multifandomficsx

[multifandomficsx]

You cooked here

Room for three

Nobody knows about the contract you signed to be your boss’s sub until Spencer finds the document. Aaron proposes a deal in exchange for his silence.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 4.8k Content: threesome, sub/dom dynamic, female and male oral, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, creampie(s) a/n: kinktober in may because it’s @lavenderspence birthday who helped me brainstorm this fic months ago but hey it’s never too late so here is the long awaited fic that i’m dedicating to the birthday girl. ily<333

The wordless creed of submission was a scripture you could never decipher.

That is, until you met Aaron Hotchner. Five years of sterile professionalism, save for one fateful night with too high adrenaline and a sex drive you hadn’t even known you possessed. He’s disturbingly good at coaxing it too (pinning you against his office door, bending you over his desk, binding your wrists to the headrest in the back of his car), and soon a new normal of three sexy times a week for two breathless months doesn’t seem quite enough.

Surprising, for someone too independent to ever trust a man so completely. But twenty-four-seven isn’t ideal, was what he’d pointed out with a wry little smile when he realized there was no sign of jest as you offered — no, begged — to be cinched to his hip every single day. Tempting, but some ground rules still had to be laid down.

That’s when the negotiation starts.

Night after night you find yourselves talking, and suddenly your vocabulary is filled with terms you’d never imagined discussing outside bureau protocol. Hard limits and soft boundaries. Carefully planned visits. He even tested a few daring suggestions you’d never imagined yourself fantasizing about, intriguing you as much as they embarrass you.

Although mortification isn’t the problem. You’re a born profiler with an inconvenient instinct to study every new stimulus; curiosity is your ruin, so to speak. If shame were meant to deter you, it should’ve chosen a less enticing disguise.

Granted, you’re not exactly surprised when you slip into Aaron’s motel room and spot another presence waiting. You find Spencer like that, standing warily at the foot of the bed, looking strangely out of place despite the fact your knees had brushed in the SUV only an hour ago.

But your heart does a little somersault. A silly patter that spreads through your chest with the dizzy certainty that an idea you’ve only read in ink is about to be written in flesh.

The clause was tucked near the end of the contract — “the introduction of a third participant at the discretion of the primary.” You’d half-skimmed those last few pages, disbelief blurring the words when you couldn’t quite fathom that your fantasies had been printed and bound like actual paperwork.

It’s one thing to discuss it verbally, another thing entirely to see it embodied in your hands like an actual scripture.

“I just want you to feel safe,” Aaron had said, which struck you as almost redundant. You already felt safe without having these stipulations spelled out in twelve-point font. Still, you picked up the pen, humored his need for formalities, and wrote your name in deliberate strokes.

And with Spencer hovering a few unsure steps from the bed tonight, that small flourish of ink seems to glow on the page in your memory.

“You’re late,” Aaron greets from the other side of the room, and closes the space between you in three easy strides.

“Emily cornered me in the hallway," you say, meeting him halfway for a kiss before nudging back, a wry smile on your lips. “So I’m guessing he knows about us?”

His gaze flicks to Spencer before settling back on you. “He found our contract.”

Your brows curve into a frown. “You mean… he found the thing just lying around?”

“Not exactly." He gives a curt shake of his head. "It was on my desk. Didn’t think he’d come in without knocking.”

"Aaron."

“It was an oversight," he tries to defend himself. He spares you the detail that Spencer apparently read enough to memorize every clause and condition. You’re already eyeing him dubiously.

“And why is he here now?”

The same logic that led Aaron to keeping him here.

“For his silence.”

"You’re blackmailing him?”

The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Of course not. I’d call it leveraging a situation for mutual understanding."

“That is the prettiest way I’ve ever heard someone describe blackmail.”

A soft shuffle of shoes answers you from behind.

“It isn’t blackmail,” Spencer interjects. “He didn’t force me into anything. I wanted to understand what was going on and—” He falters at the subtle, expectant tilt of Aaron’s head, then clears his throat and finishes, “—and now I do.”

Aaron’s hand finds its way to your waist. “Are you okay with this?”

Are you?

You don’t answer immediately. It isn’t indecision that holds your tongue to the roof of your mouth, rather the slow crawl of anticipation that coils low in your belly. Skittering around your hips.

Oddly enough, the prospect doesn’t rattle you the way it once did when you first traced those lines in the contract. You’d just never thought the day would actually arrive, and certainly not today, with Spencer, of all people.

You can almost hear the flutter of his pulse from here, see the quiet calculations ticking behind lowered lashes as he tries to stand perfectly still. He’s cinched into his cardigan that's smoothed flat over narrow shoulders, and you’d be lying if you claimed you’d never wondered what hid beneath all those layers of neatly pressed wool.

Pure curiosity, you reason. Curiosity fed by the sparks you’ve caught in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking. A sweep of hazel that dips down your neckline, or by the restless twitch of his fingers whenever your perfume drifts too close. And you’ve idly speculated, maybe more than once, whether those fidgeting hands would feel rough on your skin or as soft as the flush rising in his cheeks.

You let the quiet stretch for one more heartbeat, watching his gaze snag on the top of your blouse before darting back up.

Heat coils languid and sweet inside you.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m okay. I think.”

“Need you to be sure, sweetheart.”

“I’m okay,” you repeat, trying to smooth out your voice. Maybe saying it once more will solidify your confidence. “I’m really okay.”

Aaron’s palm tightens at your waist. “Color?”

It takes you a while to understand what he means, but when you do, you feel the answer rise with the next breath you take.

“Green.”

“Good, if at any point it changes, you tell me.”

You give him a slight dip of your head.

"Reid, come here."

Spencer obeys before he seems aware he’s moving. One cautious step, then another, until you can feel the anxious energy rippling off him. He’s close enough now that the crease of your knee nearly grazes the front of his slacks. Close enough you can catch the soft quiver in his limbs.

Your own chest tightens at the sheer proximity, but whatever butterflies flit through you aren’t half as fierce as the ones etched across his tense shoulders and downturned gaze.

“Spence, it’s okay, you can touch me," you offer.

He curls his fingers into fists, chords of tendon shifting under skin gone too pale.

He’s overthinking, of course. Mental gears grinding loud enough to drown out his own pulse. It’s his nature to second-guess and dissect unfamiliar situations from every angle. He did it when he first spotted the contract on Aaron’s desk, when Aaron quietly invited him here, even when he agreed to come of his own free will. But standing in front of you knots those gears tighter.

Enumerate risks, assign probability, choose the safest option.

The safest option, though, he realizes, is the most dangerous one.

But the real danger isn’t the touch itself. It’s how a single brush of fingertips will shatter his neatly ordered rules.

Consent redraws the margins while he continues to study. You give him an expectant look, Aaron seals it with a nod, and suddenly the universe has shrunk to three conspirators orbiting a single point of contact.

So he closes the last inch between you. Pulls in the same measured breath he’s perfected on the firing line. One, two, three — on four his fingertips drift forward, brushing the sleeve of your blouse. The cotton vibrates under his knuckles, yet even through the fabric he can feel the pliant warmth of your skin. He coaxes higher along your arm, sliding past the cuff and onto the bare flesh of your shoulder.

You’re warmer here, silken, and the softness doubles when his hand cups the delicate column of your neck, thumb resting in the hollow below your jaw. Softest of all, though, is the sight that meets him when he finally lifts his gaze. Plump, glossy petals of dewy lips.

Gone is every ounce of hesitation.

He steel himself for the question hanging on his lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

Useless, of course, when you’re already leaning in.

So he does, carrying the bite of burnt motel coffee and a trace of whatever dessert he demolished tonight. You also catch the tang of his nerves on your tongue. He’s a jumble of sensations — confused, curious, ravenous, and that ripple of hunger makes itself known as he nudges his cock against your hip. The pressure loosens your knees, and just as you begin to sync with the eager pull of his mouth, another hard pressure claims the space behind.

Aaron’s obvious bulge slots perfectly between your ass, as well as the way his mouth latches along the spot where your pulse flutters the most.

It’s nearly impossible to keep your heartbeat steady when attention comes in perfect pairs.

Two mouths tracing heat.

Two cocks hemming you in.

Two sets of hands shaping your body — a pair cupping your breasts firmly, another holding your hip while the last hand dips over the fabric covering your mound.

It takes a drowsy, blinking inhale before you realize it’s Spencer coaxing pleasure through the damp cloth. A new type of pleasure that comes with new territory as his fingers slide in patient circles, translating curiosity into confidence with every slow stroke. It’s a novel kind of surrender that eclipses the rules you thought you understood with Aaron alone.

This is a submission refracted through two different types of needs. Circumstances might look like you’re completely helpless with two men manhandling you, but somehow you've never felt more powerful.

And that power consumes you, bleeding warmth into your skin until it feels like you’re burning from the inside out. Flooding every nerve, soaking through your pores until even the hum of the air conditioner feels weak against the sweat beading at the small of your back.

Aaron feels the tremor beneath his palm.

“Too hot?”

You manage a weak nod. “Mhm.”

He quickly moves to remedy it. He won’t have his sweet girl suffering for even a second longer than necessary. His fingers skim down your blouse, carefully slipping buttons through holes before Spencer’s eager hands join him — unhooking, unbuttoning, and sliding the rest of your clothes off until there’s nothing left between you and the open air.

Your lungs finally fill without the last scrap of fabric, though each inhale stays shallow. The stark contrast between your bare skin and the layers of their tailored shirts and pressed slacks only sharpens the ache gathering low in your belly. You’re so wound up that a slow, insistent throb of liquid seeps between the snug folds of your cunt.

Aaron is quick to notice, too. He’s already attuned to your body by now, the way gooseflesh ripples up your thighs the moment you try to squeeze them together for relief. Before you’ve even fully registered it, his arm loops around your waist, guiding you a step back toward the bed.

In one smooth pull you’re lifted, settled astride his lap. “I think we should show him how wet you are.”

You lean back, heart hammering in your chest.

In another life, shame would color your cheeks, but in this one, you’re too keenly aware of your own arousal as his hands hook under your thighs, spreading your legs apart.

Spencer falls to his knees. And wets his bottom lip, eyes fixed on the sheen glistening between your legs — pretty and glossy without a single touch from either of them, and he wonders how much more of a mess he can make of you. That thought sends two fingers pressing against the swollen outer lips, gently stretching them for a better view of your anatomy as he breathes in your musky scent.

God, you smell delicious.

He bets you taste just as good too.

As if drown to a magnetic pull, he leans in and lets the tip of his tongue flick against the tender spot of your clit.

You’re not sure if the gasp that escapes your lips is louder than the rush of blood pounding in your ears. Spencer hears it, feels it, and takes it as permission. He lingers, gently at first, tracing delicate circles that coax your clit into a throbbing fullness until the once shy nub swells under the next pass of his tongue.

The hammering behind your eyes barrels down your veins, skimming collarbones and ribcage, rushing through your gut before pooling right where his mouth is working. Broad laps that drag from your slick entrance to the tip. Sucks a plush fold of your labia into his mouth, testing delicate skin with gentle tugs.

Your next exhale comes out as a moan, and Aaron marvels at the sound. “Feels good?”

Good is an anemic word — barely a quarter of what’s sluicing through you when Spencer curls his tongue inside your tight walls. Pleasure radiates in hot pulses, and language dissolves on your tongue as your head lolls helplessly against Aaron’s shoulder.

He tries to press you again. Hooks a finger beneath your jaw to tilt your chin up, leaving a ghost of space that tempts you to close your mouth around him. He pulls away when you lean in.

“Good, sweetheart?”

He clearly wants an answer. So you give him one — stretch your voice into the space he’s carved for you.

“S’good.”

“Yeah?”

Your hips stutter into Spencer’s mouth. “Yes—yes. Good.”

You're finally rewarded with a kiss and a groan between your legs.

Shame really has nothing on you. Your body is on fire, and the only thing that matters is the taste of his lips plastered against yours while Spencer’s mouth devours you in greedy lungfuls. Drags his tongue slow and heavy across the entire span of your cunt as the faint rasp of his jaw scrapes against your inner thighs.

You’re hardly surprised by how your orgasm coils fast. Starts as a scatter of static in your toes, slithers up your calves and welds the muscles of your thighs as Spencer’s mouth seals around you, lips locking, tongue pressing. Instinct has your legs snapping shut around his head, but a low disapproving sound from Aaron vibrates on your mouth, cuts through your blinding haze.

“No, no—spread them open,” he tuts, prying your legs wider. “Let him take care of you.”

You can only whine in response.

Your thoughts knot and unravel in the same breath, slipping through your grasp the moment they begin to form. Words dissolve. Time warps. You're reduced to pure reaction — tiny, involuntary gasps that stutter out between parted lips. You can't keep still. Can't breathe deep. Every inhale shudders. Heat blooms at the base of your skull, racing along nerve paths until your toes curl in suspended air.

Then it hits again. But his mouth doesn’t stop the mess he's made of you. Slick glistens down his chin, streaking into the shallow hollows of his cheeks, pooling in the groove where his jaw meets his neck. He tilts his head, adjusting just enough to keep you pinned with legs spread wide and twitching as he slurps you up with intense hunger.

A keening cry rips free before you can swallow it.

Aaron notices it. Sees the way you nearly go cross-eyed towards the ceiling, jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose.

“Reid,” he warns.

Spencer barely blinks.

“Reid.”

His voice continues to fall on deaf ears.

“Reid.”

It isn’t until Aaron firmly pushes his head away that Spencer finally snaps out of it. His eyes dart up to meet Aaron’s, then to you, chest rising and falling as though suddenly realizing the state he’s left you in.

“Oh—I’m sorry,” there’s an edge of guilt in his voice. His gaze drops back to your swollen clit, overly sensitive from his relentless attention, and moves in to press a soft, almost apologetic kiss to it. “I’m sorry.”

Your hips jerk at the contact.

Aaron rests a hand over your thigh, “Let’s give her a minute.”

You finally manage to clamp your mouth shut.

It does seem wise to wait until your heartbeat evens out, let your pulse crawl back down from its wild pitch. Yet the space they leave empty aches just as sharply. All you can feel is emptiness and the gnawing urge to be filled, so you shift in Aaron’s lap, sliding forward until your hips brush the sharply pressed crease of his slacks.

“I’m fine,” you blurt out. “I can keep going.”

Aaron’s palm spans your stomach. “I don’t want to push you too far.”

“You're not,” you insist, and with desperation digging its claws way too deep in your chest, you add, “Please?"

His lips curl into a knowing smile. You're practically bleating, and he’s absolutely smitten. "You're begging already."

You are, and you'd gladly do it again. Say it sweeter, say it filthier. You’ve learned to like begging, learned how easy it sits on your tongue when it earns you that look.

"Need you, Aaron."

He looks absolutely pleased.

“You need me?" His gaze slips towards Spencer, still crouched between your thighs, wetting his lips. "Or do you need him?”

Your mouth opens before you can think—

“Need you both.”

Which, after years spent of working alongside them, is something you never expected to admit.

But the honesty on your tongue tastes absolutely sweet.

Everything then unravels in a blur of impatient hands. Buttons pop, zippers slip, fabric rustles to the floor in a blur of motion you’ll replay later but can’t quite track now. Your own senses tunnel to the snap of Spencer’s belt, the soft thud of Aaron’s shoes hitting carpet, the sigh of crisp cotton sliding from skin.

By the time the last scrap of fabric has hit the floor, you’re stretched on your side atop the cool sheets with Aaron’s solid heat pressed along your back. He braces your leg up, while the blunt crown of his cock teases the slick seam of your cunt. You’re already dripping, so incredibly wet that one firm push has the soft flesh of your hole bulging around his girth when he sinks all the way.

It doesn’t dull the shock of intrusion, though. Aaron is all all weight and pulsing veins, and no matter how many times he’s fucked you senseless, you never quite get used to how he stretches you open. The burn hits sharp, then dissolves into a syrupy ache you drink down willingly.

You also swallow around the thick head of Spencer’s cock pressing to your mouth, feeling the bitter tang dissolve on your tongue as he pauses to gauge your reaction. Your first instinct is disbelief. It boggles your mind how someone built so lanky and lithe can carry such surprising weight, but instead you let a tiny, encouraging nod.

It's all it takes for him to nudge forward.

He lets out a tiny gasp, hips stuttering as your warmth envelopes the only part your mouth can comfortably take. A shiver races through his frame, and before he can stop himself, one hand threads into your hair with a desperate grip. He’s trying so hard to be gentle, but his pelvis gives a needy push.

You choke around the force punching your throat.

Aaron immediately slows his own rhythm behind you. “Reid, control yourself,” he warns. “Won’t have you hurting her.”

You pull back just enough to steal a breath.

“No—” You swallow, eyes darting up to meet Spencer’s wide, worried gaze. “It’s okay. Do it again.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I like it,” you manage, and Aaron’s brows lift slightly. He’s never taken you too roughly. Binding you with his tie is an exercise in restraint, a blindfold a test of trust, and when it comes to edging, his patience is almost cruel in its tenderness. He likes to think his dominance is a careful thing.

But clearly he underestimated you. Especially when you lift your gaze to Spencer with glassy, luminous eyes.

“You can use my mouth,” you say softly, a little bashfully. “I want you to.”

The confession snaps something loose in Aaron. He grunts, hikes your leg higher and plunges into you with reckless speed. “You should’ve told me sooner,” he grits out. “Didn’t know you liked it so rough.”

Your clammy back slides against his chest every time he drives into you. “I-I did, you’re just a big softie.”

He gives you another grunt against your bare shoulder while Spencer tries to catch your attention again, brushing a damp strand of hair clinging to your cheek.

“Are you sure?”

You don’t think you’ve ever been this certain.

Confidence has never felt so visceral when you know what you want, and the idea someone as awkward as Spencer surrendering to hunger enough to use your mouth only slicks you further around Aaron’s cock.

So you tilt your head back shamelessly, tongue slipping out in a languid sweep over your lower lip.

And how can he possibly resist?

He wraps his hand around the back of your skull, palm splayed wide and fingers tangling in your hair as he thrusts forward. Sets a smooth languid pace, slow enough you can feel every rigid vein drag across your tongue. Most times he glides in with practiced care, more often than not, the bulbous tip of his cock bumps up against discomfort that lingers just the shy of pain.

Tears prick your lashes, a throbbing ache begins to set in your jaw, but you force your muscles to relax. Concentrate on the rush of air through your nose.

Inhale, exhale.

Gag.

Swallow.

Soft wiry curls brush the sensitive curve of your nose with each thrust as you continue to let him mold your throat into his own perfect fit. He fills your mouth with the same certainty Aaron fills your cunt, so that no inch of you remains untouched.

You’re a mess of body fluids. Spit runs from the corners of your mouth, sweat paints your bruising skin. But it’s your pussy that bears the most, swollen and slick beyond reason, you’re so thoroughly fucked that every plunge punches a shameless squelch into the air. Bounces off the faded wallpaper and the brittle plaster of an old building that has seen better days. Decades, even.

This place couldn’t be further from luxury. It’s a simple nondescript motel on the edge of this town that’s only available where the stench of cheap detergent and stale air barely masks the lingering scent of old cigarettes. Though the sagging mattress is more than enough to cradle you between two bodies in a sweaty, desperate mess.

And desperation thickens the air, thick as summer humidity. Aaron’s thrusts grow sloppy, grip bruising your skin as he pants against your ear, “Not gonna last long, sweetheart.”

You don’t think you’re going to last any longer either. Not when the sheer force of his pace makes it impossible to focus on anything else. It’s becoming too much, and Spencer seems to notice your fractured gasps muffled around his shaft. He looks at you through heavy lids and takes pity on your predicament, pulls himself out of your mouth and sits back on his heels.

