everything opened up from there. There was no pressure. If one of you had to stay late, it didn’t really matter, because the other probably had to as well. If one of you had to cancel or postpone dinner plans, it was fine, because nine times out of ten, the other was already on their way to calling for the same reason. 

It always makes the two of you laugh. The phone call the afternoon of the dinner plans, you laughing as you answer the phone to say, “Let me guess, raincheck?” His soft laughter, but apologetic all the same, “We just got called to New York.” And you expected it, so you said it was fine, right before your boss came knocking on your door, a frantic look in his eyes. “And I’m being summoned. Be safe in New York.” And Aaron’s ever-present gentlemanliness, “I’ll text you when I can. Go show them how it’s done.” You were grinning as you hung up, turning to your boss with an extra boost of confidence. “What do we have?”

As one can expect, this schedule, this careful dance the two of you have, means that nights together are rare, and the sex is, unfortunately, just as rare. Not that the two of you haven’t found other means— who knew Aaron’s dirty talk would somehow sound hotter through the phone when he’s timezones away, on a five minute break to call you and check in, and help you relax enough so you can sleep? But it’s not the same. It’s not the same as having him here.

And he is here, just not as often as you’d like, especially not when you’re awake. Ever since you started staying at his place — it’s closer to the courthouse, you tell yourself as an excuse, those five minutes make a big difference — you see him more often, but you mostly feel him. The dip of the mattress as he settles in to sleep beside you. The strong arm wrapping around your middle, pulling you toward him in his sleep, as if he needs to be certain you’re still there, even as he’s dreaming. The rustle of sheets as he scrambles to grab his phone to silence the incoming call, to get up and get dressed without waking you. 

It’s just a fact. The two of you see each other more when you’re sleeping. Isn’t that crazy?

So, who can blame you, when one night, half-asleep, only woken by Aaron’s soft nuzzling into your neck, you say, “Keep going.”

He freezes, lips just barely hovering over your pulsepoint, the place he loves to suck on, nip at, because he loves all of the little sounds he can draw out of you. 

When you’re awake.

“Honey,” he chuckles nervously, pulling back. “You’re asleep.”

“M’awake,” you protest, tossing your arms around him clumsily — as if that was going to prove your point.

He placates you with a soft kiss on your lips. “Sure, honey,” his laugh rumbles through his chest again as his hands smooth up your arms. “I believe you.”

“See?” you murmur, but your eyes are closed. There is no way you’ll remember this come morning. “You can keep going. Wanna feel you.”

He tenses. The idea is tempting, and that scares the shit out of him, which is exactly why his hands don’t move any lower than your arms. You’re practically asleep, for god’s sake. That’s taking advantage, and he will not be doing that.

“Maybe later,” he says gently, kissing your forehead this time. “I’m exhausted.”

You whine, but you bury your face in his chest, and your breathing slowly evens out. 

He sighs, wrapping his arms around you, wondering what in the world he’s going to do with you.

+++

You do remember it. Aaron thought you wouldn’t, and for a couple days he was convinced that you didn’t, until a rare night when he returned home to find you already there.

“Half-day,” you explain with an easy smile, meeting him at the door for a kiss. “Well, kind of. I brought some work with me. You know how it is.”

You’re rambling and he knows it. You know it, too, but you can do nothing to stop it. He knows you need to talk to him about something, but you don’t want to admit it. He knows how you work. 

Which infuriates you on a bad day. On a good day, it’s hot as hell.

Right now, it’s somehow a mix of both. All it takes is him sitting next to you on the couch, seemingly unbothered by your fidgeting, and one simple question.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Too many things,” you answer automatically, letting out a laugh and exhale at the same time. God, your chest feels so tight, and not in a good way. Since when are you this nervous to talk to Aaron? The man you’ve been seeing for well over a year now, the man who has been nothing but understanding with everything you’ve thrown his way, the man who is sitting right here with you, who knows exactly what your nervous rambling means and isn’t upset with you for it.

As if he can sense the anxiety rolling inside of you (and he can sense it), he reaches out to thread your fingers with his. “You can talk to me. Is it work?” You shake your head. “Is it us?”

“Kind of.”

“Is it the other night?”

Your eyes blow wide, giving you away entirely. Your eyes snap to his. “Seriously? Three questions? That’s how long it took you?”

He chuckles. “It would’ve only taken one, but I didn’t want to assume.”

“Cocky motherfucker,” you mutter, which only makes him laugh more. This is good. Lightening the mood is good. You don’t need to be so on edge about this, about what is most likely about to be Rejection City Central. “Okay. So. Yes. The other night.”

He nods, waiting patiently for you to get your words together.

“I feel like it was…too much.”

His eyebrows knit together. “Too much?” Nothing happened. Do you think something happened?

“I feel like I pushed too far, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry, we don’t have to harp on it anymore than this, I just— I felt like I was pushing you into doing something you don’t want to do. And I don’t want you to feel pressured—”

“Honey,” he stops you gently. “Hey, look at me.”

Slowly, you do, but there’s worry swimming in your eyes. 

“What do you remember?” he asks. He knows how it sounds, cryptic and probably a little scary, but he needs to fully see where your head is.

“Um,” you hesitate, your eyes darting away again. “I remember asking you to keep going and you saying no. Because I was asleep.”

He nods. “Okay.” He pauses, gathering his words. “Honey, we’ve never talked about that before, about doing anything when either of us is sleeping—”

“We don’t have to do it,” you immediately interrupt, clearly still with the wrong idea in your head. “It’s weird, I get it—”

“It’s not weird, not to me,” Aaron says, remembering the way desire flared in him. He had secretly hoped you would still be awake that night, not because he wants you to deprive yourself of sleep, but because he wanted to have you. “And it’s especially not weird if it’s something you want, too.”