You still catch the sight of him fisting his cock through the mist clouding your eyes, but even that melts away when Aaron’s lips find the shell of your ear, whispering all the filthy things that ruins what’s left of your fragile composure.

Always so good to me.

That’s it, taking me so well.

—my sweet, sweet girl.

But it isn’t until his voice drops lower that your body responds without permission.

“Gonna fill you up, yeah?” His teeth graze your earlobe. “You'll let me do that?”

Your cunt squeezes him so fiercely that he chokes on a grunt. Slides a heavy palm right at the supple flesh of your belly.

“Or you gonna let both of us fill you up?”

You feel your muscles tensing—

“Let him fuck my cum back into you?"

And moan unabashedly.

The sounds spilling from your throat hardly seem like your own. You try to marshal a proper syllable, but it simply melts on your tongue before it can crawl past your lips. What comes instead is an automatic stutter of nods, frantic little jerks of your head because he’s your boss, isn’t he? And good subordinates follow orders dutifully.

“That’s right,” Aaron croons. “Knew you’d take it. Such a good girl for me, aren't you?"

You nod even harder, grinding back against his ruthless thrusts while he keeps spinning those filthy words.

“Gonna be so full, sweetheart. Mess dripping out this pretty pussy."

The picture he paints is enough to tip you over the edge.

Pleasure snaps bright and violent. Your vision splinters into shards of glittering light as your cunt clamps down around him, walls fluttering in rapid spasms that slowly jerk his own release.

Aaron groans, fingers biting into the soft give of your skin while he keeps you chained. Holds you still as he floods your insides, heavy spurts that seem to pool deep in your belly before trickling down every fold of your flesh. Trickles weave along your swollen lips, mars the plush curve of your ass — stains your already wet thighs as he gently slips free.

You’re in no state to protest when he drags your limp body across tangled sheets. You don’t even have the strength to lift your head as he tucks you effortlessly under his chin, back to his chest, letting yourself dissolve between thick thighs. Your skin is burning fresh from the tremor clinging in your core.

Your lungs still stutter, but your pulse is clamoring for more.

Seldom have you seen Spencer move with such quiet certainty. He sinks to his knees between your quivering thighs, and the dim lamplight silvers the slick shine on his cock as he guides it through the creamy mess clinging to your folds. Quite repulsive, but nothing less than a wicked kind of fascination.

Clearly he sees the appeal — why else would he press the rounded crown against your hole, only to have you seize around him even after being stretched so thoroughly? Mesmerized is a better way to put it as he tries to rut deeper, and with every inch your pretty cunt swallows, he wonders why he’s wasted years fussing over germs when raw pleasure like this exists.

When you simply exist.

He lets out a pleased sigh when you finally stretch around him (takes a moment of more slow rocking and a hissed curse you’ve never heard from his lips) as your eyes hone in on the spot where your bodies merge. Hips flushed, pelvis snug, coarse hair pressed against your puffy clit, and you feel a stab of fullness that spirals straight into your spine.

It doesn’t take long for him to fuck you then.

Like a man possessed, too.

Your nails bite into Aaron’s thighs. Claws sinking into warm flesh as you brace yourself for every brutal thrust Spencer rams into you. The force sends your tits bouncing with each snap of his hips, and Aaron’s hands are there in an instant — rough palms claiming the soft weight, wicked thumbs skating over taut peaks. Rolls them between calloused fingers with just enough pressure to sting your eyes.

The rapture on your face is barely recognizable anymore. Pinched and overwhelmed, you don’t notice him abandoning your perky nipples to skim down your torso until the pruny pads of his fingertips find your soaking clit.

Your back arches off his chest.

“Fuuuck—” you wail, “gonna c-come.”

He can see that. It’s painfully, beautifully obvious to anyone with eyes that you’re right on the edge again for what must be the hundredth time tonight. And Aaron doesn’t think of himself as cruel. Far from it, really. But watching your body almost folded in half has him feeling absolutely wicked.

His voice is toothy sweet as he rubs firm circles against your poor, overstimulated clit. “I know, sweetheart. Gonna come again from being used?”

“Ah, ah—baby—p-please—”

“Gonna soak his cock for me? Show him how good my girl is?”

“Aaron—!”

“Mmm? What’s that?” He hums lazily. “You want me to stop?”

A desperate whine tears from your throat, and your shaking fingers clutch at the coarse hair on his forearm. His muscles flex beneath your grip, then loosen, then tighten. All it earns you is an amused laugh and an open-mouthed kiss to your cheek.

“Oh, my pretty girl. Greedy little thing can’t even decide, can you?”

“I— I can— I want—”

“Shh,” he soothes, though his touch only grows faster. Rubs your tight little bud as your hips buck shamelessly into the twofold stimulation. “No need to think, sweetheart, that’s my job. Yours is to take it, isn’t it?”

Your words slur into a quiet sob—

“You can take it, I know you can—yes—yes, that’s it, sweetie, give it to us. Come on, just like that—”

—before it blares into the stale air.

The back of your heels kick the mattress the moment you come around his word.

Spencer does too, lungs pummeled when your cunt squeeze around his length, gripping him like a steel vise.

He feels it all the way down to his bones, feels the ache radiating from his groin to his thighs and into the small of his back with every pulse of cum that hammers into you. His hips jerk in a frantic rhythm that no amount of bliss can slow, even when the swollen head of his cock nudges the soft resistance of your cervical lip, seeking a depth that simply doesn’t exist.

Still, he grinds deeper, crushing the distance until you’re stuffed full with an ironclad grip on your thighs.

“S-Spence…”

“A bit more,” he rasps. “Promise. Just a little more.”

That little fills you to the absolute brim.

It feels like his own pulse is tangled in the tight press of your walls.

And you’ve never known the smell of sex this strong. The air all but congeals when he finally pulls out, a slow, sticky slide that draws silken filaments of white from your used, swollen hole as three pairs of eyes lock onto the streak.

Yours is a little bleary. You can’t tell which milky ribbon belongs to whom, whose thick release is swirling with the gloss of your own slick, or which heartbeat drums the loudest in the tight space between your bodies. Breath, heat, and sweat fold together until the three of you feel like a single organism with too many limbs and just one shared lung.

Not that it matters. None of you seem particularly bothered by the lack of space. Aaron reclines against the creaky headboard, cradling most of your weight across his chest while Spencer draws lazy patterns over your sated thighs.

You don’t mind in the least. In fact, you bask in them both, drifting in the strange yet comforting irony that it took a misplaced contract for you to realize intimacy could be plural. You never expected it to multiply so neatly.

Some connections, it seems, don’t fit into singular terms at all.

Later that night, when the two men almost twice your size crowd you in the cramped bathroom, you realize your thoughts are already rewriting the contract. You wonder if Aaron would let you make a slight revision, scribble the third-participant clause into something more permanent.

You really hope he does.

[multifandomficsx]

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.”

[multifandomficsx]

get to know your moots better tag game

tagged by @pastelpinkflowerlife (Thank you for the tag! One of my favorite moots fr fr)

favourite colour: (Not the UK spelling lmao) My Favorite color is green. Always has been, always will be. Brat Summer forever. Also a big fan of yellow and black.

last song: YA YA by Beyoncé. Yeehaw, heading to the Cowboy Carter tour on May 29th! But other than that I'm on my crazy hot girl playlist, lots of Gaga, Beyoncé, Fiona Apple, Charli, Ethel Cain.

currently reading: Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Le Fang. I'm almost done with it and I have Parable of the Sower by Octavia E. Butler on my next to read list. I'm always open to suggestions though, I particularly love classics, fiction, and sci-fi.

currently watching: I'm finishing the last season of Yellowjackets and watching the new season of Drag Race right now! But I have 3 shows that consistently get rewatched when I need some background noise. Those are The Simpsons, Criminal Minds (Obvi), and Avatar the Last Airbender.

currently craving: I could really go for an ice cold Dr. Pepper. Picture it. I crack open a can, I have a stunning glass prepped with ice. It's hot outside so the glass is already sweating with condensation and the sweet sweet nectar of that Dr. Pepper touches my lips. I die.

coffee or tea: COFFEE. All kinds. Give me an americano, a latte, a cortado, a black cold brew. I fuck with an Earl Gray though.

tags: open to all! but tagging @lucyshea @that-queer-sloth @harpyhush @cocoachocoart11 @wickedlittlethingg

[multifandomficsx]

u know seeing regulars on my notifs makes me happy it's like i run a cafe and there's regular customers who stop by 😭

[multifandomficsx]

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.

[multifandomficsx]

I gotta put some final touches on the next chapter but it should be out after mothers day weekend! This one is hot hot hottttttt

[multifandomficsx]

❤️❤️❤️❤️ How I love your comments so

Nowhere to Hide - Chapter 7

Summary: Your stalker is closing in from every angle and you and the rest of the BAU can’t seem to get a grip on him. The unsub isn’t the only thing escalating when you find yourself back at the safe house for another night.

Content warnings: Depictions of a crime scene, strong language

W.C: 3.4k 

Nowhere to Hide Masterlist

CHAPTER 7

The clock ticks past 3:00 a.m. as you and Hotch sit side by side at the small kitchen table, a single lamp throwing a weak halo of light over the case files Morgan dropped off.

You flip through the photos — crime scene shots, forensic reports, witness interviews — while Hotch skims handwritten notes, his face set in grim lines.

Every so often, your knees bump under the table. Neither of you says anything, but each brush seems to spark something in the heavy silence between you.

You’re both too wired to rest, too tense to pretend like any of this is normal.

Hotch slides a new stack of documents toward you, and you catch his hand lingering for a fraction of a second too long — not enough for him to be careless, but enough that you notice. Enough that you feel the answering twist low in your stomach.

Focus, you tell yourself, shaking it off. There’s still a killer out there.

You flip open a slim black folder — and stop cold.

Your photo stares back at you.

Not just any photo — a picture from the first night you’d seen the first set of pictures, when Hotch came over to your house. A candid shot: you in the kitchen, barefoot, laughing about something stupid he’d said. Hotch standing just a few feet away, watching you with a rare, unguarded smile on his face.

The angle is from outside the window, the same angle the video is from.

Hotch freezes beside you, his body going rigid as he leans closer to see.

The photo is attached to a printed page of notes — messy, obsessive scrawl barely contained on the paper:

We belong together.

He can’t save you forever.

Soon you’ll see the truth.

You feel Hotch’s hand close into a tight fist on the table, his knuckles whitening.

He tears his gaze from the page and looks at you — and what you see there makes your breath catch. Anger, yes. But something deeper too. Fear. Guilt. Something achingly raw.

Hotch stands so abruptly the chair legs screech against the floor. He paces a few steps away, running a hand over his face like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“This isn’t just stalking,” he says tightly. “It’s fixation.”

You nod slowly, your fingers trembling slightly as you push the photo aside, not wanting to see it anymore.

“He sees us,” you say aloud, and the words feel heavier once they’re spoken. “Together. But we’re not.” 

Those words felt heavier than expected.

Hotch’s jaw clenches. “It doesn’t matter, he sees you with me and believes the worst possible outcome. You’re no longer his.”

You push back from the table, rising to your feet, needing to move, to do something. The room suddenly feels too small, the walls too close.

Hotch steps into your path without thinking, steadying you with a hand at your elbow. His touch is firm, grounding — and this time, he doesn’t pull away immediately.

“ He will not have you.” he says, voice low and fierce.

You meet his eyes, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades — the case files, the threat outside, even the fear.

It’s just you and Hotch.

And the dangerous, beautiful truth blooming silently between you.

He doesn’t say it. Not yet. Neither do you.

But you both know.

Later.

Always later. It’s always later when it comes to you and your love-life. Something you and the other person can put off for as long as possible, until it eventually fizzles out. The excuse of it wasn’t meant to be or it’s not your time. 

The horizon outside the window is just beginning to pale into the dull grey of morning when Hotch’s phone buzzes sharply against the table, slicing through the heavy quiet between you.

You flinch, hand instinctively going to your weapon before you realize it’s just a call.

Hotch checks the screen, frowning.

“It’s Garcia,” he says, answering immediately.

The video call flickers to life. Garcia’s bright hair and wide, worried eyes fill the small screen, and below her, on a split screen, you can make out Morgan and Rossi, but see other shoulders so they are all crowded into the precinct’s cramped briefing room. 

“Morning, my little fugitives,” Garcia says, her voice unusually grim. “Sorry to interrupt your romantic hideaway, but we’ve got a situation.”

You and Hotch exchange a brief glance — there’s no teasing between you now, no easy smiles. Only tension. Only readiness.

“What is it?” Hotch asks, his voice clipped.

Garcia taps a few keys, and the screen splits. New footage pops up — grainy, black and white, from a traffic cam.

It shows your street. Your house.

The footage is from last night.

“There,” Garcia says, pointing with a bright pink fingernail. “See that?”

You lean in closer.

A dark figure moves across the frame — too far from the camera to make out any details, but the build is unmistakably masculine. He’s carrying something under one arm — a box, maybe. A bag.

“Two hours after you left for the safe house,” Garcia says. “He came back.”

You feel Hotch stiffen beside you, a muscle ticking sharply in his jaw.

“He stayed for thirty minutes,” Garcia continues, voice tight. “No forced entry this time. Whatever he wanted, he already had a way in.”

“Jesus,” Morgan mutters in the background. “It’s like he’s daring us.”

Rossi leans into frame, his expression grave. “And there’s more.”

Another feed clicks into view. This one’s closer, tighter — footage from a neighbor’s security camera aimed at the woods behind your property.

At first it’s just shadows and trees.

Then, movement.

The same figure.

Dragging something heavy into the treeline.

You feel your stomach turn over sharply.

“What the hell is he doing?” you breathe.

“We don’t know,” Garcia says. “But we’re sending a team to sweep the area now.”

“No,” Hotch says immediately, his voice cutting through the connection. “No team. I want to see it myself.”

The others glance at each other across the call, reading something in Hotch’s tone that tells them arguing isn’t an option.

“We’ll send you coordinates,” Garcia says quickly. “Be careful, you two.”

The call ends, the screen going dark.

You’re left staring at the blank phone, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might shatter your ribs.

Hotch turns to you, his eyes sharp, focused — and full of something deeper.

“You don’t have to come,” he says quietly. “You can stay here.”

You shake your head without hesitation.

“I’m not letting you go out there alone.”

Something flashes between you — fierce and unspoken, stronger than fear.

Together.

Hotch nods once, the barest hint of something proud, something fond in his expression, before locking it down again beneath the steel of command.

You check your gun, your spare mags, double-tie your boots with shaking fingers.

By the time the two of you step out into the chill morning air, you’re no longer just agents chasing a case.

You’re hunting a ghost.

And this time, you intend to catch him. 

Seeing your house again sent shivers down your spine. After what happened here, you wondered how you could possibly feel safe here ever again. A constant reminder that even though you had every means to be able to protect yourself, you were still vulnerable to those that wanted to hurt you. 

The woods loom ahead, dimly lit by the rising sun, tangled and wild. You never thought much about the woods behind your house. It never scared you, the woods. They were just trees and rocks and leaves, a potential deer or squirrel. A place you walked occasionally, to take time away from the drone of everyday life. But now, something more sinister lurked here. 

You and Hotch move carefully, boots crunching on the underbrush, every sound amplified in the tense silence. Breath clouds the air between you, quick and shallow.

The GPS coordinates Garcia sent lead deeper off the path than you would have liked.

Far enough that you can’t see the house anymore.

Far enough that no one would hear you if something went wrong.

You glance at Hotch, just a step ahead, his gun drawn and sweeping the trees methodically. His posture is all control, all focus — but you can read the tension in his shoulders, the sharpness in his breath.

He’s worried about you. Probably more than he’s worried about himself.

“Almost there,” you murmur.

The last few yards are harder — roots clawing at your boots, dense brush scraping along your arms — but you push through it together, a silent understanding anchoring you.

Finally, Hotch holds up a hand to stop you.

You crouch beside him, peering through the early morning gloom.

There — in a small, unnatural clearing — something half-buried under a tarp.

Your stomach twists instantly.

You cover each other as you move forward, eyes scanning, guns raised.

The tarp is old, filthy.

Rocks hold it down at the corners.

There’s no movement. No sound.

Hotch kneels first, reaching out carefully to lift one corner.

The smell hits you immediately — blood, coppery and wrong. You turn your face away, swallowing hard, but force yourself to look back.

Underneath are two things:

A bloodstained duffel bag. Which no doubt had a body or something dead inside.

And something else, laid out carefully on the frozen ground.

Photos.

Hundreds of them.

Your house. Your car. The precinct offices. 

Candid shots of you — laughing, frowning, brushing hair out of your eyes.

You try to focus but the scent from the duffel bag keeps penetrating the air, making you sick to your stomach.

Shots of Hotch, too — holding case files, leaning against his SUV, standing too close to you while investigating crime scenes.

And in the center, placed deliberately —

A new photograph.

One neither of you has ever seen before.

You kneel beside Hotch, feeling your pulse roaring in your ears.

It’s a picture of the two of you.

Inside your house.

Together on your couch.

You’re asleep, head tucked against Hotch’s shoulder, his arm resting protectively around you.

Vulnerable. Unaware.

Completely exposed.

Hotch stares at it for a long, frozen moment, his face carved from stone.

And then — without warning — he slams the tarp back down, standing abruptly, turning away like he can’t bear the sight of it. The slamming of the tarp wafted the decomposition smell back into the air, instinctively your hand raises to cover your mouth and nose.

You rise too, heart pounding, and reach out instinctively — catching his wrist before he can pull away. You’re stomach twists and hot bile starts to rise in your throat

“Hotch,” you say quietly, your vision blurring. 

He doesn’t look at you at first, unaware of the condition you find yourself in. That’s when you turn from him and land on your knees and start dry heaving until the contents of your stomach end up on the forest floor. 

Your breathing labored as he crouched behind you , rubbing circles in your back letting you slowly regain composure. 

“Shit. I’m okay.” You say, though you’re not so sure of that yourself. “I’m okay”

“This isn’t right,” he says finally, his voice low and rough. “ He’s distorting reality, creating a relationship scenario that doesn’t exist.”

You nod once, feeling the cold bite deep into your skin. Is it the cold, or was it the words Hotch uttered that cut you deeper than you wanted them too. He stands and takes a few steps back, waiting for you to get back up. 

“We’ll catch him,” you say, steady even though you don’t quite feel it. “We’ll end this.”

Hotch finally looks at you — and the raw fear, the fury, the helpless protectiveness in his gaze nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

“This isn’t just about you anymore,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s both of us.”

You swallow hard, finally standing from the ground.

“I know,” you say. “The moment you got here it became about the both of us.”

Something flickers between you — sharp and undeniable — but before either of you can speak, your radios crackle sharply to life.

Morgan’s voice, urgent.

“Hotch, you copy? We found something on the other side of the property. You need to see this.”

You exchange a glance with Hotch — tight, full of a thousand things unsaid — before you both turn and head back into the trees, weapons ready, hearts hammering.

The real hunt has begun.

You and Hotch move fast, weaving through the trees toward the secondary location Morgan flagged. Your breath comes hard and fast, boots slipping occasionally on the fallen leaves, but you don’t slow down.

The woods thin a little ahead, and you catch sight of figures moving between the trees — Morgan, Rossi, and JJ, guns raised, scanning the area.

Hotch raises his hand in silent acknowledgment as you approach, both of you falling into step with the others without a word.

“Over here,” Morgan says, jerking his chin toward a narrow clearing. His voice is tight, controlled.

You follow him to the center of the clearing — where another tarp has been spread out carefully, weighted at the corners with stones. Just like the last one.

But something feels off this time.

Too deliberate.

Too easy.

Hotch notices it too — you can see it in the way his eyes narrow, his stance sharpening.

“Nobody touch it,” Hotch says immediately, raising a hand to halt the others.

Rossi steps closer, examining the setup from a distance.

“Tripwires,” he says after a moment, voice grim. “Thin, fishing line. Barely visible.”

Morgan exhales sharply through his nose. “Booby-trapped.”

“Classic escalation,” JJ mutters. “He wants to hurt whoever finds this.”

Your stomach turns.

If Hotch hadn’t been cautious, if you’d rushed in like the unsub expected—

You don’t finish the thought.

“Should we get a bomb squad out here? We don’t know what’s under the tarp.” you ask.

“No. The unsub, doesn’t want you dead, or at least not now. An explosive would end things too quickly. It’s too impersonal.” Rossi says.

You approach the tarp, slowly, barely breathing. Afraid your breath would trigger something. You bend down at the knees and trigger the tripwire. The tarp falls revealing a hole about 8 feet deep.

He had planned to capture you or Hotch or both. 

And he’s still out there.

Watching.

Waiting.

By the time the area is cleared and the evidence collected, the morning sun is high overhead — weak and watery through the trees — and you’re no closer to finding the man hunting you.

Hotch confers with Rossi and Morgan in low, urgent voices while you hang back, scanning the woods, every instinct screaming that you’re being watched.

Finally, Hotch returns to your side.

“No leads,” he says, voice tight. “He’s gone. Again.”

You nod stiffly, swallowing the bitter taste of frustration.

“Safe house,” Hotch says after a beat. “One more night. We will regroup tomorrow.”

You should feel safer knowing the team is closing in, knowing they’re close.

But as you and Hotch make your way back to the SUV, you can’t shake the feeling pressing at your spine:

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

Later that evening, the safe house feels smaller, heavier, as the sun sinks and darkness creeps back in.

You move around the place on edge, checking locks, peering through curtains, hand never far from your weapon.

Hotch notices. Of course he does.

You find him standing in the doorway to the living room, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with a gaze that pins you in place.

“I—” he starts, voice low and rough, but he cuts himself off, glancing away like he’s wrestling with himself.

You reach out before you can think better of it, fingers brushing lightly against the sleeve of his shirt.

“What, Hotch?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “What is it?”

He turns back toward you, his expression open, unguarded in a way that sends a shiver through you.

He begins again, slower this time. “Before this gets any worse. I should tell you-”

You know exactly what he means. You can feel it radiating off of him — the guilt, the need, the fear that if he says it out loud, it’ll be real. It’ll be one more thing he might lose.

“You’re doing everything right,” he says, voice low and steady. “You’re not alone.”

You force a tight smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

The unspoken I won’t let anything happen to you hums between you.

You nod, feeling a little of the cold leave your bones.

For tonight, at least, you have each other.

The clock ticks past midnight, and the safe house is finally, blessedly still.

No new calls. No new alarms. Just the two of you, huddled in the soft, dim light of the kitchen, an unopened bottle of whiskey sitting between you like a silent agreement neither of you needed to say out loud.

“One drink,” Hotch says, arching a brow at you across the table. “We still need to be sharp tomorrow.”

You smirk, feeling lighter for the first time in days. “Is that your way of trying to intimidate me into drinking less than you?”

His mouth twitches — the barest ghost of a smile, but real. It sends a pleasant warmth curling through your chest.

“Can you hold your liquor?,” he says, deadpan.

You gasp, placing a hand dramatically over your heart. “Excuse me? I have excellent tolerance, thank you very much.”

Hotch leans back in his chair, arms crossed, looking at you like you’re the most fascinating puzzle he’s ever had to solve. There’s a spark in his eyes — a rare glimmer of mischief that he usually keeps buried beneath all that stoic control.

“Prove it,” he says.

You snatch the bottle with a mock glare and pour two fingers into each glass, sliding one across the table to him with an exaggerated flourish.

He takes it without hesitation, clinking the rim of his glass lightly against yours.

The whiskey burns on the way down, but it’s a good burn — sharp and grounding — pulling you out of your own head for a moment.

You lean your elbows on the table, chin resting in one hand, studying him openly.

“You know,” you say slowly, swirling the amber liquid in your glass, “if you’d told me a few days ago we’d be hiding out together drinking whiskey and dodging booby traps, I wouldn’t have believed you.”

Hotch huffs a soft laugh — a real one, rough-edged but genuine.

“I would have,” he says without thinking.

You blink.

Something thick and heavy settles between you — not the fear this time, not the weight of the case — but something warmer. Older. Like it had been waiting for a long time just beneath the surface.

He meets your gaze head-on now, no shields, no barriers.

“You,” he says quietly, voice dropping an octave, “This is always the risk.”

Your heart thuds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“And this always makes it worth it.”

The air feels charged, electric.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then — with a small, almost reluctant smile — Hotch breaks eye contact, standing up and stretching, setting his glass aside.

You follow a second later, and the two of you move almost at the same time toward the narrow kitchen, your paths colliding at the small counter.

You squeeze by him, the space far too tight, your body brushing along his.

The brief, solid contact is a jolt straight through your system — and by the way Hotch stiffens, he feels it too.

You glance up at him, your face just inches from his — close enough to see the golden flecks in his dark eyes, the fine tension in his jaw.

He doesn’t step back. Neither do you.

His hand comes up, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing lightly against your wrist — the barest touch, enough to feel like a spark against your skin.

“You should get some sleep,” he says, voice low and rough.

“You too,” you murmur back, not moving away.

The moment teeters on a knife’s edge — could tilt either way with just one more breath.

But instead, after a heavy pause, he gives a small, strained smile — all control, all restraint — and lets his hand fall away.

“Tomorrow,” he says quietly. A promise.

You nod once, heart hammering.

Tomorrow.

[multifandomficsx]

Nowhere to Hide - Chapter 7

Summary: Your stalker is closing in from every angle and you and the rest of the BAU can’t seem to get a grip on him. The unsub isn’t the only thing escalating when you find yourself back at the safe house for another night.

Content warnings: Depictions of a crime scene, strong language

W.C: 3.4k 

Nowhere to Hide Masterlist

CHAPTER 7

The clock ticks past 3:00 a.m. as you and Hotch sit side by side at the small kitchen table, a single lamp throwing a weak halo of light over the case files Morgan dropped off.

You flip through the photos — crime scene shots, forensic reports, witness interviews — while Hotch skims handwritten notes, his face set in grim lines.

Every so often, your knees bump under the table. Neither of you says anything, but each brush seems to spark something in the heavy silence between you.

You’re both too wired to rest, too tense to pretend like any of this is normal.

Hotch slides a new stack of documents toward you, and you catch his hand lingering for a fraction of a second too long — not enough for him to be careless, but enough that you notice. Enough that you feel the answering twist low in your stomach.

Focus, you tell yourself, shaking it off. There’s still a killer out there.

You flip open a slim black folder — and stop cold.

Your photo stares back at you.

Not just any photo — a picture from the first night you’d seen the first set of pictures, when Hotch came over to your house. A candid shot: you in the kitchen, barefoot, laughing about something stupid he’d said. Hotch standing just a few feet away, watching you with a rare, unguarded smile on his face.

The angle is from outside the window, the same angle the video is from.

Hotch freezes beside you, his body going rigid as he leans closer to see.

The photo is attached to a printed page of notes — messy, obsessive scrawl barely contained on the paper:

We belong together.

He can’t save you forever.

Soon you’ll see the truth.

You feel Hotch’s hand close into a tight fist on the table, his knuckles whitening.

He tears his gaze from the page and looks at you — and what you see there makes your breath catch. Anger, yes. But something deeper too. Fear. Guilt. Something achingly raw.

Hotch stands so abruptly the chair legs screech against the floor. He paces a few steps away, running a hand over his face like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“This isn’t just stalking,” he says tightly. “It’s fixation.”

You nod slowly, your fingers trembling slightly as you push the photo aside, not wanting to see it anymore.

“He sees us,” you say aloud, and the words feel heavier once they’re spoken. “Together. But we’re not.” 

Those words felt heavier than expected.

Hotch’s jaw clenches. “It doesn’t matter, he sees you with me and believes the worst possible outcome. You’re no longer his.”

You push back from the table, rising to your feet, needing to move, to do something. The room suddenly feels too small, the walls too close.

Hotch steps into your path without thinking, steadying you with a hand at your elbow. His touch is firm, grounding — and this time, he doesn’t pull away immediately.

“ He will not have you.” he says, voice low and fierce.

You meet his eyes, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades — the case files, the threat outside, even the fear.

It’s just you and Hotch.

And the dangerous, beautiful truth blooming silently between you.

He doesn’t say it. Not yet. Neither do you.

But you both know.

Later.

Always later. It’s always later when it comes to you and your love-life. Something you and the other person can put off for as long as possible, until it eventually fizzles out. The excuse of it wasn’t meant to be or it’s not your time. 

The horizon outside the window is just beginning to pale into the dull grey of morning when Hotch’s phone buzzes sharply against the table, slicing through the heavy quiet between you.

You flinch, hand instinctively going to your weapon before you realize it’s just a call.

Hotch checks the screen, frowning.

“It’s Garcia,” he says, answering immediately.

The video call flickers to life. Garcia’s bright hair and wide, worried eyes fill the small screen, and below her, on a split screen, you can make out Morgan and Rossi, but see other shoulders so they are all crowded into the precinct’s cramped briefing room. 

“Morning, my little fugitives,” Garcia says, her voice unusually grim. “Sorry to interrupt your romantic hideaway, but we’ve got a situation.”

You and Hotch exchange a brief glance — there’s no teasing between you now, no easy smiles. Only tension. Only readiness.

“What is it?” Hotch asks, his voice clipped.

Garcia taps a few keys, and the screen splits. New footage pops up — grainy, black and white, from a traffic cam.

It shows your street. Your house.

The footage is from last night.

“There,” Garcia says, pointing with a bright pink fingernail. “See that?”

You lean in closer.

A dark figure moves across the frame — too far from the camera to make out any details, but the build is unmistakably masculine. He’s carrying something under one arm — a box, maybe. A bag.

“Two hours after you left for the safe house,” Garcia says. “He came back.”

You feel Hotch stiffen beside you, a muscle ticking sharply in his jaw.

“He stayed for thirty minutes,” Garcia continues, voice tight. “No forced entry this time. Whatever he wanted, he already had a way in.”

“Jesus,” Morgan mutters in the background. “It’s like he’s daring us.”

Rossi leans into frame, his expression grave. “And there’s more.”

Another feed clicks into view. This one’s closer, tighter — footage from a neighbor’s security camera aimed at the woods behind your property.

At first it’s just shadows and trees.

Then, movement.

The same figure.

Dragging something heavy into the treeline.

You feel your stomach turn over sharply.

“What the hell is he doing?” you breathe.

“We don’t know,” Garcia says. “But we’re sending a team to sweep the area now.”

“No,” Hotch says immediately, his voice cutting through the connection. “No team. I want to see it myself.”

The others glance at each other across the call, reading something in Hotch’s tone that tells them arguing isn’t an option.

“We’ll send you coordinates,” Garcia says quickly. “Be careful, you two.”

The call ends, the screen going dark.

You’re left staring at the blank phone, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might shatter your ribs.

Hotch turns to you, his eyes sharp, focused — and full of something deeper.

“You don’t have to come,” he says quietly. “You can stay here.”

You shake your head without hesitation.

“I’m not letting you go out there alone.”

Something flashes between you — fierce and unspoken, stronger than fear.

Together.

Hotch nods once, the barest hint of something proud, something fond in his expression, before locking it down again beneath the steel of command.

You check your gun, your spare mags, double-tie your boots with shaking fingers.

By the time the two of you step out into the chill morning air, you’re no longer just agents chasing a case.

You’re hunting a ghost.

And this time, you intend to catch him. 

Seeing your house again sent shivers down your spine. After what happened here, you wondered how you could possibly feel safe here ever again. A constant reminder that even though you had every means to be able to protect yourself, you were still vulnerable to those that wanted to hurt you. 

The woods loom ahead, dimly lit by the rising sun, tangled and wild. You never thought much about the woods behind your house. It never scared you, the woods. They were just trees and rocks and leaves, a potential deer or squirrel. A place you walked occasionally, to take time away from the drone of everyday life. But now, something more sinister lurked here. 

You and Hotch move carefully, boots crunching on the underbrush, every sound amplified in the tense silence. Breath clouds the air between you, quick and shallow.

The GPS coordinates Garcia sent lead deeper off the path than you would have liked.

Far enough that you can’t see the house anymore.

Far enough that no one would hear you if something went wrong.

You glance at Hotch, just a step ahead, his gun drawn and sweeping the trees methodically. His posture is all control, all focus — but you can read the tension in his shoulders, the sharpness in his breath.

He’s worried about you. Probably more than he’s worried about himself.

“Almost there,” you murmur.

The last few yards are harder — roots clawing at your boots, dense brush scraping along your arms — but you push through it together, a silent understanding anchoring you.

Finally, Hotch holds up a hand to stop you.

You crouch beside him, peering through the early morning gloom.

There — in a small, unnatural clearing — something half-buried under a tarp.

Your stomach twists instantly.

You cover each other as you move forward, eyes scanning, guns raised.

The tarp is old, filthy.

Rocks hold it down at the corners.

There’s no movement. No sound.

Hotch kneels first, reaching out carefully to lift one corner.

The smell hits you immediately — blood, coppery and wrong. You turn your face away, swallowing hard, but force yourself to look back.

Underneath are two things:

A bloodstained duffel bag. Which no doubt had a body or something dead inside.

And something else, laid out carefully on the frozen ground.

Photos.

Hundreds of them.

Your house. Your car. The precinct offices. 

Candid shots of you — laughing, frowning, brushing hair out of your eyes.

You try to focus but the scent from the duffel bag keeps penetrating the air, making you sick to your stomach.

Shots of Hotch, too — holding case files, leaning against his SUV, standing too close to you while investigating crime scenes.

And in the center, placed deliberately —

A new photograph.

One neither of you has ever seen before.

You kneel beside Hotch, feeling your pulse roaring in your ears.

It’s a picture of the two of you.

Inside your house.

Together on your couch.

You’re asleep, head tucked against Hotch’s shoulder, his arm resting protectively around you.

Vulnerable. Unaware.

Completely exposed.

Hotch stares at it for a long, frozen moment, his face carved from stone.

And then — without warning — he slams the tarp back down, standing abruptly, turning away like he can’t bear the sight of it. The slamming of the tarp wafted the decomposition smell back into the air, instinctively your hand raises to cover your mouth and nose.

You rise too, heart pounding, and reach out instinctively — catching his wrist before he can pull away. You’re stomach twists and hot bile starts to rise in your throat

“Hotch,” you say quietly, your vision blurring. 

He doesn’t look at you at first, unaware of the condition you find yourself in. That’s when you turn from him and land on your knees and start dry heaving until the contents of your stomach end up on the forest floor. 

Your breathing labored as he crouched behind you , rubbing circles in your back letting you slowly regain composure. 

“Shit. I’m okay.” You say, though you’re not so sure of that yourself. “I’m okay”

“This isn’t right,” he says finally, his voice low and rough. “ He’s distorting reality, creating a relationship scenario that doesn’t exist.”

You nod once, feeling the cold bite deep into your skin. Is it the cold, or was it the words Hotch uttered that cut you deeper than you wanted them too. He stands and takes a few steps back, waiting for you to get back up. 

“We’ll catch him,” you say, steady even though you don’t quite feel it. “We’ll end this.”

Hotch finally looks at you — and the raw fear, the fury, the helpless protectiveness in his gaze nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

“This isn’t just about you anymore,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s both of us.”

You swallow hard, finally standing from the ground.

“I know,” you say. “The moment you got here it became about the both of us.”

Something flickers between you — sharp and undeniable — but before either of you can speak, your radios crackle sharply to life.

Morgan’s voice, urgent.

“Hotch, you copy? We found something on the other side of the property. You need to see this.”

You exchange a glance with Hotch — tight, full of a thousand things unsaid — before you both turn and head back into the trees, weapons ready, hearts hammering.

The real hunt has begun.

You and Hotch move fast, weaving through the trees toward the secondary location Morgan flagged. Your breath comes hard and fast, boots slipping occasionally on the fallen leaves, but you don’t slow down.

The woods thin a little ahead, and you catch sight of figures moving between the trees — Morgan, Rossi, and JJ, guns raised, scanning the area.

Hotch raises his hand in silent acknowledgment as you approach, both of you falling into step with the others without a word.

“Over here,” Morgan says, jerking his chin toward a narrow clearing. His voice is tight, controlled.

You follow him to the center of the clearing — where another tarp has been spread out carefully, weighted at the corners with stones. Just like the last one.

But something feels off this time.

Too deliberate.

Too easy.

Hotch notices it too — you can see it in the way his eyes narrow, his stance sharpening.

“Nobody touch it,” Hotch says immediately, raising a hand to halt the others.

Rossi steps closer, examining the setup from a distance.

“Tripwires,” he says after a moment, voice grim. “Thin, fishing line. Barely visible.”

Morgan exhales sharply through his nose. “Booby-trapped.”

“Classic escalation,” JJ mutters. “He wants to hurt whoever finds this.”

Your stomach turns.

If Hotch hadn’t been cautious, if you’d rushed in like the unsub expected—

You don’t finish the thought.

“Should we get a bomb squad out here? We don’t know what’s under the tarp.” you ask.

“No. The unsub, doesn’t want you dead, or at least not now. An explosive would end things too quickly. It’s too impersonal.” Rossi says.

You approach the tarp, slowly, barely breathing. Afraid your breath would trigger something. You bend down at the knees and trigger the tripwire. The tarp falls revealing a hole about 8 feet deep.

He had planned to capture you or Hotch or both. 

And he’s still out there.

Watching.

Waiting.

By the time the area is cleared and the evidence collected, the morning sun is high overhead — weak and watery through the trees — and you’re no closer to finding the man hunting you.

Hotch confers with Rossi and Morgan in low, urgent voices while you hang back, scanning the woods, every instinct screaming that you’re being watched.

Finally, Hotch returns to your side.

“No leads,” he says, voice tight. “He’s gone. Again.”

You nod stiffly, swallowing the bitter taste of frustration.

“Safe house,” Hotch says after a beat. “One more night. We will regroup tomorrow.”

You should feel safer knowing the team is closing in, knowing they’re close.

But as you and Hotch make your way back to the SUV, you can’t shake the feeling pressing at your spine:

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

Later that evening, the safe house feels smaller, heavier, as the sun sinks and darkness creeps back in.

You move around the place on edge, checking locks, peering through curtains, hand never far from your weapon.

Hotch notices. Of course he does.

You find him standing in the doorway to the living room, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with a gaze that pins you in place.

“I—” he starts, voice low and rough, but he cuts himself off, glancing away like he’s wrestling with himself.

You reach out before you can think better of it, fingers brushing lightly against the sleeve of his shirt.

“What, Hotch?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “What is it?”

He turns back toward you, his expression open, unguarded in a way that sends a shiver through you.

He begins again, slower this time. “Before this gets any worse. I should tell you-”

You know exactly what he means. You can feel it radiating off of him — the guilt, the need, the fear that if he says it out loud, it’ll be real. It’ll be one more thing he might lose.

“You’re doing everything right,” he says, voice low and steady. “You’re not alone.”

You force a tight smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

The unspoken I won’t let anything happen to you hums between you.

You nod, feeling a little of the cold leave your bones.

For tonight, at least, you have each other.

The clock ticks past midnight, and the safe house is finally, blessedly still.

No new calls. No new alarms. Just the two of you, huddled in the soft, dim light of the kitchen, an unopened bottle of whiskey sitting between you like a silent agreement neither of you needed to say out loud.