You pause, staring at him wide-eyed. “Wait. You. You’d want to?”

“Absolutely,” he says, trying not to sound so unbelievably wrecked just by the thought. “But I want us to talk about it first. Set ground rules. Figure things out first.” He pauses, squeezing your hand. “Believe me, I wanted to.”

Your lips part just a little in disbelief. “You did?”

He nods seriously. “Of course I did. Do you have any idea how good you look sleeping in one of my old shirts and nothing else?”

You smirk, a wicked look brewing in your eyes. “I have an idea.”

He pulls you over into his lap for a bruising kiss, one hand cradling your jaw. It’s intoxicating, his tongue on yours, all gasps and moans as he rocks your body against his.

“Wait,” you gasp, his lips chasing yours as you pull back. “I want to talk about it.”

“We will,” he bites out, just before he pulls your bottom lip between his teeth. “But I want to taste you first.”

+++

You do talk about it. You lay the ground rules, for both of you. 

Aaron orders a new pair of panties just for the occasion, so that when you wear them, it’s a signal. He can do what he wants. For him, it’s slightly different, since he always sleeps in boxers, so if he’s not wearing anything, that’s his signal. He wants to be woken up; you’re happy to be mostly asleep, though you know your body will wake you up and want to stay awake to drink him in. 

And, of course, if when either of you wake up, if it’s too much and it needs to stop immediately, you have your safe words, but a simple no, stop will work given the added complication of being asleep.

It’s exhilarating, thinking about it. Planning everything out. Your body practically buzzes with need. 

But you have no idea when it will happen. That’s the whole point, of course, but it’s complicated with your work schedules. The strange hours and days you both work has never pissed you off so badly as it does now. 

It’s as if your schedules are mocking you. Every time it feels like there might be a night where something could happen, something comes up. Aaron is called away, a case goes sideways and delays his return, or you get slammed at work and don’t make it home in time before he’s called away, or you get home in such a bad mood that if he even tried to touch you, you might lay into him.

It just never seems to line up properly, none of it. You start to think it was foolish to want it so badly, that you should’ve known better with your schedules.

Especially because now, it’s quickly approaching week two of Aaron being away on a case in Florida, and week two of you practically living at his place since going back to your own apartment feels too empty.

You miss him. It’s an aching feeling, one you don’t get often because you two make things work, and because you’re usually too busy to feel it, but it’s here now. This is the second-longest case he’s been away on. And because the universe is torturing you, work is calm for the moment, so you don’t even have that as a distraction.

All you have are Aaron’s old law school t-shirts, a bed that still, miraculously, smells like him after a week of his absence, and a pair of lace panties that seem laughable as you pull them on.

You curl up against Aaron’s pillows, sighing deeply. When you close your eyes, it’s almost like he’s next to you.

+++

Hotch is bone-tired. It’s been a long time since a case has been this wild, full of this many twists, and dragging on so long that it’s starting to piss him off. All he wanted to do was finish this case quickly and get home to his girl, but the unsub had to drag things out. For a week and a half.

It’s so late when they get back to Virginia that he doesn’t bother texting you, not wanting to risk the sound waking you from your no-doubt peaceful slumber. He smiles faintly as he drives toward his apartment, thinking of you sleeping so softly, probably twisted in the sheets from how restless you get on your own.

God, he misses you.

He’s quiet as he unlocks the door and quickly silences the alarm. The apartment is dark as he sets his briefcase down on the couch, shrugging off his suit jacket as he heads down the hall. The door to his room is cracked just barely, and soft snores are coming from a lump in the middle of the bed.

He chuckles to himself as he enters, stealing a glance at you as he walks to his closet. He quickly undresses, not bothering to hang anything up until morning. Right now, he just wants to be next to you.

With just his boxers on, he heads back to the bed, lifting the sheet and— He freezes.

You’re in your usual pajamas: his shirt and your underwear. Except this time, it’s a very specific pair of underwear. A specific pair of lace panties that he remembers ordering, probably spending too much money on, but he didn’t care. He wanted them to be special. And they are.

And you’re wearing them. 

He stands there like he’s seen a ghost, his brain momentarily short circuiting as he tries to compose himself. He swallows.

He’s only human. It’s been so long since he’s seen you, even longer since he’s touched you, or even got to hear you touch yourself. The case was too hectic for even your usual phone sex, and he didn’t realize how wild it was driving him until now.

He tosses the sheet back gently, watching as you curl further into his pillow, your body registering the sudden chill.

Slowly, he crawls over you, settling himself at the end of the bed. He can only imagine how crazed he looks right now, the way his eyes can’t leave your legs. He wants to drink you. Devour you in every way possible.

His movements are gentle, not wanting to wake you, not yet. You said you wouldn’t mind being asleep the entire time, but he wants to rouse you, wants you to really feel it even if for a moment, but not yet.

Right now, he stretches your legs out, turning you on your back. You make no noise other than a content sigh. He smirks as he spreads your legs, lowering his mouth to his favorite place.

He plans to take his time. He has all the time in the world, after all. You’re sleeping soundly.

He mouths at your core over your panties, just barely silencing his own groan. That would be something, waking you up because he can’t keep himself in line. He can already hear the playful annoyance in your sleep-filled voice if that were to happen.

Returning to his task, he drinks you in as he likes, smothering your inner thighs in kisses, even leaving a love bite or two there. It’s a private, guilty pleasure you both have. He loves to leave marks, you love to have marks. But you’re both adults and you absolutely cannot be caught with a hickey at the courthouse.

So, he leaves them here. In a place where only the two of you can see. It wakes something primal in him, seeing the little reddened marks where he’s irritated the skin enough for a bruise to form later. He smooths his thumb over the spot, pressing. If you were awake, that would earn him a little squeak. Right now, all he hears are your even breaths.

He hooks a finger into your panties, pulling them to the side, nearly cursing aloud at how beautiful you are. He has to take a moment, just admiring, his thumb gently stroking you, and already glistening. He pops the digit into his mouth, eyes rolling at the taste. You’re addicting like nothing he has ever known.

He tests the waters some more, blowing onto your core, watching in awe as your body reacts instinctively, even in your sleep. It’s mesmerizing.

He can’t wait any longer, so he doesn’t try. He surges forward, finally tasting you, finally lifting your legs to rest over his shoulders. He relaxes into his favorite place, sucking gently on your clit before dipping his tongue inside you. You don’t even shift in your sleep.

He wonders, then, if he can make you cum like this. In your sleep.

Suddenly, and albeit selfishly, he wants to try.

He takes his time inserting a finger into you, watching as you take him in so easily. He adds a second right away, knowing how much you hate it when he teases you with just one. Your walls clench around him, but your heat envelops him, and he’s dizzy with it.

He circles your clit with his tongue as he thrusts his fingers, curling just slightly until you clench, your body telling him he’s found what he was searching for. And he doesn’t relent, only massages that spot inside as his mouth works outside. He adds a third finger, your body welcoming the stretch, pulling him in.

You shift, and he comes up for air, watching your face, but you don’t wake. You melt into the pillows as his fingers continue their pace.

Relieved in some twisted way, he returns to sucking your clit, doubling down, forcing you toward that edge. He almost thinks it won’t happen, that there’s no possible way you’ll climax and not wake up, until he feels those tell-tale spasms, and he knows you’re close.

He groans into you, knowing how that sends you over when you’re awake, and it works even now. Your walls clench around him, spasming through the shocks of your orgasm, and he doesn’t stop, milking out every last bit, wanting to drown in the way you taste, the way your body relents.

You’re a dream. He presses a loving kiss to your inner thigh, disbelief in his every breath. Gently, he removes his fingers, and tugs your panties down, tossing them to the floor. 

When he crawls back up the bed, you’re still sleeping soundly, but that won’t do.

He presses his erection into your hip, presses a kiss to your jaw, whispering, “Honey, I need you.”

+++

You’re floating on pure bliss. Dreams are rare these days, and dreams of Aaron are even rarer — which just feels rude, honestly. But this one. This one is the best you’ve ever had.

Only, you realize you aren’t dreaming at all. The sensations are real. The hot breath in your ear, the slick want between your thighs, the hard press of Aaron’s cock as he rocks against your hip.

But you’re so tired. You can’t bring your eyes to open. You barely have enough energy to turn toward him, to wrap an arm around his neck, toss your leg over his, pressing your core right against him. The growl he lets out is delicious.

The next thing you know, the boxers are no longer separating you, and the head of his cock is parting your lips. 

You sigh in content as he thrusts into you, hitting you so deep, staying there just to grind his hips into yours.

“Missed you,” you murmur, hands clumsily tugging on his hair to pull his lips to yours. He goes without protest, licking into your mouth and you gasp in surprise, tasting yourself. “Did you…?”

He smirks against your lips. “Did you know you can have an orgasm in your sleep?”

Your eyes fly open at that, vision adjusting in the dark, but it’s easy to see the smug look on Aaron’s face. And then he pulls his hips back, slamming into you again and causing your eyes to roll back. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, the words so gentle and soothing, a stark comparison to how brutal his pace and depth of his thrusts are. “Breathtaking. My sleeping beauty. Can you give me another one? Need to feel you again.”

You’re awake, but nowhere near alert enough to have any wits about you when he talks like that. You nod dumbly, rocking your hips in time with his, but your movements are sloppy, the pleasure rising at a blinding pace.

“Come on, honey,” he murmurs, capturing your lips again, his tongue searching for yours. “Just one more, then you can go back to sleep.”

Something about that does it for you. He thrusts as deep as he can go, and your body crashes, writhing against him as he holds you in place, grinding into you.

“There you go, so beautiful, honey,” he guides you through it, soaking up all of your little breathy moans.

But like every time when you have an orgasm (or two) when you’re already on the verge of sleep, your eyes are struggling to stay open.

“Aaron…” you whine, clinging to him. “Keep going.”

“Oh, I will, honey,” he chuckles, pressing a soothing kiss to your forehead before flipping you onto your back again, so he can hover over you. “You just sleep for me, okay?”

You nod, the action already taking too much of your energy as your eyelids slam closed and refuse to lift again. He moves inside you, slower now, just a gentle pace, lulling you back to sleep.

It doesn’t take long for him to spill inside of you, and you’re still somewhat conscious, given the happy little sigh he hears you let out when he cums inside you. You’ve always loved the feeling. 

Feeling wrecked, he slowly peels himself off of you, heading into the bathroom to wet a washcloth. When he returns, you’re back on your side, hugging his pillow again. He shushes you with gentle praise while he cleans you up before tucking you back in.

After cleaning himself and slipping boxers back on, the exhaustion hits him in full force, and he sleeps soundly with you tucked into his chest, clinging to him like a koala.