“One drink,” Hotch says, arching a brow at you across the table. “We still need to be sharp tomorrow.”

You smirk, feeling lighter for the first time in days. “Is that your way of trying to intimidate me into drinking less than you?”

His mouth twitches — the barest ghost of a smile, but real. It sends a pleasant warmth curling through your chest.

“Can you hold your liquor?,” he says, deadpan.

You gasp, placing a hand dramatically over your heart. “Excuse me? I have excellent tolerance, thank you very much.”

Hotch leans back in his chair, arms crossed, looking at you like you’re the most fascinating puzzle he’s ever had to solve. There’s a spark in his eyes — a rare glimmer of mischief that he usually keeps buried beneath all that stoic control.

“Prove it,” he says.

You snatch the bottle with a mock glare and pour two fingers into each glass, sliding one across the table to him with an exaggerated flourish.

He takes it without hesitation, clinking the rim of his glass lightly against yours.

The whiskey burns on the way down, but it’s a good burn — sharp and grounding — pulling you out of your own head for a moment.

You lean your elbows on the table, chin resting in one hand, studying him openly.

“You know,” you say slowly, swirling the amber liquid in your glass, “if you’d told me a few days ago we’d be hiding out together drinking whiskey and dodging booby traps, I wouldn’t have believed you.”

Hotch huffs a soft laugh — a real one, rough-edged but genuine.

“I would have,” he says without thinking.

You blink.

Something thick and heavy settles between you — not the fear this time, not the weight of the case — but something warmer. Older. Like it had been waiting for a long time just beneath the surface.

He meets your gaze head-on now, no shields, no barriers.

“You,” he says quietly, voice dropping an octave, “This is always the risk.”

Your heart thuds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“And this always makes it worth it.”

The air feels charged, electric.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then — with a small, almost reluctant smile — Hotch breaks eye contact, standing up and stretching, setting his glass aside.

You follow a second later, and the two of you move almost at the same time toward the narrow kitchen, your paths colliding at the small counter.

You squeeze by him, the space far too tight, your body brushing along his.

The brief, solid contact is a jolt straight through your system — and by the way Hotch stiffens, he feels it too.

You glance up at him, your face just inches from his — close enough to see the golden flecks in his dark eyes, the fine tension in his jaw.

He doesn’t step back. Neither do you.

His hand comes up, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing lightly against your wrist — the barest touch, enough to feel like a spark against your skin.

“You should get some sleep,” he says, voice low and rough.

“You too,” you murmur back, not moving away.

The moment teeters on a knife’s edge — could tilt either way with just one more breath.

But instead, after a heavy pause, he gives a small, strained smile — all control, all restraint — and lets his hand fall away.

“Tomorrow,” he says quietly. A promise.

You nod once, heart hammering.

Tomorrow.

[multifandomficsx]

Nowhere to Hide Masterlist

A/N: I’m so so excited to finally bring this to life, I’ve been inspired to write recently and Criminal minds is my current obssession. I hope ya’ll enjoy! I haven’t published anything I’ve written in a long time so please be nice, comments are VERY welcome! 

Summary: Being the sole woman in a detective position in Baltimore wasn’t exactly the easiest career path. But after 2 single women in their 20’s were found brutally murdered inside of their homes, with no clue to who the unsub is besides a vague note left behind at the scene, you had no choice but to swallow your pride and call in the BAU. As things start to ramp up in the case and between you and a certain team member, it becomes personal. The plan is simple: Lay low and stay out of trouble. 

Content Warnings: depictions of a crime scene ( descriptions of body mutilation, blood, internal organs, mentions of SA (no description of the act)), strong language, eventual smut, an ungodly amount of pining and yearning, stressful situations, stalking 

CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

last update: May 1st, 2025

[multifandomficsx]

Nowhere to Hide - Chapter 6

A/N: This one is a doozy, strap in folks.

Summary: As the case starts to ramp up, so does your uncharted territory with Hotch. But finding evidence that changes everything, it seems you will be spending a lot more time together.

Content Warnings: Strong Language, descriptions of a crime scene, depictions of stalking 

W.C: 5.3k

Nowhere to Hide Masterlist

CHAPTER 6

Your hand tightens around the grip of your gun as you scan the dining room again, heart hammering in your chest. The photos are still scattered across the table, taunting you. You can’t look at them anymore, not the ones of you and Hotch, not the one of you asleep and vulnerable on your own couch. Someone was here. In your house. Close enough to hear you breathe.

You force your breathing to stay even as you move toward the living room, each step slow, measured. The hardwood creaks under your weight, a small sound that feels deafening in the heavy silence pressing against your ears. You keep the gun up, finger resting just outside the trigger guard, just like the police academy had drilled into you.

Every shadow in the corners feels deeper. Every darkened doorway looks like it could be hiding someone.

You sweep the room, clearing it, the way you practiced until it became instinct. Nothing. No movement. No breathing but your own.

The BAU is on their way. You keep telling yourself that. You managed to answer the call before adrenaline took over, Hotch’s voice was calm, steady, even though you could hear the undercurrent of fury. Stay on the line. Don’t engage unless you have to. We’re coming.

You reach the hallway and flatten yourself against the wall before peering around the corner. The hallway stretches long and narrow toward your bedroom at the end, the door just slightly ajar. It wasn’t like that when you went to sleep. You know it wasn’t.

You raise your gun higher, take a shallow breath, and move.

Your back brushes the wall as you inch forward, listening, straining for any sound beyond your pounding heart. Your other hand trembles as you reach out and nudge the door open wider with your fingertips.

The bedroom is dark, the curtains drawn tight. You sweep your gun across the space. Bed, closet, under the dresser — nothing. No movement. No presence. But the feeling that you’re being watched still clings to your skin, thick and suffocating.

A floorboard groans behind you.

You whip around, gun up, but there’s nothing there. Only the long stretch of the empty hallway.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you nearly jump out of your skin. You fumble it out, keeping your gun hand steady as you answer.

“It’s me,” Hotch says, voice low and commanding. “We’re outside. Stay where you are, we’re coming in.”

You back toward the bedroom, gun still raised, eyes never leaving the hallway.

Heavy footsteps thunder against the front porch. The sharp crack of the door being forced open jolts through the house. You don’t lower your gun until you hear Hotch’s voice, firm and cutting through the dark like a blade:

“FBI! We’re coming in!”

Seconds later, Hotch appears at the end of the hallway, flanked by Morgan and Emily. Their guns are drawn, but their stances relax slightly when they see you standing in the bedroom doorway, unharmed, at least physically.

Hotch’s eyes lock onto yours immediately. He’s at your side in three long strides, one hand briefly brushing your arm, grounding you.

“You okay?” he asks lowly, close enough that only you can hear. You nod once, but you know he sees the tremor you can’t quite hide.

“We sweep the house,” Hotch orders the team without looking away from you. “Top to bottom. Now.”

You move to follow, but he gently presses his hand against your shoulder. “Stay with me,” he murmurs. It’s not a request.

Together, you move through the house room by room. They clear each space with mechanical precision, but it’s clear pretty quickly — there’s no one left inside. No fresh evidence either. Just those photos, and a silence that’s thick and wrong.

Rossi hovers over the photos inspecting them as close as possible without disturbing the evidence. He waves you and Hotch over.

“This is blood.” He says plainly while gesturing to the photos. “ But whose is the question.”

“So we might have another body on our hands.” You say quietly, voice still shaken.

In the kitchen, Morgan crouches by the back door and frowns. “Lock’s still good,” he mutters, then heads toward the windows.

It’s Emily who finds it: a small basement window, tucked away on the side of the house, the lock snapped clean through.

Hotch swears under his breath, a rare crack in his control, and calls it in. Evidence teams are on their way, but you know they’re too late. Whoever was here is long gone.

You’re still standing by the dining table, you haven’t moved from there since Rossi had called you over to look, staring at the photos without really seeing them, when your phone buzzes again.

Your hands are steadier now as you answer. “Detective Owens, Hello. What can I help you with?”

“We found something, two bodies, just off Route 40. We think they’re connected to your case.”

Your blood runs cold.

“Details,” Hotch says immediately, sensing the shift in your expression. You put the call on speaker and set the phone on the table.

“We’re still processing the scene,” Owens says. “But the victims… one of them has your business card in his pocket. The other, we haven’t ID’d yet.”

“He? That can’t be right. The unsub doesn’t kill men.” JJ says.

The room goes still.

Morgan and Prentiss exchange a sharp look. Hotch’s jaw tightens.

“Send the location,” Hotch says, his voice dark with something that makes your stomach turn. “We’re on our way.”

The call ends, leaving only the hum of the phone and the too-loud pounding of your own heart.

Hotch’s hand finds your elbow again, grounding you. “We’re here for you,” he says quietly.

You nod, because you have to believe it. Even if somewhere out there, the man who was in your house tonight might be watching still, waiting for his next move.

The morning air is sharp against your skin as you step out of the SUV, the flashing red and blue of patrol cars painting the woods in violent streaks of color. The sun had just started to rise for the day, casting a light gray wash over the forest floor. Gravel crunches under your boots as you follow Hotch, Morgan, and Prentiss toward the cordoned-off area where the local cops are gathered, their faces pale in the light of dawn.

Detective Owens meets you halfway. His expression is grim, clipboard tucked under one arm. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

“About twenty yards in,” he says. “You’re gonna want to see this for yourself.”

Hotch nods once, his face a mask of stone. Without a word, you all move into the trees, guided by the detective from the precinct over from you and the smell, metallic and wrong, that thickens the further you go.

You spot the bodies at the same time Morgan does. He mutters something under his breath, but you barely hear it. Your focus narrows, heart hammering in your ears.

Two bodies lie sprawled in the dirt. One has a bullet hole clean through his forehead, execution-style, arms tied behind his back. The other… The woman is a mess of blood and bruises, gutted the same way the others had been, eyes frozen open in terror. Both of them posed, The man propped up, facing the woman who was tied with arms above the head. 

It was a scene. A message. 

Prentiss crouches beside the corpses, carefully studying the scene without touching anything.

“This wasn’t random,” she says after a beat. “Someone wanted them found.”

Hotch gestures to the man with the bullet wound. “Search him.”

Morgan kneels, slipping gloves on before patting the body down. He pulls out a wallet, flips it open. You catch a flash of a driver’s license, a crumpled photo, and — sure enough — your business card, soaked in blood but unmistakable.

“Name’s Dean Weller,” Morgan says, reading off the ID. “Known associates include low-level muscle-for-hire. Mostly intimidation, some breaking and entering.”

“Muscle,” you echo, nausea curling low in your stomach. “Meaning someone paid him.”

Hotch’s mouth tightens into a grim line. “And now he’s been silenced.”

Prentiss moves to the second body, frowning deeper. “No ID on this one,” she says. “No wallet, no phone. Nothing.”

You glance around instinctively, feeling the weight of the woods pressing in. The shadows seem heavier out here, the cold deeper.

This wasn’t just cleanup. This was a message.

Your phone buzzes again, a text this time. You fumble for it, dread curdling inside you.

One new message.

“See what happens when people get too close?”

No number. No trace.

You show Hotch without a word. His eyes darken as he reads it, then he lifts his head, scanning the empty forest like he expects to see the sender lurking just out of reach.

“He’s escalating,” Hotch says, voice low and tight. “And he’s not done.”

You already knew that.

The team fans out automatically, boots crunching through dead leaves and broken twigs. You stay close to Hotch, your gun still drawn low, scanning every tree, every shadow.

Something isn’t right.

The bodies weren’t hidden, they were left out in the open like bait. And if you know anything about your stalker by now, it’s that he doesn’t do anything without a reason.

“Fan out,” Hotch orders, voice clipped. “Look for anything out of place. He wants us to find something.”

You move deeper into the woods, farther from the others, the sounds of their voices dimming behind you. The trees crowd in closer here, the undergrowth thicker. It’s quieter too, like even the morning itself is holding its breath.

You almost miss it, a glint of something half-buried under a rotten log.

You kneel, heart hammering, and brush the leaves aside with the barrel of your gun. Metal catches the sunlight, a tiny camera, still humming softly, the red recording light barely visible under the grime.

“Hotch,” you call out, voice low but urgent.

He’s at your side in seconds, Morgan and Prentiss not far behind.

“Camera,” you say, stepping back so he can see. “It was recording.”

Morgan crouches beside it, his face grim. “Battery’s still warm. This thing’s been running for hours. Maybe days.”

“Which means,” Prentiss says slowly, scanning the trees around you, “if he planted it here… he could’ve been watching us this whole time.”

You feel the weight of unseen eyes prickling at the back of your neck.

Hotch’s gaze sweeps the dark woods, his jaw locked tight.

“He’s close,” Hotch mutters. “Or he was.”

Morgan carefully lifts the camera, preserving the evidence. “We’ll get Garcia to pull whatever’s on this thing,” he says. “Maybe he was sloppy.”

Maybe. But you doubt it.

You turn slowly, searching the darkness beyond the scene. You can feel it again, that same prickling under your skin you felt in your house. Not just fear.

Attention.

Like you’re a mouse caught in the open. And he’s still out there, just beyond the reach of your light, smiling to himself.

Hotch steps closer to you, voice pitched so low only you can hear.

“This isn’t about fear anymore,” he says. “It’s about control.”

You nod mutely, staring out into the woods.

Because deep down, you already know: this is only the next move in a game you never agreed to play.

And he’s nowhere near finished with you yet.

Back at the precinct, you sit in the conference room with Hotch, Morgan, Spencer, and Prentiss, the walls feeling too close, the fluorescent lights too harsh after the dim morning light of the woods.

Garcia’s voice crackles over the speakerphone from Quantico. “I’ve got the footage pulled,” she says. “Sending it to your laptop now, sir.”

Hotch nods at Morgan, who’s already setting up the feed. The screen flickers, grainy black and white footage filling it. A shaky, handheld view of the woods, empty at first, swaying slightly in the wind.

You lean forward, holding your breath.

Then, movement.

The footage jumps, glitches slightly, and you recognize the front of your house, the angle familiar. It’s from across the street, tucked into the shadows. A clear view of your front windows.

Your stomach turns.

The timestamp in the corner reads two nights ago, the night after the first photos had been dropped off at the precinct. The night Hotch had insisted on staying over, taking the watch, and you, too proud and too scared to argue.

On the screen, you see it , a moment that burns cold into your bones.

There you are, framed in your front window, unaware, pulling the curtains shut.

Then Hotch — stepping into the frame behind you, close enough that your silhouettes almost touch before he turns away, giving you space.

The image freezes for a second, like the stalker had paused to savor it.

Morgan mutters something under his breath. Prentiss sits forward, her fists clenched tight in her lap.

“This angle,” Hotch says quietly. “He was parked for hours.”

The footage jumps again — time skipped forward. Now it’s later. Your living room is dark, only the faint light from the kitchen. Through the half-closed curtains, the camera catches Hotch dozing on your couch, head tipped back, gun resting loosely on his lap. You must have already been asleep upstairs.

“Son of a bitch,” Morgan breathes. “He was right outside. Watching.”

You don’t realize you’re shaking until Hotch’s hand settles lightly against your forearm, steadying you without a word.

On the screen, the video wobbles, shakes — the camera moving closer.

Closer.

For one terrifying moment, the footage goes dark — and when it blinks back to life.

The angle is different now. Closer, like it was right on the edge of the window sill.

You hear yourself gasp sharply as the camera lingers on your sleeping figure, half-curled under the blanket on the couch after you must have come downstairs. Vulnerable. Unknowing.

Then the camera turns, focusing briefly on Hotch — asleep and utterly unaware — before turning back toward you.

The footage cuts off abruptly.

Silence falls in the room, thick and choking.

“He was this close to you,” Morgan says tightly, as if saying it out loud makes it more real.

You can feel Hotch’s anger radiating off him — not explosive, but cold and deadly sharp, like a blade honed to perfection.

“This changes everything,” Hotch says, standing. “He’s not just escalating — he’s taunting us. He wanted us to see this.”

“And he’s not going to stop,” you manage to say, your voice steady despite the tremor running through you. “Not until he gets what he wants.”

Morgan’s phone buzzes on the conference table, breaking the heavy silence. He glances at the screen, then at Hotch.

“Forensics report,” he says. “Blood on the photos came back.”

Hotch nods sharply. “Go ahead.”

Morgan pulls up the file, his expression darkening as he skims it.

“It’s a match. Both samples — the blood smeared on the pictures — belong to the two victims we found this morning.”

You feel your stomach twist. It wasn’t just a warning. It was a promise. A demonstration of what the stalker is willing to do, and how close he’s willing to get.

Prentiss speaks first, voice clipped. “He used their blood like… like a signature.”

You glance at Hotch, feeling the weight of the realization settle between you.

He’s sending a message.

I can reach you. Anytime. Anywhere. And nobody can stop me.

Hotch doesn’t hesitate. He steps back, pulling out his phone, already dialing. His voice is low and deadly when he speaks into it.

“Chief Strauss? It’s Hotchner. We need a secure location. Effective immediately.”

There’s a pause, and you can hear Strauss’s muffled voice through the line — sharp, questioning, but Hotch doesn’t give an inch.

“The stalker is inside our perimeter. He’s tracking our movements. We can’t guarantee Detective Y/N safety — or the team’s — without moving to an undisclosed location.”

Another pause. Then:

“Understood. I’ll have a safe house arranged within the hour. I expect full operational access.”

Hotch hangs up and looks directly at you, his voice leaving no room for argument.

“You’re not staying at your house. You’re coming with me.”

Morgan arches a brow, but says nothing. He doesn’t have to — the silent agreement between the team is clear. They’ll follow Hotch’s lead on this.

Prentiss leans forward, scanning a map on the laptop. “We’ll need a decoy at the house. Make it look like you’re still living there — lights on, cars in the driveway.”

“I’ll arrange it,” Morgan says, already moving.

Hotch turns back to you, lowering his voice.

“We’re going to find him,” he says, and something fierce flares in his eyes — something personal now.

“But until we do, you’re not leaving my sight.”

You nod once, feeling a strange, fleeting relief through the fear. You don’t want to be alone. Not anymore. Not when the walls between you and your hunter are growing thinner by the second.

Hotch puts a hand on your lower back, steering you gently toward the door.

“We move now,” he says. “Before he gets another chance.” 

You move into your office, grabbing any necessary files and belongings to take with you. Thenyou hear it. Hushed voices from outside of the closed door. 

“ So you and Y/N, what’s going on here?” Rossi whispers.

“ Nothing is going on.” Hotch whispers back. 

“ It doesn’t seem that way to me and the rest of the team knows it. You never get attached like this.”

“ I'm… just concerned for her. That’s all.”

“ Right.” Rossi pauses, trying to suspend his disbelief, “ I’ll take your word for it.”

As you leave the precinct, the night seems to press tighter around you, heavier. You can’t help but feel eyes watching from somewhere deep in the shadows.

The safe house may buy you time. It is buried at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by trees so thick you can barely see the sky. It’s isolated, secure, and suffocating.

Hotch pulls the SUV up to the front porch, kills the engine, and surveys the dark woods before speaking.

“I’ll clear it first,” he says, voice low. “Stay here.”

You want to argue, but the exhaustion settling in your bones keeps you in your seat, gun resting loosely in your lap. You watch him sweep through the small cabin — methodical, controlled — until finally he waves you forward.

Inside, it’s sparse: a small living room, a kitchenette, two bedrooms down a narrow hall. The place smells of old wood and cleaner, nothing like home. Nothing like safety.

You set your bag down mechanically, your muscles aching, your mind too wired to rest.

Hotch locks the front door behind him, checking the windows, the deadbolts, every exit. He moves like a man who’s done this a hundred times, but tonight, his shoulders are tight, the muscles in his jaw working.