[hotchsmutrecs]

Ahhhhh yes. Unit Chief SSA Aaron Hotchner. Very scary. Very serious. Very spooky. No emotion ever. Has never seen an emotion, has never wanted one. Definitely doesn’t get flustered and panicky when people hit on him. Can definitely ask people out like a normal person and not lose all sense of the English language and how it works. Has zero sense of humor. Zero. (Although in all seriousness this man has fallen victim to the r/woosh subreddit countless times, and Garcia never fails to update) Has also never seen a humor, what is that?

…y’all…

This is the face of a man who definitely (in my humble opinion) drinks cinnamon roll frappes and changes the cup so everyone thinks it’s black coffee. He also sneaks cookies, because he has the biggest sweet tooth and tries to hide it, which is the only thing he’s actually terrible at. He also probably still sleeps with a teddy bear. DON’T CARE! LOOK AT THE WAY HE’S CURLED UP! And if not on purpose then the team sticks one in his arms on the jet and takes a photo of it, to which they all have a secret album of and add to frequently. This is the face of a goof. DONT CARE! It’s my tumblr.

[hotchsmutrecs]

LAP IT UP

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: tweezing your boyfriend’s eyebrows is a totally valid excuse to make him come in his pants, right? warnings | an: dry-humping, power play, dom-ish reader / sub-ish hotch, hotch jizzes in his pants, hotch is a munch and a simp because it’s simply not possible for me to write anything else other than hotchypoo worshipping the ground u walk on!!!established relationship, mentions of sugar baby/daddy dynamic word count: 2.2k

✧ masterlist

“Can I do yours?” you asked, not bothering to shift the mirror as you cleaned up the stray hairs around your left brow.

There was a pause of silence, followed by the rustle of paperwork. Not nearly a sufficient response, so you gently kicked Aaron’s thigh in protest.

“Do my what?”

“Your eyebrows,” you answered, tilting your head as you inspected your reflection, trying to catch the last bit of sunlight streaming through the window. One brow was cooperating. The other looked like it had wandered off and joined a different face entirely.

“They’re not twins,” you muttered. “Barely sisters. Maybe even distant, resentful cousins.”

He made a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh. “And what exactly are you implying about mine?”

“They could use a little TLC,” you argued lightly, leaning back to look at him over the mirror in your hand. “When was the last time you did them?”

He looked up from his files, one brow lifting—ironically. “I don’t make a habit of grooming my eyebrows.”

“Yeah…I can tell.”

That earned you the famous Hotchner scowl, though it had stopped working on you several scowls ago—right around the time you realised he was all bark and no bite. Or, at least, never with you.

Without another word, you dropped the mirror onto the coffee table and swung one leg over his, settling into his lap like it was your favourite seat…because it was. He stilled beneath you, body going just a little tense, like he wasn’t entirely sure where this was heading, but had no intention of stopping it.

“You’re not serious.”

“Deadly,” you replied, fingers already threading through the front of his hair. You tugged just enough to guide, making sure his head tipped back against the couch cushion. “Oof. Would you look at that, Hotchner, I think you’re starting to grow a monobrow.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“She needs to go. Quickly.” You leaned in, squinting like you were about to perform life-saving surgery and plucked a hair right from the middle of his brow before he had a chance to respond.

He flinched.

“Baby,” you teased, barely bothering to hide the laugh building in your throat. “You’re fine.”

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Obviously. I’m in your lap, holding tweezers, and making you nervous. This is my peak.” Just as you plucked another hair, you felt his hands tighten slightly at your hips.

“Just be quick,” he muttered.

Yeah. There was just one small problem with that. Quick wasn’t in your plans tonight. Aaron might be the boss at work, but at home, it was you who got your way. Always had. And truthfully? You didn’t care all that much about his eyebrows. Or yours, for that matter.

You just really, really wanted to be in his lap.

You let the tweezers hover his face again as you pretended to search for another target.

“Hm…nope, that one’s got character. Can’t lose it.”

He huffed. “You’re not even trying anymore.”

“I am,” you insisted, all sickly-sweet innocence as you adjusted your grip on his shoulders, letting your fingers toy with the collar of his polo. “Just want to make sure they’re perfect.”

He cracked one eye open. “Mh-hm.”

“What? You want me to do a half-assed job? You want uneven arches, Aaron?”

“You’ve got two minutes left.”

Silly man. As if you were on his clock.

You said nothing, just hummed like the consummate professional you clearly were, smoothing out his right brow with the pad of your finger. And then—because comfort was key, obviously—you shifted. Absolutely not intentionally aligning yourself with the zipper of his jeans.

You caught the half-shaky exhale he tried to hide and decided it still didn’t feel quite right.

Goldilocks might’ve had a point.

So you adjusted again, this time with a little more pressure. For once, you were grateful for the humidity that made you choose a dress—and the skimpiest, thinnest pair of underwear you owned.

All, of course, in the name of practicality.

His hands twitched at your waist, fingers flexing like he was stuck between wanting to grip you tighter or stay neutral. (Spoiler: he was failing at staying neutral.)

“This all part of the grooming experience?”

“Me taking my time? Absolutely. You know I give a hundred percent to everything I do, baby.”

"I know, honey," he drawled. "You've called me baby twice in the last three minutes. That's usually when you want something."

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

He smiled—subtle, smug, and, annoyingly, entirely correct. Because, yes, okay, you did want something. Just... nothing that came with a price tag. This time.

"What is it?" he asked, utterly unbothered because he was synced up to you in that way that meant nothing you said, did, or asked of him could really surprise him anymore. "Vacation days? Shoes? I told you, you don't have to ask. The wallet's in the drawer."

You gave his hair another tug, guiding his head back to the couch cushions like you were placing something delicate. “You know there’s actually a government term for what you’re implying right now.”

“Yeah?”

His eyes drifted closed again, and he looked so… soft. Almost unarmoured. Breakable in the gentlest way. The tension that usually lived in his jaw, his brow, his posture—gone. Off choosing a different victim for the day.

Lit by the delicate setting sun, he looked—

Angelic.

Almost too pure for what you had planned.

Because while he was just trying to finish a stack of paperwork, you were trying to survive the throb between your legs. And your dress, as helpful as it was in theory, wasn’t offering enough friction to solve anything. So you decided to do what any self-respecting sinner would.

You were going to drag him down a little closer to your level.

Make him less divine, and a little more yours.

“Sugar baby,” you blurted, remembering you were mid-conversation and should probably at least pretend you were behaving. “That’s the term. Is that what you’re implying I am?”

He grinned.

And then he was the one to adjust—lifting his hips just as his hands pressed you down harder against him, guiding you into him.

You clamped your mouth shut, eyes fluttering as the pressure hit exactly where you needed it.

He opened his eyes then, and you did your best to keep a straight face. (Spoiler: you were the one failing this time.)

“You think I’d reduce you to that?”

You reached for the tweezers again, if only for something to do, dragging a lazy finger across his brow like you were still pretending to care about symmetry. “You did say the wallet’s in the drawer.”

“I did.” His grip tightened just enough at your waist to make your thighs instinctively clench around him, something you knew he felt. “But that’s because I’d give you anything you ever wanted without expecting anything in return.”

You pouted, feeling the buttons of his polo brush against your nipples, because, yes, humidity had also declared it a no-bra day, and yes, you were prepared to weaponize it. “So you don’t want my sugar?”

“I want all of you,” he corrected.  “Every part.”

Of course he was still angelic about it—still saying all the right things, still making it a priority to remind you of your worth, even while you were actively plotting how to make him finish in his jeans.

Rude.

But also righteous.

And still better than you deserved…which will only make this all the more satisfying.

You blinked down at him, lips parted, a slow breath pulling into your lungs as the weight of his words landed somewhere deep between your legs.

“You’re really not going to let me be shallow for five minutes, huh?” Your fingers slipped from his brow to his throat, thumb brushing his pulse just to feel how not calm he actually was.

“No,” he said simply, shaking his head. “You’re not shallow. Just a little needy.”

You hummed like that wasn’t already obvious, like the need hadn’t soaked straight through your panties and probably left a trail somewhere along your thigh by now. Still, for the sake of appearances you brought the tweezers to his brow again.

“Hold still,” you murmured, right as you bucked your hips into him.

You felt his hands slip beneath your dress, rough and warm against bare skin as they roamed—up your thigh, your lower back, your spine.

“I said hold still,” you repeated, the smile in your voice completely ruining the authority you hoped to fake.

He did the opposite.

His hands kept traveling up your back, and you dropped the tweezers altogether, your hands settling on his shoulders as you forced yourself to grind against him, feeling not just the zipper, but the outline of his hard cock, straining like a sin he hadn’t meant to commit.

“Fuck,” you breathed, the word breaking apart in your throat like glass.

Your lips latched onto the skin beneath his jaw, feeling his skittish pulse beneath your tongue as you sucked and smoothed over the sting. Aaron’s grip on your neck tightened—a weak, almost pathetic attempt to tame you, to reel you back in, just so he could reclaim a fraction of the control you had stolen.

“This was never about my eyebrows, was it?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t care to. Instead, your teeth scraped lightly over the hickey you were hoping would linger, hips working against him like the truth being unveiled—not the sweet thing he thought you were, but a wicked woman who knew exactly how to get what she wanted.

“You’re not even listening,” he said again, a breathless laugh ghosting across your temple, cut off by the groan that followed when your hips met his just right. “Too busy getting yourself off.”

“Pretty and smart,” you mumbled lazily, the friction turning sharper, your clit throbbing now with every slow drag over the rough fabric of his pants.

His hands slipped under the neckline of your dress, tugging the top down with the sort of confidence that didn’t match his frantic breathing or the way his hips were stuttering into yours.

You pulled back from the crook of his neck, only because now it was his turn.

Aaron’s eyes dropped, and for a moment, he just stared like he couldn’t decide where to put his hands. Then he leaned in, mouth closing around your nipple, lips warm, tongue flicking once, then again, until you gasped and arched into him.

You were close. So close. Though truthfully, most of the build-up hadn’t been physical—it was all mental. The way he looked at you, like you were something delicate, something good. In the way he still hadn’t figured it out, even when you’d pranced past him with the tweezers and the mirror, settling beside him on the couch, legs draped up, spreading just enough to make sure he saw exactly what was on offer.

You could’ve asked. Told him exactly what you wanted and he would’ve done it in a heartbeat. You knew that. He loved to take care of you. He always had.

But where was the thrill in asking, when it was so much sweeter to watch him give in?

And you began to pick up on just that.

The way his breath caught against your nipple, the scrape of his teeth getting less careful.

The way his hands clutched tighter at every piece of skin he could reach. The way he started meeting your hips with his own. Slow at first, then harder, like this had been his idea to begin with.

You kept moving and so did he, the friction messy and desperate between you. His head dropped forward, breath stuttering out against your collarbone, his hands squeezing your waist.