You know it’s not just the case.

You hover near the center of the room, not sure what to do with yourself. The space between you feels taut, stretched thin,  not just from the danger outside, but from everything neither of you has said out loud.

“You should get some rest,” Hotch says finally, his voice gentler now, but still strained. He’s standing across from you, hands flexing at his sides like he wants to reach out but doesn’t trust himself to.

You give a short, humorless laugh. “I don’t think I could sleep if I tried.”

His gaze holds yours, something raw and unguarded flashing through it for a moment before he tamps it down.

“You’re safe here,” he says. It’s a promise. A vow. And you believe him. You always believe him.

Still, you shake your head. “I was safe in my house, too,” you whisper. “Until I wasn’t.”

Hotch crosses the space between you slowly, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. He stops just inches away, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the tension thrumming between you like a live wire.

“I should have seen it sooner,” he says quietly, the weight of guilt heavy in every word. “I-” He stops himself, “We should have protected you better.”

You look up at him — really look — and the mask he usually wears is gone. All that’s left is Aaron, fierce and tired and breaking under the burden of trying to keep you alive.

“It’s not your fault,” you say, voice rough. “You’re the reason I’m still standing. If you weren’t in the house that night, who knows what would’ve happened.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The air between you crackles.

You wonder if he’s thinking the same thing you are: how close you’ve gotten, how much you mean to each other now, how fragile the line is between protector and something more.

Hotch lifts a hand, hesitating — then very lightly, his fingers brush your arm, anchoring you. The touch is so careful, so deliberate, it almost undoes you.

“We’re going to end this,” he says, voice low and steady.. “I won’t let him touch you again.”

You swallow hard, nodding, the lump in your throat almost too big to speak past.

His hand lingers for a second longer before he steps back, the loss of contact leaving you colder than the night air ever could.

“I’ll take the first watch,” he says, already scanning the room again, the protector sliding back into place. “You get some sleep.”

You don’t argue. You just watch him settle into the armchair by the window, gun within easy reach, his eyes never resting,  never trusting the darkness outside.

And somewhere deep inside you, you know:

No matter what happens next, you’re not facing this alone.

A few hours pass. You sit upright in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the heavy stillness pressing against the windows. Every creak of the old house sounds like footsteps, every brush of the wind feels too close.

You know you won’t sleep. Not really.

Finally, you push the blanket aside and slip quietly down the hall.

Hotch is still in the armchair by the window, exactly where you left him, body rigid, alert. The soft golden lamp behind him casts long shadows across his face — he looks exhausted, drawn tight at the edges, but still unrelenting.

He hears you instantly, his eyes flashing up to meet yours. A flicker of relief crosses his face when he sees it’s you.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says, voice rough with fatigue.

You give him a look — a small, stubborn tilt of your chin.

“I’ll take watch now. Your turn to sleep.”

He looks like he’s about to argue, the protest forming on his lips, but something in your expression stops him. Maybe the exhaustion he recognizes in your posture. Maybe the fact that you’re just as damn stubborn as he is.

With a quiet sigh, he rises to his feet, towering over you for a breathless moment.

“You wake me if anything feels off,” he says, low, serious.

You nod, and when he steps past you, the two of you linger a little too close for a beat too long — close enough that the heat of him brushes along your skin.

“You're terrible at taking orders, you know that?,” you murmur under your breath, smiling faintly.

Hotch glances sideways at you, the ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth — rare, fleeting, and devastating.

“And you’re bossy,” he counters, voice pitched just enough to make it feel almost like a secret.

The tension between you hums, sharper now but laced with something lighter — something that feels almost like… relief.

He disappears down the hallway to the bedroom, and you head to the kitchen, needing something to do with your restless hands. You make coffee automatically, movements quiet, familiar.

You’re reaching for a mug from the cabinet when you hear him behind you.

“I can’t sleep knowing you’re awake and pacing,” Hotch says dryly.

You turn to find him right there — and the kitchen is small.

You laugh softly under your breath. “I thought the coffee might help.”

When you move to grab the pot, you realize at the same moment he steps toward the counter behind you. For a second, you’re trapped, chest nearly brushing his, the warm, solid line of his body close enough to steal your breath.

“Sorry,” you murmur, squeezing by him carefully, the brush of your shoulder against his chest far too intimate.

He doesn’t move immediately. His hand lifts slightly, almost like he’s going to touch you, your waist, your hip, but he stops himself at the last second, his fingers curling into a fist instead.

You catch the look in his eyes, the restraint, the awareness, and something in you twists sharply in response.

“You’re really bad at resting, Hotch,” you tease lightly, but your voice is softer now. A little raw.

He gives a low, almost inaudible laugh, a real one this time, and leans back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, studying you.

“You’re a terrible influence, I’m just following suit.” he says, tone dry but unmistakably warm.

You pour two mugs of coffee, handing him one without a word. Your fingers brush as you pass it, a fleeting touch that lingers longer in the charged silence between you than it has any right to.

For a moment, it feels almost normal. Almost.

But you both know, outside these walls, danger is circling, drawing tighter.

You sip your coffee slowly, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, and wonder if he feels it too — the fragile, dangerous thing building between you.

The two of you linger in the kitchen longer than necessary, nursing lukewarm coffee and the silence stretched thin between you.

Outside, the woods groan against the wind, branches scraping against the house like skeletal fingers, but neither of you flinch anymore. The real threat is out there — and in here, there’s a different kind of danger growing between you.

“You should still try to sleep,” you say eventually, your voice quieter now, gentler. “You can’t keep running on empty.”

Hotch shakes his head slowly, a small, rueful smile tugging at his mouth. “I’ve gotten used to it.”

You turn, leaning your back against the counter so you can watch him fully. There’s a softness to him right now, stripped bare in a way you rarely see — like the shield he wears for the rest of the world has cracked just enough for you to glimpse the man underneath.

“You shouldn’t have to get used to it,” you murmur, almost to yourself.

His eyes find yours in the dim kitchen light, and something flickers there — something that makes your breath catch.

“You shouldn’t have to live like this either,” he says quietly. “Always looking over your shoulder.”

There’s a beat where neither of you speaks, the weight of what’s unsaid thick between you.

“You’ve been carrying all of this alone for too long, doing all of this for me, without really involving the rest of your team beyond what they need to know,” you say, stepping just a little closer. Not close enough to touch — not quite — but enough that you can feel the heat of him again, that maddening pull you’re both trying so hard to resist.

His jaw tenses. He looks like he wants to say something — something important — but he hesitates, studying your face like he’s trying to memorize every line of it.

You’re holding your breath without realizing it, heart hammering painfully against your ribs.

And just as the words are about to fall — the confession teetering there between you —

The porch floorboards creak.

Both of you whip toward the sound, instinctively reaching for your guns.

Hotch’s whole body snaps back into focus, the moment shattered, locked down behind the steel trap of his professionalism.

You flick off the kitchen light, plunging the room into darkness, and move silently toward the front door with him.

Outside, there’s nothing — no movement, no sound beyond the restless trees.

But the damage is done. Whatever had been about to happen between you is swallowed by the cold, pressing reality of the night.

Hotch glances at you once in the dark, something burning behind his eyes — something unfinished.

Later, that look says.

Later.

You tighten your grip on your weapon and nod once, falling into step beside him.

Because right now, there’s only survival.

You move silently through the darkened living room, gun raised, every nerve on fire. Hotch gestures for you to stay back as he eases toward the front door, every movement controlled and deliberate.

Another creak outside.

You hold your breath as Hotch throws the door open sharply, gun raised —

only to find Morgan standing there, one hand half-raised in surrender, a sheepish grin already forming.

“Whoa, whoa,” Morgan says quickly. “Easy, boss man.”

Hotch lowers his weapon, but his jaw tightens visibly. You exhale a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, sagging slightly against the wall.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Hotch demands, his voice low and hard.

Morgan, completely unfazed by the death glare being leveled at him, lifts a manila folder in one hand.

“Updates,” he says. “New case files. Thought you’d want them ASAP.”

Hotch steps outside, forcing Morgan back a few feet, shutting the door just enough to block you from view — but not enough that you can’t hear every furious word.

“This couldn’t have been a phone call? You’re supposed to be at the precinct,” Hotch hisses. “Your coming here compromised the location. If he’s tracking any of us, you could have led him straight to her.”

Morgan’s easy grin falters, guilt flashing across his face. “I made sure I wasn’t followed. Took back roads, double-checked my six the whole way. No one’s out here, Hotch.”

“That’s not the point,” Hotch snaps, quieter now but no less intense. “This isn’t just about the team. It’s her life on the line. You don’t take that risk. Not ever.”

Morgan holds his hands up slightly in surrender, voice softening. “I get it, man. I do. I’m sorry.”

For a long moment, Hotch just stares at him, jaw clenched, hands flexing at his sides like he’s wrestling to pull himself back under control.

Finally, Hotch snatches the file out of Morgan’s hand.

“Get back to the precinct,” he says coldly. “And stay there.”

Morgan nods once, casting a quick glance over Hotch’s shoulder toward where he knows you’re waiting just inside. His expression softens slightly.

“You stay safe,” he calls quietly, before turning and disappearing into the night without another word.

Hotch locks the door behind him, every muscle in his body rigid with pent-up fury.

When he turns back to you, the hard mask cracks just a little, replaced by a tired exhale, a hand running through his hair, the weight of the situation crashing back down around him.

“Everything okay?” you ask carefully, stepping closer.

Hotch meets your gaze, and for a moment, he just looks at you — like seeing you standing there, alive and safe, is the only thing tethering him right now.

“Yeah,” he says finally, his voice quieter. “Now it is.”

He sets the file down on the kitchen counter without looking at it.

For a second, you think he might pick up where you left off — the confession hanging still, suspended in the air between you.

But he doesn’t.

He only brushes past you gently, his fingers ghosting against yours as he does, a silent reassurance, a silent promise.

Later.

For now, the two of you settle into the long hours before dawn, guarding each other, and the fragile thing growing between you, from the darkness outside.

[multifandomficsx]

Next chapter of nowhere to hide out tomorrow! The next couple of chapters are about to be intense!!!

[multifandomficsx]

You are too sweet! I so look forward to seeing your comments as you read along 💕💕💕 I’m so glad you are enjoying it :)

Nowhere to Hide - Chapter 5

Summary: The case seems to be at a stalemate. Even giving the final profile to the rest of your police force drums up the feeling that all of the work you’ve put in, is useless. Until it isn’t. There’s a break in the case. But not the one you had hoped for. 

W.C: 3.1k

Content Warnings: Strong Language, depictions of stalking

Chapter 5

Back at the precinct, you and Hotch meet up with the rest of the team, who currently have Garcia on the line. You couldn’t help but feel like nothing useful actually came out of the fake ruse at the restaurant. Ian, the server, definitely aroused some suspicion in you, but you had no concrete evidence. It wasn’t like he was doing anything out of the ordinary for a waiter that sees you at that restaurant frequently and you had never seen him outside of that context. 

And the fact that Garcia wasn’t drumming up anything on his record wasn’t helping the feeling of wasted time. 

But you knew he was there, you felt it. Eyes on you the entire time, you were being watched.

“Okay, so our charming Ian Hynes, 27, born and raised in Baltimore, no college, has been working at Rec Pier Chop House since he graduated High school, in which he was a straight A student. This kid is pretty clean besides two restraining orders, one from an ex, from a neighbor who caught him watching her kids through Binoculars. Ew.”

Morgan chuffs and rolls his eyes, “Sounds like a real prince.”

“If by “Prince” you mean “Creep who thinks ‘no’ is a challenge”, then yes, he’s royalty.” Garcia quips back.

“Were either of the previous restraining orders for stalking behavior that escalated?” Reid interjects, leaning on the arm of a chair in a way that could not possibly be comfortable.

“Not officially, but there is a pattern. I’m seeing a lot of borderline harassment complaints that never went anywhere - mostly women, mostly ignored. But he is definitely consistent”

“Well that’s a classic escalation profile. This time he picked someone who can fight back.” Emily said, crossing her arms.

“He picked the wrong damn woman.” You said underneath your breath.

“Actually what if that’s part of it.” Reid Says standing up

“What do you mean?” Hotch askes.

“ Everything else has been too easy for him, which is why it escalates to killing the surrogates. He likes the challenge that you propose to him, he wants you to fight back, it’s mostly likely an arousing factor of the chase. Inferior man dominating a superior woman.” Reid says standing at the whiteboard. 

“ Detective, gather the police officers, we are ready to give the profile.” Hotch said, before gathering up files to move into the main section of the precinct. 

While everyone moved out of your office, you stayed behind to gather yourself before putting on the brave face you’ve plastered on as a means to protect yourself. Derek hangs behind, noticing you facing your desk, arms crossed, and teeth grinding. He moves forward and around the desk slowly. He lets you speak first. 

“ We’ve got three bodies, Morgan. Three. And it’s because of me.” You say sharply. “ We’ve got families calling everyday, the press breathing down my neck. I received an email from the commissioner earlier today. And We’re still building and delivering a fucking profile. I can’t keep telling them ‘We’re working on it.’” 

You turn away from him and start pacing the room. 

“ This is not your fault. I get it. Believe me.. I do. But rushing this, that’s how we miss him.”

“ So then what. It seems everything I try to catch this guy goes south. I can’t sit around anymore and wait for this scumbag to finally reveal himself to me.” 

“ You keep saying you, but you’re not alone in this. It feels like you are, but you’re not.” He says, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You take a breath. “ Yeah. You might be right about that.”

He gives you a side smile, “ Of course I’m right. Let’s go deliver the profile and finally get this bastard off the streets.”

The whiteboard covered in photos, maps and strings connecting locations, gets rolled out into the room outside of your office. You stand off to the side as the rest of the precinct gathers around to listen to the BAU deliver the profile. 

“First, I want to thank Detective “Y/N” for her patience as we completed this initial profile.” Hotch started “ We believe the unsub to be male, early 20’s to late 30’s, white, average build - someone who blends in with the crowd easily. He is intelligent, methodical, and patient - he watches the women he kills for days, maybe even weeks.” 

“Now, what is being shown to you is sensitive information. It is imperative that this is not leaked to the media, it could cause our unsub to spiral and go on a spree or disappear. Detective “Y/N” is the target of our unsub.” JJ Says as the photos of you that appeared on your desk are passed around the room like a goddamn class project. “ The women he is killing are surrogates of the real thing. Many of you are pictured in these photographs, he knows who you are and knows you stand in the way of getting what he wants. Most likely he already knows who is on patrol at “Y/N” house.”

“This isn’t about love or obsession in the romantic sense. It’s about control. Power. He targets strong women - women who intimidate him. Not in the physical sense, but in terms of success. He feels that it should be him as the moneymaker of the relationship, but nothing in his life has allowed him to be so. So he finds ways to feel dominant without engaging directly, until his desire becomes so overwhelming that he has too.” says Rossi. 

“This kind of stalker exhibits what’s called “Intimacy-seeking behavior,” but it’s warped. He creates a fantasy bond with the object of his desires - thinks he knows them, that they owe him something. When that fantasy is threatened by reality, he lashes out.” Reid says.

“That’s when escalation happens. He wants you to feel afraid. He wants you off balance. And when fear doesn’t work, he’ll get creative. That’s why he moved from the notes with a code to “Y/N” badge number to dropping off physical copies of photos. He wants you to know he’s watching. That’s a part of the psychological manipulation” Morgan adds.

“So what’s next? What does a guy like this do when he gets tired of watching?” The police chief interjected.

“If he follows his previous pattern, the next step is confrontation. Not necessarily violent, but physical proximity. A break-in. An ambush. Something symbolic to him that says: Now you see me. And with my best guess, we have about two to three days before he gets violent again, either with another surrogate or he’ll go for his real target.” Hotch hesitates before saying the last part and spares you a glance. 

And with a curt thank you, the crowd of police officers disbanded. 

It feels like a bomb dropped in your gut, because realistically you know his next move is you. You rub your fingers on your palms, noticing the sweat building there. You dreaded the thought of going back to your home, alone. The ease that you felt this morning had drifted away and was replaced by fear. 

The sun was down, it was time for you to go home, but you were lingering in your office. The precinct was nearly empty by now, a few lingering bodies filing away the last of their paperwork. You sit at your desk, fingers tapping at the dark wood, pretending to be engrossed by the file of your own case that no longer holds any real purpose. You know the case, you’re living it. 

The tasks you use to fill the time are trivial - reorganizing your files, rechecking emails you’ve already answered - but they serve a distraction, a means to delay the inevitable journey home. 

You glance at the clock - it’s late, not beyond your usual hours, but late enough that anyone left at the station knows you are procrastinating. Yet, the idea of stepping into the night, of driving those familiar streets with the possibility of unseen eyes watching, keeps you rooted to your chair. Your office, with its warm lighting and predictable routines, offers a semblance of control, a buffer against the unknown that waits beyond it’s doors.

You tell yourself it’s just for a little while longer, just until the feeling passes. But deep down you know the truth: anywhere feels safer than home right now. What if you just didn’t go home tonight? You have a couch in the office, it would be easy to just lay down and…

“Are you alright?” 

Hotch’s voice rips you back to reality, you hadn’t realized that you were sitting uncomfortably still, staring at the wall, fingertips tapping at the desk. 

“Uhh, yeah, I’m good. Just finding a way to pass the time.” 

“Instead of going home?” He saw right through you, it didn’t take a profiler to be able to see you were a nervous wreck. 

“ I guess so. It’s silly of me to not go.”

“ You’re allowed to feel afraid. There wasn’t a day when I wasn’t afraid for Hailey and Jack's safety. Let’s go. I’ll escort you home.” He gestured for you to follow him as he turned and left the doorframe of the office.

It was a short interaction, but the way he checked in on you, asking if you were okay and the reassurance from him made your chest tighten and skin warm. You know he’s just doing his job but it feels nice to get a little bit of male attention, when you’re not particularly looking for it. 

You try to pretend tonight is like any other, even though you know it isn’t.

The jazz record hums low in the background. Slow, moody stuff your father used to play on Sunday mornings. You put it on for comfort, but it doesn’t help. Not really.

You move through your kitchen barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed to your elbows, fingers wrapped around a mug of chamomile tea that’s already gone lukewarm. You haven’t touched it. It’s just something to hold. Something to do with your hands. Your gun sits on the counter, closer than it probably needs to be. You keep glancing at it anyway.

The sliding glass door to the patio is locked. You checked it three times. You still keep glancing that way, watching how the curtains move with the slight breeze from the vent. You know it’s nothing, but you don’t trust “nothing” anymore.

You settle on the couch and pull the blanket over your lap, like warmth will protect you. You open that same book you’ve read a dozen times, the one with the cracked spine and the hero who always knows what to do. But tonight, the words blur, and your mind won’t stay on the page. You’re too aware of every creak in the walls, every gust of wind against the windows, every shadow that shouldn’t move but still does.

Something thumps lightly - maybe it’s the creaky old floor boards, 0r maybe not. Your hand tightens around the blanket. You don’t get up. Not yet.

Eventually, you do. You step quietly to the stairs and stand still, waiting for something to make a noise. But the room stays still. Silent. 

You lock all of the doors and windows and redraw the blinds again anyway.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. It lights up your dark living room like a flare. It’s from Garcia.

 Garcia: Still monitoring. Nothing new yet. You’re not alone. Sleep if you can. <3

You almost smile. Almost.

You set the phone face down. You stand in silence for a minute in contemplation. The phone manages to find its way back into your hand and before you know it you open the text thread between you and Hotch. It’s not much, just that single text message he had sent you this morning. 

You start typing a message. Delete. Reword it. Delete. 

With a sigh, you put the phone back down, unable to conjure up a single intelligent thing to write.