Then his hips jerked up into yours, your name falling from his lips in a voice he almost never used. His body tensed one last time, and then you felt it—the heat flooding between you, a groan torn from his throat as he came.

Your greed had been satisfied.

And with one more roll of your hips—feeling his release spread beneath you, mixing with your own slickness—that was all it took to tip you over the edge. Your body locked down, fingers digging into his shoulders as your orgasm hit, splintering and all-consuming.

You didn’t move from him immediately, hands now toying with the collar of his polo as you caught your breath.

“Happy?” he mumbled against your skin, voice still rough around the edges.

You lifted your head, the curve of your smile slow and smug. “Very.”

You expected him to stay soft beneath you—to let you linger, revel in the mess you’d made of him.

But instead, his hands slid to your hips again, and before you could react, he was lifting you off his lap in one fluid motion, placing you down in his seat as he stood over you.

Your legs dangled off the edge, dress still bunched around your waist, thighs glistening with wetness. You pushed yourself up slightly, elbows braced behind you for balance, about to ask what he was doing, pausing just long enough to admire the wet patch on his jeans.

But your confusion melted into a shit-eating grin as you watched him lower himself to his knees in front of you. Though something told you that whatever he was about to do wouldn’t be for your sake, but for his.

And that control you were so desperate to keep?

It was practically nonexistent now—crumbling at a breathtaking pace, resting in the same hands that were sliding your soaked panties down your thighs.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

[hotchsmutrecs]

Something sweet.

After a day of being pampered by your devoted husband, you both fall into something deeper than just routine affection. He always spoils you, but tonight, he's not stopping at gifts.

၄၃ 3,223 words, Smut / explicit sexual content (18+), Vaginal sex, Spoiled partner / domestic romance, Established relationship, Oral sex (f receiving), No condom(wrap the willy), Missionary → prone position, Light power play / possessiveness, Praise kink / slight size kink, Aftercare (not detailed), etc.၄၃

“Do you want anything else?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” you said, eyeing the shopping bags—two in your hands, 8 more in his. “That’s all. Can we go home now?”

He nodded, and you looked up at him. He had just taken you on a shopping spree: shoes, clothes, perfume, jewelry. Your husband liked to spoil you—and not just liked, he loved indulging you. It made him happy, and you weren’t about to argue with that.

Back home, you both relaxed. He disappeared into his home office not long after, and you, worn out from the day, dozed off.

When you woke up, the sun had shifted in the room. You blinked, looked around—no sign of him. You got up, padded down the hallway, and knocked on his office door.

“Come in,” came his voice.

You cracked the door open and peeked in. He was typing away, papers scattered across his desk, completely immersed. You stepped inside and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. His hands paused. You tilted his chin gently toward you and smiled.

“Hi, my love. Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah.” You hesitated. “Do you want me to make you something to eat?”

You’d both had breakfast together early that morning, watched a movie around 7:30 a.m., then he took you to the bookstore to grab a few novels you’d been wanting. After that, he paid for your nails and hair, then swept you off on a shopping spree. It was 3:34 p.m. now. You knew for a fact he hadn’t moved from that desk since you got home.

“I have to finish this,” he murmured, eyes flicking back to his screen.

“I know,” you said quietly, “but I still want you to eat something.”

“I will, my love.” He chuckled under his breath, but you could tell he wasn’t taking it seriously.

That was always the issue—he worked so much, sometimes forgot to take care of himself. Before you two even got married, you’d started packing him lunches. Full meals, nothing skimpy. Sometimes he’d text you a photo and write, “This is amazing, baby. But are you trying to get me fat?” And you’d always answer the same: “Of course not, I just want you to eat.”

You didn’t always make food for yourself, but for him? You liked it. You liked feeding him, knowing he appreciated everything you made—well, except that one time you tried to bake...

You stared at him for a while and sighed before leaving.

In the closet, while digging through your clothes, your hand brushed the short white nightgown you’d bought—a soft, fuzzy thing with lace trim. Pretty. Light. Feminine. You pulled it out and laid it on the bed, then grabbed your phone and Bluetooth speaker before heading into the bathroom.

Is it possible I could feel this cool?

I could really love you the way I do

Is it possible I could feel this good?

I could really love you the way I do

See me (Within the light)

Flowing (Take me to you)

Like the river to the sea

You come down (I’m in the light)

You sang along to Flow by Sade, carefree and a little off key. Warm water slid over your body as music filled the bathroom. Once you felt clean—like, just shed a layer of your skin kind of clean—you turned off the faucet and stepped out, wrapping yourself in a towel. The mirror was fogged, your skin warm and glowing.

You dried off and moisturized with your whipped shea butter—vanilla and coconut infused, sweet and soft, just the way you like it. He likes it too.

You slipped into your nightgown and climbed onto the bed, still humming, your body relaxed and your mood lighter. You reached over to the nightstand, grabbed your book, you layed on your stomach and started reading.

Two and a half hours later, and he was still working. You got up from the bed, ready to check on him, but just as you reached for the door—it opened. You jumped back in surprise.

Oh. You hadn’t heard him coming. The speaker was still blasting.

He gave you a curious look as he stepped into the room. You went back to the bed and quickly turned the speaker down from your phone.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before heading to the closet.

You laid back on the bed, watching him undress. He peeled off his shirt, unbuckled his belt, then stepped out of his pants. He moved deeper into the closet to grab a pair of sweats, but you never stopped watching.

He felt your eyes on him the whole time.

“Baby,” he called out, turning slightly toward you with a grin. “You really shouldn’t watch people undress. It’s crude.”