You won’t sleep. Not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow either.

Instead, you sit there in the quiet, the jazz record stopped a while ago, needing to be flipped to its B side, but you pay it no mind. The tea cold in your hands, waiting for the sun to rise. Because when morning comes, you get to stop being the prey and go back to being the one who hunts. There was something about that, which deeply unsettled you.

The notion of being prey. 

It’s not just fear - it’s violation. The feeling of being hunted by someone you can’t see, don’t know, can’t reason with. Someone who has learned you, maybe without even stepping into your light. They know when your lights go out. When you start your car. When you rest your head. 

The silence in your home, once comforting, now sounds wrong. Off. It’s the kind of quiet that hums too loudly in your ears, makes your skin itch as if your body knows something before your mind can piece it together. The corners of your home suddenly seem to darken. Shadows stretch deeper. The coat hanging on the back of the front door becomes a figure in your periphery for half a second too long. Your breath catches.

You tell yourself you’re just being dramatic. You’re protected. Right? 

But there is a weight behind your thoughts, a heaviness that makes them sink. You are being watched. Whether you want to feel that way or not. 

The silence has deepened. The tea is long forgotten, the book closed on your chest. You’re not really reading, not really resting. You’re just aware. Of everything.

Your phone buzzes.

Hotch: Are you still awake? 

You pause before answering. You almost don’t answer, he knows you’re not asleep. 

You: Didn’t realize sleep was an option.

Hotch: Unfortunately, not a new phenomenon for either of us.

You smirk. Dry humor from Hotch lands differently, like it costs him something, so when it happens, you take note. Though it seems to be happening a lot over the past day. 

You: It’s quieter than I expected. Feels like waiting for something to happen.

Hotch: That’s when they usually make their move. When you start letting your guard down.

You: That supposed to be comforting?

Hotch: Not remotely. Just honest.

A pause. You shift your position, curling your legs tighter beneath the blanket. You tap out another message.

You: Do you ever get used to it? The feeling of being watched?

Hotch: No. But you learn to stop letting it take things from you.

There’s something reassuring about that—calm, not patronizing. You don’t respond for a while. You just stare at the screen, thumb tapping mindlessly trying to think of what to say in response.

You: Thanks for checking in.

Hotch: Of Course.

The “ Of course” makes you smile softly to yourself. It’s professional, sure, but there’s an air to it that says something a bit deeper. Your thumb hovers, then types before you can second-guess it.

You: You don’t strike me as the “2 a.m. check-in” type. 

Hotch: I’m not.

You: So why tonight?

The dots appear. Then vanish. Then appear again.

Hotch: Let’s just say you’re not the average case file.

You freeze for a second. Not sure what to do with that. Not sure you want to unpack it. Still… you reply.

You: Dangerous territory, Agent Hotchner.

Hotch: Noted.

You place the phone on the couch beside you. No more messages come.

But you find yourself staring at the screen anyway—waiting. Thinking.

Not about fear.

About him.

You must’ve fallen asleep somewhere between thoughts you didn’t want to have and words you didn’t send. The phone rests near your hand, the screen dark, untouched since that last message.

The apartment is still. Quiet.

You’re sitting across from Hotch. The Precinct is empty, lights dimmed, the world outside blurred and distant. You’re both sipping coffee, saying nothing.

But the silence is warm. Safe. You’re at ease for the first time in a week. It’s clear that the case is finished, because he has his go bag with him, ready for his flight back to Washington. It's a goodbye. 

He reaches for your hand—not a bold move, not romantic, just… steady. Anchoring.

You look down. Your fingers are dusted with ash.

When you look up, he’s gone.

The precinct fades. A soft clicking sound starts—like a camera shutter.

FLASH. FLASH. FLASH.

The next images of the dream come in camera shots.

Your House.

The hallway.

Your bedroom.

Your face, mid-sleep.

Your hand, inches from your gun but too late.

You wake with a start. The room is gray-blue with early light. It couldn’t be any later than 6am. You had only slept for a few hours. Your heart’s racing, and your neck is damp with sweat.

You sit up and instantly something’s wrong. You can’t put your finger on it, but your gut feels like solid stone. 

The blanket is still on you. The door’s still locked. The window is closed.

But the air feels… off. Touched.

You move cautiously into the dining area, every step slow, your breath tightening.

Then you see them.

Photos.

Laid out like evidence on your table. Perfectly spaced. Crisp edges. No smudges.

You.

Hotch.

Together.

Not intimate—but close. Too close. A shot of the two of you at the last crime scene, shoulders brushing. Another couple from the restaurant from yesterday. One from last night, through your apartment window, the glow of your phone screen lighting your face… and his name visible on the text thread. 

All written on in what seems like red marker. Betrayer. Unfaithful. Traitor. Cheater. 

You blink. Your stomach turns cold.

There’s one final photo, dead center.

A candid shot of you, asleep on the couch.

A time stamp written in the same red, taken less than an hour ago.

Your gun is still on the coffee table.

Untouched.

You back away from the table, reach for your phone with shaking fingers. This house, your supposed sanctuary - is no longer yours.

You: He was here.

Delivered.

Seconds pass. Then your phone rings—Hotch.

You answer before the first full ring.

“Don’t move. The team and I are on the way.”

You don’t say anything.

You’re already looking toward the shadows at the edges of the room.

Already reaching for your gun.

Already becoming the hunter again.

[multifandomficsx]

hey babe can I request Hotch with a reader girlfriend who’s desperately shy? early seasons hotch please when he’s still smiley (maybe still has Jack tho), i would love to see how he treats a long term girlfriend in your eyes one who he’s just completely gone for 

fem, 0.9k

You should know better than to come to work without venturing up to Aaron’s private office, but you’re late coming in and there’s a ton of stuff to do and he’s supposed to pretend that he cares when you turn in your work late. You log in and start going through things slowly. There are a few emails to respond to, some queries, a consult request Aaron himself has forwarded with a note —your expertise is required. 

You wiggle your mouse to wake the screen. You hadn’t realised you’d gotten stuck until it was dark. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” someone murmurs, tipping your head back to kiss your cheek, “where have you been?” 

He speaks quietly, no one else can hear him, but he enthuses his tone with so much love that you can’t decide between laughter or tears. You turn breathless instead, a thumb against your throat as Aaron’s loving questioning continues, “I thought we talked about this, hmm? You coming up to see me? How else am I supposed to know that you’re here?” 

There’s no Emily sitting at the desk opposite yours. No Spencer adjacent, no Derek to the right. It explains why he’s butter soft, but not his worry. 

“I was nearly late. I’m sorry.” 

He starts to kiss you gently, quietly, his lips tracking over the side of your cheek and pressing in as he goes until his nose is against your temple. “Don’t be sorry, I just wanted to see you.” He holds you to him. “I missed you.”

“Are you okay?” you ask, wishing you were brave enough to tack handsome, or love on the end. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“I thought maybe you were still stressed about Emily.” 

Aaron pulls away, giving you your first proper look at him that morning. He’s as handsome as ever. It makes your chest spike with anxiety. You worry all the time that you’ll lose him; the thought that he might realise all the things you’re missing and break things off is a constant at the back of your mind. It only ever goes quiet when he’s kissing you. “Prentiss has done well so far,” he says. “I’m not happy to have things rearranged above my head, but I have no problem with Emily. Now, how was your morning?” 

“It was fine.” 

“I want to know. Breakfast?” 

“Yeah, oatmeal.” 

He grins. “Me too.” 

Nobody would ever believe that this is your boyfriend when he’s commanding a room during a profile, or apprehending an UnSub with his impassive, furrowed brow. You assumed it was the honeymoon phase at first. It’s not like his affection makes much sense, but if he’s not stressed, it just means he loves you, which is nice. You hold the back of your hand to his cheek, laughing in a shock when he turns his face and traps it between his cheek and his shoulder. 

“No more late mornings,” he says decisively. 

“I wasn’t technically late. I wasn’t early enough to come up to see you, is all. Are you upset I didn’t bring you your coffee?” 

“Is that what you think?” he asks, smiling as he kisses your wrist, before straightening. You let your hand fall and he catches it on the way down. 

“I don’t know. You’re much too touchy. I’m trying to deduce why, but…” 

“Profile me,” Aaron says. He gives your hand a squeeze. “You know how to do it, honey. Figure out my motive from my past behaviours.” 

Aaron’s only ever this sweet on you when you’re in his bed. Well, ‘only ever’ is harsh, but he’s never not sweet on you in the afterglow. And that’s because intimacy is a constant reminder of how close you really are to one another, why he loves you, and why you love him. So perhaps he’s being sweet on you because you’ve reminded him how loved he is? But it doesn’t make much sense. You forgot his coffee.

Your stomach goes warm. “Oh. Oh,” you say, “I called you last night.” 

“You did.” 

“I was tired.” 

“But you were beautiful,” he says, and what does that mean? It’s not as though he could see your face. “I can’t remember the last time you were like that. Not since we were in Helena.”

You can’t remember it clearly. Threads of what you’d said come back to you slowly. Love you, my sweetheart, my Aaron. Can you come over? I know it’s late, I need to see you. You were too tired to function, let alone call someone, and yet. 

Your face is on fire. 

“Sorry I couldn’t come over, honey,” he says, chucking you under the chin with a curled finger. “I would’ve, I promise, but I had Jack until we swapped this morning.”

You go hot all over. “No, I know. It’s fine, I shouldn’t have called you–”

“Who says you can’t call me?” 

“Nobody, but I shouldn’t have.”

“You can call me anytime you want.” He tips your chin up. “Quick, Spencer’ll have finished what I asked him to do soon. Can I kiss you?” 

“I forgot it was your day for Jack–”

He takes your face into his hand. “Doesn’t matter, honey. Kiss?” 

You close your eyes and lift your chin. Ever your prince, Aaron squeezes your cheek gently and leans in to kiss you, far warmer than you’re expecting, his thumb rubbing over your cheek with a reverence he couldn't fake if he wanted to. 

[multifandomficsx]

Nowhere to Hide - Chapter 5

Summary: The case seems to be at a stalemate. Even giving the final profile to the rest of your police force drums up the feeling that all of the work you’ve put in, is useless. Until it isn’t. There’s a break in the case. But not the one you had hoped for. 

W.C: 3.1k

Content Warnings: Strong Language, depictions of stalking

Chapter 5

Back at the precinct, you and Hotch meet up with the rest of the team, who currently have Garcia on the line. You couldn’t help but feel like nothing useful actually came out of the fake ruse at the restaurant. Ian, the server, definitely aroused some suspicion in you, but you had no concrete evidence. It wasn’t like he was doing anything out of the ordinary for a waiter that sees you at that restaurant frequently and you had never seen him outside of that context. 

And the fact that Garcia wasn’t drumming up anything on his record wasn’t helping the feeling of wasted time. 

But you knew he was there, you felt it. Eyes on you the entire time, you were being watched.

“Okay, so our charming Ian Hynes, 27, born and raised in Baltimore, no college, has been working at Rec Pier Chop House since he graduated High school, in which he was a straight A student. This kid is pretty clean besides two restraining orders, one from an ex, from a neighbor who caught him watching her kids through Binoculars. Ew.”

Morgan chuffs and rolls his eyes, “Sounds like a real prince.”

“If by “Prince” you mean “Creep who thinks ‘no’ is a challenge”, then yes, he’s royalty.” Garcia quips back.

“Were either of the previous restraining orders for stalking behavior that escalated?” Reid interjects, leaning on the arm of a chair in a way that could not possibly be comfortable.

“Not officially, but there is a pattern. I’m seeing a lot of borderline harassment complaints that never went anywhere - mostly women, mostly ignored. But he is definitely consistent”

“Well that’s a classic escalation profile. This time he picked someone who can fight back.” Emily said, crossing her arms.

“He picked the wrong damn woman.” You said underneath your breath.

“Actually what if that’s part of it.” Reid Says standing up

“What do you mean?” Hotch askes.

“ Everything else has been too easy for him, which is why it escalates to killing the surrogates. He likes the challenge that you propose to him, he wants you to fight back, it’s mostly likely an arousing factor of the chase. Inferior man dominating a superior woman.” Reid says standing at the whiteboard. 

“ Detective, gather the police officers, we are ready to give the profile.” Hotch said, before gathering up files to move into the main section of the precinct. 

While everyone moved out of your office, you stayed behind to gather yourself before putting on the brave face you’ve plastered on as a means to protect yourself. Derek hangs behind, noticing you facing your desk, arms crossed, and teeth grinding. He moves forward and around the desk slowly. He lets you speak first. 

“ We’ve got three bodies, Morgan. Three. And it’s because of me.” You say sharply. “ We’ve got families calling everyday, the press breathing down my neck. I received an email from the commissioner earlier today. And We’re still building and delivering a fucking profile. I can’t keep telling them ‘We’re working on it.’” 

You turn away from him and start pacing the room. 

“ This is not your fault. I get it. Believe me.. I do. But rushing this, that’s how we miss him.”

“ So then what. It seems everything I try to catch this guy goes south. I can’t sit around anymore and wait for this scumbag to finally reveal himself to me.” 

“ You keep saying you, but you’re not alone in this. It feels like you are, but you’re not.” He says, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You take a breath. “ Yeah. You might be right about that.”

He gives you a side smile, “ Of course I’m right. Let’s go deliver the profile and finally get this bastard off the streets.”

The whiteboard covered in photos, maps and strings connecting locations, gets rolled out into the room outside of your office. You stand off to the side as the rest of the precinct gathers around to listen to the BAU deliver the profile. 

“First, I want to thank Detective “Y/N” for her patience as we completed this initial profile.” Hotch started “ We believe the unsub to be male, early 20’s to late 30’s, white, average build - someone who blends in with the crowd easily. He is intelligent, methodical, and patient - he watches the women he kills for days, maybe even weeks.” 

“Now, what is being shown to you is sensitive information. It is imperative that this is not leaked to the media, it could cause our unsub to spiral and go on a spree or disappear. Detective “Y/N” is the target of our unsub.” JJ Says as the photos of you that appeared on your desk are passed around the room like a goddamn class project. “ The women he is killing are surrogates of the real thing. Many of you are pictured in these photographs, he knows who you are and knows you stand in the way of getting what he wants. Most likely he already knows who is on patrol at “Y/N” house.”

“This isn’t about love or obsession in the romantic sense. It’s about control. Power. He targets strong women - women who intimidate him. Not in the physical sense, but in terms of success. He feels that it should be him as the moneymaker of the relationship, but nothing in his life has allowed him to be so. So he finds ways to feel dominant without engaging directly, until his desire becomes so overwhelming that he has too.” says Rossi. 

“This kind of stalker exhibits what’s called “Intimacy-seeking behavior,” but it’s warped. He creates a fantasy bond with the object of his desires - thinks he knows them, that they owe him something. When that fantasy is threatened by reality, he lashes out.” Reid says.

“That’s when escalation happens. He wants you to feel afraid. He wants you off balance. And when fear doesn’t work, he’ll get creative. That’s why he moved from the notes with a code to “Y/N” badge number to dropping off physical copies of photos. He wants you to know he’s watching. That’s a part of the psychological manipulation” Morgan adds.

“So what’s next? What does a guy like this do when he gets tired of watching?” The police chief interjected.

“If he follows his previous pattern, the next step is confrontation. Not necessarily violent, but physical proximity. A break-in. An ambush. Something symbolic to him that says: Now you see me. And with my best guess, we have about two to three days before he gets violent again, either with another surrogate or he’ll go for his real target.” Hotch hesitates before saying the last part and spares you a glance. 

And with a curt thank you, the crowd of police officers disbanded. 

It feels like a bomb dropped in your gut, because realistically you know his next move is you. You rub your fingers on your palms, noticing the sweat building there. You dreaded the thought of going back to your home, alone. The ease that you felt this morning had drifted away and was replaced by fear. 

The sun was down, it was time for you to go home, but you were lingering in your office. The precinct was nearly empty by now, a few lingering bodies filing away the last of their paperwork. You sit at your desk, fingers tapping at the dark wood, pretending to be engrossed by the file of your own case that no longer holds any real purpose. You know the case, you’re living it. 

The tasks you use to fill the time are trivial - reorganizing your files, rechecking emails you’ve already answered - but they serve a distraction, a means to delay the inevitable journey home. 

You glance at the clock - it’s late, not beyond your usual hours, but late enough that anyone left at the station knows you are procrastinating. Yet, the idea of stepping into the night, of driving those familiar streets with the possibility of unseen eyes watching, keeps you rooted to your chair. Your office, with its warm lighting and predictable routines, offers a semblance of control, a buffer against the unknown that waits beyond it’s doors.

You tell yourself it’s just for a little while longer, just until the feeling passes. But deep down you know the truth: anywhere feels safer than home right now. What if you just didn’t go home tonight? You have a couch in the office, it would be easy to just lay down and…

“Are you alright?” 

Hotch’s voice rips you back to reality, you hadn’t realized that you were sitting uncomfortably still, staring at the wall, fingertips tapping at the desk. 

“Uhh, yeah, I’m good. Just finding a way to pass the time.” 

“Instead of going home?” He saw right through you, it didn’t take a profiler to be able to see you were a nervous wreck. 

“ I guess so. It’s silly of me to not go.”

“ You’re allowed to feel afraid. There wasn’t a day when I wasn’t afraid for Hailey and Jack's safety. Let’s go. I’ll escort you home.” He gestured for you to follow him as he turned and left the doorframe of the office.

It was a short interaction, but the way he checked in on you, asking if you were okay and the reassurance from him made your chest tighten and skin warm. You know he’s just doing his job but it feels nice to get a little bit of male attention, when you’re not particularly looking for it. 

You try to pretend tonight is like any other, even though you know it isn’t.

The jazz record hums low in the background. Slow, moody stuff your father used to play on Sunday mornings. You put it on for comfort, but it doesn’t help. Not really.

You move through your kitchen barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed to your elbows, fingers wrapped around a mug of chamomile tea that’s already gone lukewarm. You haven’t touched it. It’s just something to hold. Something to do with your hands. Your gun sits on the counter, closer than it probably needs to be. You keep glancing at it anyway.

The sliding glass door to the patio is locked. You checked it three times. You still keep glancing that way, watching how the curtains move with the slight breeze from the vent. You know it’s nothing, but you don’t trust “nothing” anymore.

You settle on the couch and pull the blanket over your lap, like warmth will protect you. You open that same book you’ve read a dozen times, the one with the cracked spine and the hero who always knows what to do. But tonight, the words blur, and your mind won’t stay on the page. You’re too aware of every creak in the walls, every gust of wind against the windows, every shadow that shouldn’t move but still does.

Something thumps lightly - maybe it’s the creaky old floor boards, 0r maybe not. Your hand tightens around the blanket. You don’t get up. Not yet.

Eventually, you do. You step quietly to the stairs and stand still, waiting for something to make a noise. But the room stays still. Silent. 

You lock all of the doors and windows and redraw the blinds again anyway.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. It lights up your dark living room like a flare. It’s from Garcia.

 Garcia: Still monitoring. Nothing new yet. You’re not alone. Sleep if you can. <3

You almost smile. Almost.

You set the phone face down. You stand in silence for a minute in contemplation. The phone manages to find its way back into your hand and before you know it you open the text thread between you and Hotch. It’s not much, just that single text message he had sent you this morning. 

You start typing a message. Delete. Reword it. Delete. 

With a sigh, you put the phone back down, unable to conjure up a single intelligent thing to write.

You won’t sleep. Not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow either.

Instead, you sit there in the quiet, the jazz record stopped a while ago, needing to be flipped to its B side, but you pay it no mind. The tea cold in your hands, waiting for the sun to rise. Because when morning comes, you get to stop being the prey and go back to being the one who hunts. There was something about that, which deeply unsettled you.