You scooted over to make room as he walked back to the bed. “I’m not watching people, I’m watching you. And besides, you see me dress and undress all the time,” you said, voice trailing off slightly with embarrassment at his teasing.

He lay down on his back, right on his side of the bed, and reached for your book. He scanned the page where your bookmark sat, then handed it back to you.

You sat on your knees, still watching him. He looked so good—effortlessly attractive, even in something as simple as sweats.

“Baby,” he said, eyes flicking to yours, “do you want something?” His hand reached up, fingertips gently brushing down your jaw.

“Mhm,” you hummed softly.

“Yeah?” He smiled knowingly and sat up just a little, the shift of his body bringing you closer.

You climbed into his lap without another word, kissing along his cheek, his nose, the corner of his lips—then skipping his mouth entirely to kiss down his jaw. Your lips trailed lower, down his neck, while your hips slowly ground against him.

His hands slid down to your ass, cupping the soft flesh and giving it a firm squeeze. “No panties, sweet girl?"

“Uh-uh,” you murmured, lips still on his neck.

You felt him hard beneath you, thick and pulsing through the cotton of his sweats. Your hips moved instinctively, slow and steady, dragging over him as his fingers dug into your ass.

He groaned low in his throat, then gave your ass a light slap. “Mm-mm,” he murmured, his lips brushing your collarbone now. “You’re gonna ruin my pants.”

It wouldn’t have been the first time.

You kissed him just below the ear and whispered, “Then take them off.”

That earned you another slap, firmer this time, followed by a low chuckle. “Brat.”

He didn’t argue, though.

You lifted slightly as he shifted under you, pushing his sweats down just enough. Your eyes dropped for a second, and your lip caught between your teeth. He was already leaking—you hadn’t even touched him properly yet.

But before you could tease, his hands were back on your thighs, gripping you tight. In one smooth motion, he flipped you onto your back, drawing a small gasp from your lips. Your body hit the mattress, and he hovered above you, eyes dark with intent.

“I missed you today,” he said, voice dropping to that low, honest register that always got under your skin.

“I was with you all day,” you said, smiling, a little breathless.

He shook his head, already kissing lower—between your breasts, down your stomach. “Still missed you.”

Your nightgown barely clung to your skin. He pushed it up and bunched it around your waist, exposing you. You felt his warm breath on your inner thighs just before you felt his mouth, and your whole body jolted, your legs instinctively closing around his head.

“Shh,” he mumbled against your skin, tongue teasing along your folds. “You’re already this wet for me?”

You nodded, tangled in the sheets. “You’ve been working for hours.”

He chuckled, then dragged his tongue slowly up your slit and latched onto your clit, and your whimper cracked the air.

“So this is what you were thinking about in that little nightgown?” he said between licks.

You couldn’t answer—not with the way his tongue circled your clit, not with his fingers digging into your thighs like he was holding on for dear life.

“You make this too easy, baby,” he murmured. “So sweet. All for me.”

He didn’t rush. His tongue moved with a rhythm that bordered on worship, licking and sucking you like you were his only job. And then his finger slid inside you—slow, deep, curling just right.

Your back arched off the bed.

“That’s it,” he breathed against you, voice drenched in heat. “So pretty.”

He pumped his finger in and out while still licking you. Then he added another, stretching you wider. You squirmed, moaning his name, hands flying to clutch at his wrist as your thighs shook.

“Aww, look at you opening up for me,” he said, gentle but cocky, fingers working you steadily, his tongue never letting up.

His fingers spread inside you, pressing and curling, and your gasp turned into a desperate moan. Between flicks of his tongue and tight suction on your clit, he looked up at you and said, “Yeah, I know, baby—but I need you to open up a little more before I can give you what you really want.”

“Ahh—mmfngh,” your voice cracked as your hips bucked up toward his mouth.

Your body started to tremble, thighs twitching with every stroke of his tongue. Your breathing shortened, your moans turned into whines of his name.

“Go ahead, sweetness,” he murmured, lips wrapping around your clit again. “Cum for me.”

And you did—his fingers thrusting into you fast and deep, his mouth locked onto you like he was starving, pulling every last wave of pleasure from your body until you were shaking underneath him.

Your body was still trembling when he finally pulled back, slow and deliberate, his mouth glistening with you. He kissed your inner thigh once, then again—tender, but with something rough lingering in his eyes. Like he wasn’t done. Not even close.

He crawled up your body, slow and heavy, the heat of him sinking into your skin. When he kissed you—deep, open, tongue sweeping over yours—you could taste yourself on him. You moaned into his mouth, one hand curling into his hair, the other trailing down between your bodies.

You wrapped your fingers around him—thick, hard, warm—and felt his breath catch against your lips. He twitched in your grip, already leaking, already aching for more.

“So impatient,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded as he covered your hand with his, holding it there. The weight of his palm over yours made your stomach flutter, grounding and controlling at the same time.

“I just want to take care of you,” you whispered, your voice breathy, your grip tightening.

He exhaled through his nose, his gaze dragging down your body—lingering on your bare thighs, your chest, the way your body arched beneath him. “You already do, baby. More than you know.”

You stroked him again, slow but firm, and the tension in his hips gave him away. His jaw clenched. His eyes snapped back to yours like a warning—and then he gently pushed your hand away, grabbing both your wrists and pinning them to the bed above your head with one hand.

His voice dropped, dark and sweet. “But this part—that’s mine.”

You gasped softly, thighs instinctively pressing together on instinct. Still sensitive. Still wanting.

He leaned in close, brushing his lips along your jaw. “You want me inside now, sweet girl?”

You nodded, wide-eyed, your breath catching.

His grip loosened. You reached down to straddle him, already guiding him to your entrance—but his hands clamped around your waist before you could go further.

“Uh uh,” he said, the edge in his voice returning. “I asked you a question. I didn’t say you could take control.”

Then, in one fluid motion, he shifted, pushing your hips back down onto the mattress, settling himself between your legs. He spread your thighs wide, locking them against his sides with a firm grip. You were fully open to him now, pinned to the bed with no way to escape.

You let out a whine, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you as his cock rubbed against your soaked entrance, teasing you with every pulse.

He braced himself on one elbow, the other hand trailing down your throat, over your breasts, stomach, then to the underside of your thigh—gripping and lifting, pushing your leg higher to open you up even more.

“I let you have your little fun,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Now it’s my turn.”

Then he pushed in—slow, steady, and deep. Your whole body arched with the stretch, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. His weight pressed you into the mattress as he bottomed out, both of you breathing heavily.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, nails sinking in. He pressed his forehead to yours, groaning low in his chest.

You whimpered, trying to roll your hips, but his hand kept you pinned in place. “No,” he said, his breath hot against your cheek. “You’re gonna take it. Just like this. Let me feel you.”

He started moving—long, slow strokes that filled you completely and left you aching in the best way. Every push sent sparks through your legs, and every drag-out made you cry for more.

“Look at you,” he whispered, brushing sweaty hair from your face. “Still needy after I had my mouth on you. You really do like being spoiled, huh?”

You nodded, eyes glassy.

“Good,” he murmured, voice dark silk. His hips snapped forward a little harder, a little deeper. “Because I’m not done spoiling you yet.”

Then, in a seamless motion, he shifted—sliding his body over yours with a fluid grace as he moved from missionary to a more prone position. His chest pressed down against your back, his hands sliding down your sides as he lifted your hips just enough to angle himself deeper. You moaned as his cock sank into you again, this time even deeper, the angle shifting, pushing against the perfect spot inside you.

“You’re gonna take all of me, sweetheart,” he growled, his voice thick with desire. “Just like this.”

The change in position had you gasping, your body responding to him in a completely new way. He moved inside you, each thrust deep and hard, making you cry out with every stroke. The way he was taking control, yet still so tender in his movements, made your heart race even faster.

You loved the feeling of his weight draped over you, his chest flush to your back, his breath warm against your shoulder as he moved inside you. He gave you slow, deep thrusts, his hips rolling into yours with deliberate pressure, grinding down in a rhythm that had your toes curling. You could feel every inch of him, dragging along your walls, filling you completely with each push.

“Ah—mghn—fuck,” you cried into the pillow, tears slipping down your cheeks as he fucked you nice and deep, grounding you with the way his arms caged around your body, hands braced on either side of your head.

“I know, baby,” he panted, voice low and aching with restraint. “You feel good, huh?”

“Mhm… y-yes—ah,” you choked out, barely able to speak through the pleasure building hot and fast.

“Holy fuck,” he groaned, his mouth right at your ear, “stop squeezing me like that.”

One of his hands slid under you, between your body and the bed, fingertips trailing with intent until they found your clit. The moment he started rubbing tight, slow circles, your body arched instinctively under him, hips pressing back into his with a whimper.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he whispered, voice cracked open with emotion. “Wanna cum again, pretty baby?”

“Yes,” you whimpered, breath catching. “Please.”

“Yeah?” he rasped, kissing your shoulder. “Then let go, baby. Let me have it. You’re all mine.”

His fingers circled your clit with practiced precision, matching the steady, deep thrusts of his hips. The dual sensation had you unraveling fast, your body twitching under him, hips rising helplessly to meet each slow grind.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice strained. “Just like that, baby. Let me feel you.”

You buried your face in the pillow, your cries muffled but desperate, overwhelmed by the pleasure coursing through you. He was everywhere—wrapped around you, buried inside you, coaxing every reaction out of your body like he knew it better than you did.

“You gonna give it to me?” he asked, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you fall apart.”

“I—I’m close,” you gasped, hands fisting the sheets as your thighs trembled. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

“Not going anywhere, sweet girl,” he murmured, biting gently at your shoulder. “Come on. Let me feel you cum.”

His fingers pressed harder, the rhythm of his hips tightening, and that was all it took. Your body seized beneath him, back arching as your orgasm tore through you, silent at first before it broke into a moan so needy, so raw, it made his thrusts falter.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he breathed, still moving inside you, still rubbing. “God, you feel so fucking good when you cum. So tight—fuck.”

Your walls clenched around him, fluttering, milking him with every aftershock. He groaned loud, almost pained, and pressed his body down harder into yours, chasing his own edge.

“You gonna take all of me?” he gritted out, voice breaking. “Gonna let me fill you up, baby?”

“Yes—yes, please,” you whispered, voice hoarse, bliss-drunk.

He cursed under his breath, buried himself deep with a final thrust, and came hard—hips stuttering, breath catching in your ear. You felt the warmth flood inside you, and it made you shiver, not from cold but from the way he gave it all to you, held nothing back.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathing. Hearts pounding in sync.

Then he lowered his weight more gently against your back, arms sliding around you as if he couldn’t bear to be apart, not even by an inch.

“I love you,” he murmured into your skin. “Love having you in my life, you know that?”

You smiled, eyelids heavy. “I love you too. And yes I know...thank you for everything." mumbled drifting off.

He chuckled and watched you sleep for a while before getting up to grab a wash cloth.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Dividers by @dollywons and @cafekitsune