The notion of being prey. 

It’s not just fear - it’s violation. The feeling of being hunted by someone you can’t see, don’t know, can’t reason with. Someone who has learned you, maybe without even stepping into your light. They know when your lights go out. When you start your car. When you rest your head. 

The silence in your home, once comforting, now sounds wrong. Off. It’s the kind of quiet that hums too loudly in your ears, makes your skin itch as if your body knows something before your mind can piece it together. The corners of your home suddenly seem to darken. Shadows stretch deeper. The coat hanging on the back of the front door becomes a figure in your periphery for half a second too long. Your breath catches.

You tell yourself you’re just being dramatic. You’re protected. Right? 

But there is a weight behind your thoughts, a heaviness that makes them sink. You are being watched. Whether you want to feel that way or not. 

The silence has deepened. The tea is long forgotten, the book closed on your chest. You’re not really reading, not really resting. You’re just aware. Of everything.

Your phone buzzes.

Hotch: Are you still awake? 

You pause before answering. You almost don’t answer, he knows you’re not asleep. 

You: Didn’t realize sleep was an option.

Hotch: Unfortunately, not a new phenomenon for either of us.

You smirk. Dry humor from Hotch lands differently, like it costs him something, so when it happens, you take note. Though it seems to be happening a lot over the past day. 

You: It’s quieter than I expected. Feels like waiting for something to happen.

Hotch: That’s when they usually make their move. When you start letting your guard down.

You: That supposed to be comforting?

Hotch: Not remotely. Just honest.

A pause. You shift your position, curling your legs tighter beneath the blanket. You tap out another message.

You: Do you ever get used to it? The feeling of being watched?

Hotch: No. But you learn to stop letting it take things from you.

There’s something reassuring about that—calm, not patronizing. You don’t respond for a while. You just stare at the screen, thumb tapping mindlessly trying to think of what to say in response.

You: Thanks for checking in.

Hotch: Of Course.

The “ Of course” makes you smile softly to yourself. It’s professional, sure, but there’s an air to it that says something a bit deeper. Your thumb hovers, then types before you can second-guess it.

You: You don’t strike me as the “2 a.m. check-in” type. 

Hotch: I’m not.

You: So why tonight?

The dots appear. Then vanish. Then appear again.

Hotch: Let’s just say you’re not the average case file.

You freeze for a second. Not sure what to do with that. Not sure you want to unpack it. Still… you reply.

You: Dangerous territory, Agent Hotchner.

Hotch: Noted.

You place the phone on the couch beside you. No more messages come.

But you find yourself staring at the screen anyway—waiting. Thinking.

Not about fear.

About him.

You must’ve fallen asleep somewhere between thoughts you didn’t want to have and words you didn’t send. The phone rests near your hand, the screen dark, untouched since that last message.

The apartment is still. Quiet.

You’re sitting across from Hotch. The Precinct is empty, lights dimmed, the world outside blurred and distant. You’re both sipping coffee, saying nothing.

But the silence is warm. Safe. You’re at ease for the first time in a week. It’s clear that the case is finished, because he has his go bag with him, ready for his flight back to Washington. It's a goodbye. 

He reaches for your hand—not a bold move, not romantic, just… steady. Anchoring.

You look down. Your fingers are dusted with ash.

When you look up, he’s gone.

The precinct fades. A soft clicking sound starts—like a camera shutter.

FLASH. FLASH. FLASH.

The next images of the dream come in camera shots.

Your House.

The hallway.

Your bedroom.

Your face, mid-sleep.

Your hand, inches from your gun but too late.

You wake with a start. The room is gray-blue with early light. It couldn’t be any later than 6am. You had only slept for a few hours. Your heart’s racing, and your neck is damp with sweat.

You sit up and instantly something’s wrong. You can’t put your finger on it, but your gut feels like solid stone. 

The blanket is still on you. The door’s still locked. The window is closed.

But the air feels… off. Touched.

You move cautiously into the dining area, every step slow, your breath tightening.

Then you see them.

Photos.

Laid out like evidence on your table. Perfectly spaced. Crisp edges. No smudges.

You.

Hotch.

Together.

Not intimate—but close. Too close. A shot of the two of you at the last crime scene, shoulders brushing. Another couple from the restaurant from yesterday. One from last night, through your apartment window, the glow of your phone screen lighting your face… and his name visible on the text thread. 

All written on in what seems like red marker. Betrayer. Unfaithful. Traitor. Cheater. 

You blink. Your stomach turns cold.

There’s one final photo, dead center.

A candid shot of you, asleep on the couch.

A time stamp written in the same red, taken less than an hour ago.

Your gun is still on the coffee table.

Untouched.

You back away from the table, reach for your phone with shaking fingers. This house, your supposed sanctuary - is no longer yours.

You: He was here.

Delivered.

Seconds pass. Then your phone rings—Hotch.

You answer before the first full ring.

“Don’t move. The team and I are on the way.”

You don’t say anything.

You’re already looking toward the shadows at the edges of the room.

Already reaching for your gun.

Already becoming the hunter again.

[multifandomficsx]

Love thisssss

let me love you — a. hotchner

summary: it takes you almost kissing someone else for him to realise just how much he cares

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader

warnings: angst, tension, angry kisses, jealous!hotch, he's so hot, did i mention tension? bcs there's so much tension tension tension, a few swears, her bag sort of disappears.. oops

word count: 5.2k (oops x2)

Aaron doesn’t even look at you anymore.

Okay, that’s not true — he does. When he has to. When there’s a case file in his hands and you’re just another member of the team he needs to brief — another agent he’s in charge of. When there’s a question about geographical profiling or victimology and you’re the one who can answer it. When he’s assigning roles and has to say your name.

But everything outside of that? Nothing. Cold silence. Controlled distance.

And it killed you.

You wouldn’t even know you kissed him. More than once. Wouldn’t know how his hands felt in your hair, or how he’d said your name like it physically hurt him. Wouldn’t know that there was a moment — no, a string of moments — where he looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him to earth.

Because now? Now he’s pretending none of it ever happened.

And the worst part?

You know he still wants you.

Not in the arrogant way. Not in the I’m-so-irresistible kind of way. No — you know it because you see it. In the way his eyes flicker to you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. In the way his jaw ticks when Morgan jokes too casually with you. In the way he goes quiet when your laugh cuts across the room — his lips pressing into a thin line while his body tenses, almost like he’s trying to stop himself from laughing along.

He wants you. And he’s made that clear before.

But he’s also your boss. Older. Emotionally constipated. A man who shuts people out just before they get too close.

So of course, he made the decision for both of you. Of course, he pulled away, said it wasn’t appropriate, said you needed to keep it professional. Of course, he slammed that wall up between you and iced you out like he didn’t miss you the moment he left.

And now? Now you’re in Florida. The local PD is stretched thin, there’s a suspected spree killer hitting tourist-heavy areas along the I-4 corridor, and you’re operating out of some small, humid precinct where the AC rattles and no one knows how to use a case board.

Hotch pairs you with Officer Pretty Smile — an actual cop, around your age, golden tan, charming, full of casual grins and easy compliments. You don’t even hear most of what Hotch says when he assigns you; you’re too busy fuming at the fact that he’s done it again.

Just like the last two cases, he pairs you with some random officer, keeps you away from the scene, away from the precinct, away from anywhere he might be — in a way, he’s not letting you do your job.

Distanced from the rest of the team, you’re not much help.

How is that professional?

You know the game he’s playing. Avoidance. Distance. Control.

You’re sick of it.

But Officer Pretty Smile — his name’s Ryan — doesn’t seem to mind the stormcloud hanging over your head. He makes it easy to forget, just a little. He’s perceptive, actually listens when you talk, knows when to make you laugh and when to stay quiet. It’s a relief.

He flirts — lightly, respectfully — and you flirt back. Why shouldn’t you?

Aaron’s the one who put this wall up. He’s the one not speaking to you.

You don’t owe him your loyalty if he won’t even look at you outside of a damn case briefing.

The case wraps up after a few days of gruelling profiling, false leads and one late-night stakeout that finally caught your UnSub at a rest stop. You’re debriefing the locals, coordinating transport and starting to pack things up when Ryan walks you out to the parking lot.

He offers you his number, and you take it, pocketing it with a smile that widens when he leans in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. It’s innocent, really. Careful and sweet, but when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His face stays close, breath brushing against your skin as his eyes lock onto yours.

Then his gaze drops — not just to your lips, but the space between you — like he’s weighing the distance and what to do about it. It takes a breath or two before he meets your eyes again.

He leans in, slower this time, and his lips just barely graze yours. A featherlight touch that barely classifies as a kiss. It’s more of a hesitation. A silent question — do you want this too?

Yes, you do.

You answer by lifting a hand and placing it gently on his jaw, your touch light but certain.

He exhales softly, and his hands move to your waist, holding you like he’s been wanting to all day.

Your lips are so close, a breath away, and just as you’re about to close the gap—

“Agent!”

Aaron’s voice cuts through the humid Florida air like a gunshot, sharp enough to turn heads. It’s not just a call — it’s a warning. A demand. His tone carries weight, and everyone nearby instinctively pauses, glancing over to where he stands near the SUV, his jaw tight, posture coiled like he’s seconds away from snapping.

You freeze.

Where the fuck did he spawn from?

Ryan pulls back, but not completely. His hands stay on your waist, holding you close, as his eyes look over your shoulder.

You, however, don’t turn around — stubbornly refusing to give Hotch the satisfaction of ruining this moment.

He can wait.

He can watch.

You keep your gaze locked on Ryan. On his lips that are a bit further away than before, parted in confusion as he stares at your boss.

Your fingers shift slightly against his jaw — a gentle nudge meant to draw his attention back to you. And it works. His eyes flicker away from whatever intensity Hotch is radiating behind you and settle back on yours.

You lean in, slow and deliberate, and the moment you do, he seems to forget everything else as he leans in too.

And, just like before, just as your lips graze—

“Agent!”

Somehow, his voice is harsher than before — each syllable laced with barely contained fury.

Your hands fall from Ryan’s face and drop to your sides as you sigh, letting your head dip forward slightly.

“What’s his problem?” Ryan murmurs, his frustration mirroring yours as he shoots Aaron a brief, irritated glance before turning his attention back to you.

You lift your head, just enough to meet his eyes again, and mutter, “I don’t know. He’s just—” You wave a hand vaguely behind you. “A hardass.” You pause. “Or an ass. A normal ass. Whichever floats your boat.”

Ryan snorts, nodding as he looks back at Aaron. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You smile, wide and genuine. “Well then,” you say, looking up at him, “duty calls.”

He nods, looking a bit reluctant as he returns your smile and asks, “Will I see you again before you go?”

You hesitate, just for a second, before finally glancing over your shoulder.

Hotch stands by the entrance of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office — arms crossed, back stiff, jaw tight. His eyes are locked on you like he’s trying to dissect every inch of the moment he just interrupted. He looks furious. Controlled, as always, but furious nonetheless.

You look back at Ryan. “Probably not.”

There’s a brief pause — just a breath of silence — before he nods. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for anything more. Instead, he steps in and kisses your cheek again, soft and quick, like a quiet goodbye. When he pulls back, he lets his hand brush down your arm before stepping away.

You turn without another word, lowering your head as you approach Aaron. With each step, the feeling of his stare on you burns hotter, sharper.

You stop in front of him, standing there for a moment before you glance up.

His blazer is off, his blue button-up clinging slightly to his skin. His sunglasses perched on his nose and his jaw is tight.

You hate yourself for thinking that he looks hot.

You cross your arms, exhaling sharply before saying, “You called?”

He doesn’t waste a second. “Get the scene logs from the officers inside. I want them scanned and uploaded before we leave for the jet.”

His tone is dry, detached. The words hang in the air like a weight that doesn’t match the way he’s looking at you. His expression is stone-cold, all business, and it only fuels the frustration coursing through you.

You blink, your chest tightening. That’s it? That’s the urgent reason he called you out of a kiss like the sky was falling?

It’s a bullshit task. You both know it.

But he’s your Unit Chief. And right now, he’s pulling rank — not for the case. The case is over. Solved.

He’s doing it for himself, and it makes you want to scream.

You bite back the thousand things you want to say, give a tight nod, and walk past him without a glance.

—

On the jet, the tension is unbearable.

Aaron is sitting near the front, a stack of case files spread in front of him that he hasn’t touched since takeoff. He just stares at them, unmoving, like he’s willing them to make him forget.

You’re in the back, headphones on, glaring out the window as your forehead rests against the glass of it.

The others feel it — the tightrope tension stretching across the cabin. No one says a word.

After a while, you can’t help but glance his way, your eyes rolling when you see how he’s glaring at the files in front of him.

He’s clearly seething. The image of you, about to kiss someone else, seemed to be carved into his memory.

If he’d been closer, he might’ve punched the guy. Hell, if he wasn’t so goddamn professional, he might’ve dragged you away himself.

But he didn’t. He waited. He watched.

He hates that he waited.

And now he’s stewing in it.

When the jet lands, everyone moves quickly — eager to escape the static pressure in the air. You stand, grabbing your go-bag before heading for the stairs.

And then — low, sharp, right in front of you:

“Stay.”

He’s still seated, leaning forward slightly, elbow propped on the table. His hand is pressed to his face, fingers buried in his hair while his palm digs into his temple like he’s desperately trying to hold his thoughts together.

His eyes are closed — not from sleep, but something heavier — and despite the jet landing, his papers are still out, strewn in front of him. Clearly, he’d given up trying to read them — or pretending to read them.

His face is taut, shadowed — caught in a quiet storm of exhaustion or thought. Maybe both.

He looks really hot.

Swallowing, you will that thought away.

‘Stay.’ He had said, in a tone that made you freeze — one that left no room for argument.

You hesitate, your grip on your bag tightening a bit as you stare before deciding.

No.

With your lips set in a frown, you start walking again.

Just as you’re about to move past him, though, his hand reaches out to wrap around your wrist.

You tense, his touch making you feel warm and a bit breathless despite your anger.

“I said stay.” His voice cuts through the quiet — steady with an edge that sends a jolt through you.

Shit.

You look down at him, jaw set. “Let go.”

He doesn’t move at first — just lifts his eyes to meet yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. Then he exhales before rising to his feet in a fluid motion. His grip on your wrist doesn’t loosen as he stands over you, shoulders squared.

You falter, thrown by the sudden nearness. “Hotch—”

“Aaron.” He interrupts you, his eyes narrowing as he stares down at you. His tone is sharp, stern like hearing his last name offended him.

“Hotch.” You repeat it, just to piss him off.

If distance is what he wants, distance is what he’ll get.

He stares at you for a second before exhaling, a tired look in his eyes as he says, “We need to talk.”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” Your voice rises a bit and you barely manage to hold back a laugh. “You ignore me for weeks, send me off like I’m a problem you can delegate, and now — suddenly — you want to talk?”

His jaw clenches. “You don’t understand—”

“No. You don’t get to—“

Before you can finish what you’re saying, he uses his grip on your wrist to pull you into him. Fuelled by everything he hasn’t said, it’s not a gentle gesture.

You gasp as you stumble forward, crashing into his chest. Your cheek brushes the soft fabric of his shirt and your hand splayed instinctively against him for balance. When your eyes finally meet his, he’s already looking down at you — jaw tense, eyes dark, your faces now inches apart.

“You were going to kiss him.” His voice is quiet, but the words hit harder than if he’d shouted them.

His grip on your wrist tightens slightly, and for a moment, he closes his eyes. The sight of you both leaning in replays in his mind — the tension in his jaw is visible as his lips press into a line. His expression looks as if the image physically hurt him.

When he opens them again, his eyes lock onto yours, searching, checking to see if you understand the severity of it.

Your lips are parted as you stare at him.

You’re not surprised that he brought it up. You knew it was coming, but the way he says it — the weight in his voice — wasn’t something you were expecting.

His words carried an undertone of pain that make you falter. It’s not just about the kiss, you realise. It’s about everything he’s been holding in.

“You were about to kiss him.” He repeats, slower than before, his eyes still boring into yours.

Hearing the word ‘kiss’ a second time, along with the sudden proximity, had your gaze falling to his lips.

You couldn’t help it.

You looked back up quickly to find his eyes still on you.

A flicker of guilt creeps into your chest — something small, unwanted. Maybe it’s the way his voice quietened when he said it. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, like he wasn’t prepared for how much it hurt him — you almost kissing someone else.

For a split second, you start to feel bad.

But it doesn’t last.

Not when you remember the last few weeks — how he’s iced you out, kept his distance like you didn’t matter, like the moments you shared never happened.

Your jaw tightens and your brows furrow in the way they always do when you’re annoyed.

“Stop.” You say, the word sharper than you intended. Shaking your head, your voice comes out quieter the second time. “Just… stop.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you — eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to read you.

Like he’s trying to profile you.

What happened to never profiling each other? Probably the same thing that happened to being ‘professional’.

“You’re being unfair, Aaron.”

You avert your gaze, unable to hold his anymore. It drops to his chest — the fabric of his shirt stretched a bit beneath your hands that are still resting there. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, slightly faster than it should be.

He has no right to be upset, you think, and it takes everything in you not to say it out loud first. But when you look back up at him, your anger catches fire again, sharp and unforgiving.

“You’re the one who pushed me away.” You bite out, voice low. “You iced me out. For weeks, Aaron.”

Your words land heavy in the space between you, but you don’t stop.

“You told me we couldn’t—” You falter slightly, pain catching in your throat, “—that we had to keep things professional. And then you avoided me. You acted like I didn’t matter.”

His jaw flexes again, but he says nothing.

“And now what?” you continue. “Now you’re upset because I almost kissed someone else? You don’t get to pull me in two different directions like this. You can’t tell me to stay away, and then look at me like that when someone else gets close.”

His hand is still on your waist, his grip on your wrist still firm. He hasn’t let go, hasn’t backed off, and that makes it worse — the contradiction of it. The ache of being wanted but not claimed.

“It’s confusing. You’re confusing.” My voice goes back to being quiet as I lower my gaze again, missing the way his expression softens a bit.

It softens because he knows you’re right.

He can’t argue with you, not really. Not when you’re looking at him like that. Or rather, not looking at him at all. Your eyes are fixed on his chest now, lips pressed together in that tight little frown that always means you’re trying not to show how hurt you are.

He can’t argue with you because you’re right.

He’s being unfair, and the guilt of that realization hits him instantly, swallowing him whole. The weight of his own selfishness also sinks in, making him feel stupid for not realizing how much he’s hurt you.

When the silence stretches for too long, you look up, and your frown deepens when you see how he’s watching you.

“Stop profiling me.” Your voice shakes a bit as you try to yank yourself free of his grip. But Aaron doesn’t let go. His hands stay firm on your waist, like letting go would mean losing something he’s not ready to give up.

It only makes you angrier.

You shove at his chest, hard, but he barely budges. “Let go.” you snap, glaring up at him, but his expression doesn’t shift. He just watches you, jaw tight, eyes unreadable behind the shield of his silence.

That silence cuts deeper than anything.

“You ignored me for weeks!” you shout, your voice rising, cracking with something raw. “You didn’t even look at me. You shut me out like I meant nothing!”

You try again to pull away, like his touch burns. Like the heat of his hands is searing through your skin, cracking you open.

And it hurts him — more than he thought it would. Watching you try to escape him like he’s done something unforgivable — which he has — makes something twist in his chest. He wants to fix it, but he doesn’t know how. Every word you throw at him lands like a blow, and still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go.

He just hurts.

“Let go!” you yell, louder now, fists balled as you push at him again. “I said fuck off, Aaron!”

You look up at him then — eyes blazing, cheeks flushed with anger, your frown etched deep into your face. The fury in your expression is undeniable, and it hits him like a punch.

And before he even realizes what he’s doing — he kisses you.

It comes out of nowhere. Like something snaps inside him, like instinct. It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s angry and desperate and messy—like he’s trying to shut you up and apologize all at once. Like everything he’s been holding back has just erupted, too big to contain.

You freeze at first, tensing against it, breath caught in your throat.

But then you break.

Your hands fist in the lapels of his blazer, gripping hard like you need something to hold you upright. Your lips move against his with the same kind of fury you’d just thrown at him — like this is a fight, too. But somewhere in that chaos, your shoulders slump, and so do his.

Like you’re both exhaling for the first time in weeks.

Like this is the first breath either of you has taken since everything fell apart.

His hands move — one, then both — rising to cradle your face, fingers splayed across your cheeks like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You pull back first, breaking the kiss with a gasp, your breath catching somewhere between his mouth and your own. His grip loosens, and for a second, something like a whine escapes him — soft and involuntary — like he can’t believe you’re already pulling away.

You’re breathless. Lips swollen. Heart racing.

“You’re such an asshole.” you hiss, voice low, hoarse, but still furious.

His eyes darken. “You were gonna kiss him.”

“Stop repeating that!” you snap, but there’s no bite behind it now — just exhaustion and heat and emotion so tangled you can’t separate any of it.

You don’t even think about it — you just lean in again, drawn like a magnet. And this time, he meets you halfway. Your lips part just before they touch, and when they do, it feels like the ground shifts beneath you. Like the jet could be spinning or crashing and you wouldn’t even notice.

It’s slower, deeper — but just as intense. His hands are still on your face, and yours are clinging to him like you don’t trust gravity anymore.

But then he pulls away.

His forehead drops to yours — close, so close — and for a moment you almost let him stay there. But something in you twists, and you turn your head just slightly, breaking the contact. You keep your eyes shut, breathing shallow, your face turned toward the wall of the jet like if you don’t look at him, you can hold onto the last piece of your anger.

His heart sinks.

“I’m sorry.” he says, his voice quieter now. Cracked open. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

You don’t move. Don’t look.

“I— I thought it was the right thing.” he says, and now it’s all unraveling, everything he’s shoved down clawing its way out. “I didn’t know how to handle what I felt for you. I didn’t know if I should. So I convinced myself the best thing — the most responsible thing — was to shut it down. To shut you out.”

He lets out a breath, sharp and rough. “I told myself you’d be better off. That you didn’t need someone like me — someone older, someone who barely knows how to process his own shit, let alone drag you into it. My hours are a nightmare, I’m exhausted all the time, and I have nothing to give you except… this mess.”

His voice softens but doesn’t steady. “And if Strauss found out, she wouldn’t hesitate to pull you off the team. To punish you for something that was always my fault.”

You still don’t speak. Your eyes remain closed.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says again, quieter now, like it physically hurts to say. “But it felt like cutting off my own oxygen. Seeing you every day, hearing your voice, pretending you were just another agent — it fucking destroyed me. Every moment I stayed away, I felt like I was unraveling. But I thought… if I could just hold the line a little longer, maybe I could let you go.”

His voice cracks then, barely above a whisper. “But I couldn’t. I can’t.”

You don’t say anything, and the silence eats at him. He shifts slightly, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to read anything — any flicker of emotion, of softness, of something.

“Please say something.” he murmurs.

There’s no anger in him anymore. Just regret. Just longing.

“I haven’t slept,” he says, after a second. “Not really. Not since I let you go. You’ve been in my head every day. Every night. You walk into the room and I can’t think straight. I hear your voice down the hall and I forget what I’m doing. It’s pathetic.”

Then gently — cautiously — he reaches out, fingers brushing against your chin. He turns your face to him, coaxing your eyes to his.

And when you look at him, he looks wrecked.

There’s exhaustion in his features, shadows beneath his eyes, but it’s the look in them that breaks you: raw, sincere, desperate. Like you’re the only thing anchoring him to earth right now.

“I’m sorry.” he says again, like it’s the only thing he has left to give. Like he means it with everything he’s got.

And he does.

It’s silent for a second.

His eyes search yours, unsure and a little frantic, like he’s trying to profile you again — trying to get an understanding of whatever’s going on in your mind.

He gives up quickly, wanting to find out whatever it is your thinking from you yourself. But just as he’s about to ask, you kiss him.

When you pull back, your hands stay on him, sliding down to his chest where you can feel the rapid, uneven rhythm of his heart.

“I don’t expect you to be perfect, Aaron.” you murmur, voice soft but steady. “I’m not. I barely have my own shit together half the time. And I’m not looking for some ideal version of you — just you. The version that cares too much and thinks too hard and carries everything on his back like it’s his job to keep the world spinning.”

You pause, your eyes searching his, and he doesn’t look away.

“I don’t want anyone else.” you say, more firmly now. “I can’t want anyone else. My heart’s already decided. It’s you. It’s always been you. These past few weeks without you—feeling you pull away, watching you pretend like nothing mattered—that was hell. And if you think I just brushed it off and moved on, you really don’t know me at all.”

You don’t stop there, because you can see it — how he’s still doubting, still not sure what you see in him. So you tell him.

“You don’t even realize how much I see you.” you whisper. “How good you are. You’re strong, yeah, but you’re also… unbelievably kind. You’re the one who makes me feel stable when everything else is a mess. You make me feel safe without trying to control me. You make me feel… things I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling.”

His brow creases like he doesn’t know what to do with that, like it’s too much, too pure.

“And I don’t give a damn about your age. If anything, it makes you hotter.” you add with a breath of a laugh. “It means you’ve lived, you’ve learned, and you listen. You make me feel taken care of in a way no one ever has.”

He’s blinking at you like his brain short-circuited somewhere along the way.

“As for Strauss…” You shrug a little. “She’s not a profiler. We barely even see her. If we keep things professional at work, we’ll be fine. We’re good at this — at keeping calm under pressure. This isn’t gonna change that.”

Then you take one of his hands and hold it tightly, pressing your fingers to his palm.

“All I want,” you say, voice low, “is for you to let me love you.”

Something in him breaks. Or maybe it mends. You can’t quite tell.

His eyes widen just a little, and for a second he just stares at you — like his brain is still catching up. Like the word punched the breath right out of him.

“What?” he asks, the word so soft it’s barely audible.

“I just want to love you, Aaron.” you repeat, quieter this time, like it’s a promise.

His breath shudders out of him, and he leans forward again — not kissing you yet, just resting his forehead against yours, like he needs the grounding.

“I love you.” he says, the words raw and unfiltered. “And I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you next time — really talk. I won’t shut you out again. I won’t let myself forget what this feels like.”

“You better not.” you murmur.

And then he kisses you again.

It’s steadier now. Certain. Like he’s finally, finally giving in to the truth he’s been denying. Like he knows what he wants — and it’s you.

As your lips move together, the world outside the jet fades into the background. His hand moves slowly, purposefully, down your side, and then it shifts, lowering until he reaches into your pocket.

You pull away a little, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Before you can fully process it, he pulls out the small piece of paper — the one with Ryan’s number scrawled on it.

Your heart skips a beat. He saw that?

The thought stings for a second — had he seen everything? You’d assumed he’d stepped outside for some reason and had just happened to catch a glimpse of you two — coincidentally, when you were about to kiss.

But Aaron’s mind works in a different way. He had seen you leave with Ryan, noticed the way you two were talking, the smiles on your faces. And something in him tensed. He didn’t like it. The way you were walking so close, how easy it seemed between you. So he followed, curiosity gnawing at him. He hadn’t meant to — but it felt like he had to know.

You break the silence with a quiet question, still trying to make sense of it all. “You saw that?”

Aaron’s jaw tightens, his face flickering with a flash of frustration, then quickly hardening as he remembers it.

“I saw all of it.” he says, his voice colder than you expected. A wince pulls at his expression as he scrunches the paper up in his hand, turning to toss it in the small bin beside the exit of the jet, the movement sharp and final.

You can’t help but let out a small, amused laugh despite the tension. His reaction, his possessiveness — it’s almost too much to ignore. But then, before he can get too far in his thoughts, you soften and murmur an apology. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

He cuts you off with a question of his own, his gaze still intense as he watches you, his tone now a little guarded. “Were you actually going to kiss him?”

You blink, surprised by the bluntness, but you can’t help the smirk that slips onto your face. “Hey, you’re the one who paired me with him.”

Aaron rolls his eyes, the hint of frustration fading a little, but you can still see the sharp edge to his expression. “From now on, you’re with me for every case.”

You laugh at the thought, shaking your head, but the joke settles in as you reply, “I don’t think that’d help with keeping Strauss off our trail.”

Aaron chuckles, his eyes softening just a fraction, but he doesn’t back down. “I’ll risk it. It’s fine.”

Your laughter fills the space between you, and it warms Aaron’s heart more than he’d care to admit. He’s missed hearing it, hearing you so carefree, even when things feel a little chaotic.

He pulls you a little closer then, wrapping an arm around your waist as if he can’t let you go now that he’s got you. He starts guiding you off the jet with that same quiet confidence he always carries, but there’s something different now — a sense of peace between you both, even if the world outside still feels a little unsettled.

“You’re coming to my place.” he says, his voice low and steady. “I’m making you dinner.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

[multifandomficsx]

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!🌟

[multifandomficsx]

About Time

Pairing: hot!BAU!reader x boss!hotch About: You've been flirting with your boss for months, and you've decided to do something about it--only you don't expect him to be quite so receptive. CW: NSFW, MDNI, lots of teasing, fingering, CHOKING, light dom/sub/good girl play Word Count: 2k A/N: This is a Hotch fic, this is also my first NSFW fic. This probably won't be the last of hot!bau!reader. dividers by @/esote-rika

You’d been an agent at the BAU for 342 days. You’d had a crush on your boss, Aaron Hotchner, for 341 days and 3 hours. You’re pretty sure the feeling is mutual. You’ve now decided that it’s About Time you do something about it.

The sexual tension was thick. At first it was subtle, a lingering glance here, a touch that lasted just a little too long there.

Over time, it had slowly turned into intentional touches, little favors, overt flirtation—and you were sure the vibe had not gone unnoticed by your teammates. Luckily, they didn’t seem to mind—you were new, but they’d all known Hotch for a long time, and it almost seemed as if they were pleased to see him smiling more often. You were grateful for this unspoken approval—you weren’t sure you’d be able to help yourself either way, so the blessing was welcomed. They didn’t know, however, how haunting the wanting looks had become—Aaron Hotchner was thirsty, needy, starving for you.

Back to the doing something about it.

You know what you have; ‘Young’ and ‘hot’ are two things that will get you far. You’re sure that applying little light pressure on your boss would end up with you backed into a corner, Hotch’s hands pinning you against the wall, hot breath over your mouth, neck, anywhere.

The execution would be easy: get him alone, bat your eyelashes, bite your lip; you’re sure you can even throw in a little sigh, really get him aroused, make him flush. You relish in the idea of playing with him a little, already knowing the way he doesn’t seem to be able to keep his eyes off of your chest, the way his hands ball into fists—stiff at his sides, or shoved into his pockets—as if to keep himself to reaching up to touch.

Your boss could not resist you, and you knew it.

It’s time.

You stand up, tugging your skirt down a little and reapplying your lip balm. Though you never wear a lot of makeup, you’ve seen Hotch after you’ve applied your tinted lip balm, the way his focus is a little scattered as his eyes drift down to your lips—he’s a simple man.

You unbutton the top of your blouse, just a ghost of cleavage revealed; that would be enough.

He’s visible in his office from the bullpen, head down over his desk. You take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Here goes nothing.

As you approach his office, your hands are trembling. You take one more steadying breath before knocking lightly. “Come in,” Hotch says from the other side of the door. You quickly step in, closing the door gently behind you. He’s bent over a case file, the crease between his brows deep as he concentrates on reading what is in front of him. He hasn’t looked up from his desk since you’ve closed the door, so you clear your throat to get his attention; after a moment, he looks up, the crease in his forehead slowly relaxing as he takes you in. 

You see his eyes drag up from your waist, stopping on the unfastened top button of your blouse, before continuing to your face. You flutter your eyelashes, biting your lip as you turn to his blinds, deftly rolling the the tilt rod between your fingers, effectively closing his blinds as sensually as you can manage. You can feel his eyes on you, so you cock your hip to the side, giving him a little butt wiggle. 

When you turn back around, his eyes are dark. He’s no longer looking at your body, but studying your face—questioning sternly, frowning, warning. His lips part slightly as you approach his desk, frown deepening as he studies your eyes for an answer. You don’t say a word, though, instead lightly placing your fingertips on his desk, shyly looking down. 

Your fingers trace little shapes on the edge of his desk, and his eyes flicker to them, watching them intently. He tilts his head a little, further questioning your intentions. The silent conversation progresses as you slide one hand a few inches towards him, and his eyes widen, before he quickly sits back in his chair, legs spread, expression dark. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, and his voice sounds tight; you can’t help but notice the way his hands have moved to grip the arm rests of his desk chair, knuckles white. His thick, muscular thighs remain splayed, and you think you can see a ghost of an outline behind his zipper.

Hook, line, and sinker.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start softly, making sure to flutter your eyelashes a bit. “I know you’re my boss, but…” you bite your lip, looking him directly in the eye, daring him to prompt you to continue.

“But?” he questions, quietly this time, expression now schooled, lips slightly parted; you take in the way his breathing has sped up, and you’re pretty sure you can see his pulse throbbing in his neck.

You take a chance, making your way slowly around his desk, never breaking eye contact. His breath hitches as you reach out to stroke his hand, still grasping desperately onto the chair.

“But I can’t stop thinking about you,” you say impishly, giving him an innocent, wry smile as you look down. You lean down, free hand ghosting over his knee, sliding up a little, and he’s absolutely still as you move to wrap your hand around his wrist.

You can read the way he’s hanging on for dear life, pupils blown, breath now shallow, and you had known this wouldn’t be difficult—but you’re so delighted at how very easy this was. 

You squeeze his wrist once, and his fingers twitch, so you take that as permission, slowly pulling both his hands slowly to your waist, pressing his hands onto your hips, and his hands hover for a moment, trembling lightly. With a swallow, he bunches the fabric of your skirt in his fists.

You let out a soft sigh, eyes fluttering closed at the touch. Your noise sends him over the edge, and in a moment, his hands are on your ass, squeezing, his frustration palpable as he pulls you into him. 

“What are you doing?” He groans as you start to straddle him on the chair, but his question must be hypothetical, because before you can say anything, one of his hands moves up to the back of your neck, squeezing lightly and pulling you in, smashing his mouth against yours. 

He kisses you so hard you’re sure your lips will be bruised. He sounds outright brutish as he grunts, and the way he kisses you is hungry, forceful; his tongue pushes its way into your mouth, lapping at you, and all you can think about is how lovely his mouth will be between your thighs.

You whine, rolling your hips, finding relief in the press of his hardness against all of your pressure points, and his responding grunt is downright animalistic. His huge hands return to your hips, guiding them to rock against him, and you’re pliant underneath his fingers as he grinds his cock into you. 

He pulls your mouths apart with a smack and gently pushes you out of the chair, and you’re literally panting as he stands and backs you up against the wall behind you.

You’d always suspected Hotch could be a bit dominant, and you smile smugly, tracing your teeth with your tongue, veraciously anticipating his reaction.

“You’re obscene, coming in here like this,” he says sternly, and he torturously takes his time rolling up his sleeves before sliding a hand to your neck. You tilt your head up, inviting him to choke you, but instead he moves his hand into your hair, thumb brushing lightly at your cheekbone as he studies your face. 

“Yeah?” You ask, challenging, and you push your hips up off the wall towards him—but he places his other hand flat on your stomach, pushing you away from him, back up against the wall. His hips press forward, pinning you tightly, and you feel his hard cock digging into your soft abdomen as he greedily grinds into you. His left hand, still tangled in your hair, starts to slide down the nape of your neck, and he pinches a bit of hair between his thumb and forefinger. 

He tugs at your hair, tilting your head back and moving his other hand to rest on your throat. 

At this point, his entire, long body is pushed up against you, and you’re pressed so closely together that you can see every weave in the fabric of the collar of his shirt. 

His right hand rests on your throat, but he still won’t squeeze—he’s using gentle pressure to hold you in place, his hot breath fanning over your cheekbone as he gently slides his nose up the side of your face to your temple. You hear him smell your hair possessively, softly whispering your name. 

“Please, Aaron,” you moan, desperately, and he grinds into you again before pulling away. 

You keen at the absence of his touch, but it’s less than a second before his left hand presses against the low of your stomach, then teasingly traces the hem of the pantyhose where it ends mid-thigh, circling lower until he can sneak his hand up your skirt. He moves achingly slow, continuing to gently pin you to the wall by the throat, and he studies your face as you squirm under his touch.

When he finally reaches your panties, he finds them soaked through, and you bite your lip to stifle the long moan you let out when he brushes his middle finger over your clit.

At this point, you’re at his mercy as your knees start to give, panting heavily as he continues to lightly stroke you, and you nearly lose your mind when he starts whispering in your ear.

“Such a good girl,” he says, “so nice and wet for me.” He presses a kiss to your ear and gently puts more pressure on your neck, restricting blood flow just enough to make your eyes close involuntarily in pleasure. 

His right hand deftly moves your panties to the side, and he carefully slides his long fingers along all of your wetness, teasing your entrance with his fingers while his thumb takes over with making small circles over your clit. His mouth starts to nibble on your ear, and you’re seeing stars as he continues to overstimulate you with all of the arousal you’re experiencing in every inch of your body.

He keeps teasing like that, soft palpations turning into sloppier strokes, all the while slowly grinding his hips against yours. After a moment, he decides you’re moaning and squirming enough to finally warrant him sliding first one finger inside you, then a second, curling both fingers forward rhythmically to hit your spot while simultaneously making steady circles around your clit. 

“Thank you for coming to see me like this,” he says in your ear, “I’ll take care of you, sweetheart,”  and as he’s whispering, he’s rocking into your thigh with his cock, hot breath on your ear. 

At this point, his steady rhythm is starting to build something inside you, and you start rocking against his hand as he’s using it to fuck you. You press your neck forward into his other hand, silently pleading for more pressure. He obliges with the hand around your throat as you whimper, rocking your hips faster.

“Good girl, I’d like you to come for me,” he says gently, and you grind on his fingers for just a few more seconds as he carries you into the best orgasm you’d maybe ever had. His hand squeezes around your throat even tighter, and your vision goes black as you fully tremble to pieces in his grasp, circulation cut short as black dots swim in your vision. Your whole body pulses as you ride out your orgasm; his thigh has replaced his hand between your legs, helping to hold you up as you come down from your silent—but intense—climax. Your knees have gone out from underneath you; he pulls his hand away from your neck and uses it to steady you, and his other hand slowly slides into his mouth, licking you off of him. 

“Such a pretty girl,” he says softly, sweetly, once his fingers are clean, and you lean into him, still shaking. He wraps both his arms around you as you continue to catch your breath, slowly rocking you side to side as he strokes your hair. 

Once you’ve finally pulled yourself together, you let out a shaky sigh and step back, all of a sudden very shy. 

“Is that what you wanted? Did you think I didn’t know the little game you were playing when you shut those blinds?” He says slowly, his tone is gentle and teasing.

“A girl can try,” you attempt to flirt back, making a futile attempt to readjust your skirt and smooth your hair. He of course helps, straightening your blouse, even reaching up to re-button the top button you’d bravely undone in your salacious preparations. 

He bends over one last time, sensually kissing your neck just behind your ear.

“You could’ve just asked,” he whispered, giving your butt a little pat and stepping back with a smirk.

You’d count this one as a win.