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therightbeaches · 5 months ago

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No Vacancy - A.H

summary: perv!hotch has been good at keeping his hands to himself, but when a long case turns into sharing a room with you it’s only a matter of time before he breaks

pairings: perv!aaron!hotchner x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, i mean damn where do i start, one room trope (sue me), excessive use of the f word, hotch being a creep, power dynamics, dom/sub ish, FILTHY internal monologue from our boy h dawg, mans is so pussy wipped, fingering, female climax, dirty talk, hotch suggests reader suck him off while he takes a call with strauss LMAO

wc: 2.9k

It had been a shit (for lack of better word) day. A frustrating case, an endless string of red tape, a headache that had been grinding against Hotch's skull since noon. But none of it seemed to compare to the moment the desk clerk uttered five words that made his pulse slow, then spike. One less room than expected.

He should have said something, should have suggested an alternative, should have done anything but stand there, stiff as a board, as you gladly volunteered to room with him.

It wasn't fair.

You had no idea what you did to him. No idea how obscene his thoughts were. How he imagined you spread out for him, dripping, needy and begging. How much time he spent fisting himself in the shower, stifling groans against his fist, thinking about how you'd look, how you'd sound. You had no idea that even one night in close quarters with you might be the thing that finally broke him.

Hotch sat so rigidly on the bed that every muscle wound so tightly it felt like he might snap in half. You were right there. And the bathroom door might as well have been paper-thin, he could hear everything—fabric sliding over skin, bare feet padding on tile. He screwed his eyes shut. Don't picture it. Don't think about it.

Normally, he would. He'd spoil himself, let himself sink into it, picturing you in ways that he had no rightly business picturing you. It was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself. But not tonight. Not when he had to spend the whole night in the same room as you.

He had been fighting this all day—biting his tongue, forcing his mind back on track, trying to ignore every little thing that seemed designed to throw him off course.

Sitting beside you at the precinct, pretending not to notice the way your blouse gaped when you moved, the perfect swell of your breasts just barely visible. He had forced himself to look at the files instead. Failed. He had tried not to notice the way you licked your lips while reading, the way you dragged slim fingers across the edges of paper. Failed again.

It had started as a tiny, insistent ache in his gut, something manageable, annoying, but something he could push down. But now you were behind that door, stripping down, shedding every layer, and the image seared itself into his mind before he could stop it. Before he could even try—and fuck, he was getting hard.

Control. He needed control because this wasn't your fault. You weren't trying to tease him. And he again had no right to be sitting here, so painfully turned on, counting the seconds until you walked back into the room, knowing full well it would only make things worse.

And it did.

Hotch sucked in a sharp breath when you strolled in. Gods. Did you have to move like that? Did you shorts have to be that small, that tight, riding up your thighs with each step? Did your top have to be that useless at hiding the peaks of your nipples?

His cock ached beneath the oppressive confinement of his slacks, each pulse of blood making the restriction feel more and more unbearable. He could already imagine how good it would feel, his hand wrapped tight, stroking himself, slicking his cock up with the mess he know he'd spill for you.

His hands pressed together now, fingers digging in so hard his nails left half-moon indents in his own skin. He wanted to touch. Gods, he wanted to touch.

You plopped down beside him, bouncing slightly making the mattress dip, legs pressing in without hesitation, bare skin meeting the fabric of his pants in a way that seemed to punch the air straight from his lungs.

"Okay, so listen to this—" You shifted, your knee grazing his again. "If Dean’s phone pinged off a tower ten miles from the crime scene at 2:45 a.m., how the hell did he get back in time to be caught on the security feed at 3:12? The timeline doesn't make sense."

You trailed off, your fingers absently brushing over that same knee, tracing mindless patterns against the skin. Hotch's gaze followed, helpless to resist, watching the movements as if they were meant for him. He clenched his hand tighter, barely holding back the urge to grab yours, pin it down, or worse, guide it somewhere more useful.

Your voice dipped into something softer as you stretched, rolling out your shoulders. "Ugh, I think I pulled something in my neck today."

Hotch turned in time to see your fingers sweep your hair aside, baring the skin of your neck, untouched, unmarked. A damn shame.

Then you turned back to him, blinking up so sweetly he thought he might die. "Would you help me out?"

Hotch swallowed, forcing himself to shift just enough to mask the way his muscles tensed.

"Uh, yeah. Sure." His voice came out rough, rasping at the edges, betraying him entirely.

You smiled before you turned, settling right in between his thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Thanks, Hotch," you murmured, stretching your neck with a soft wince. "I think I did it when I had to twist around in the car today. I didn't notice it at first, but now it just feels all tight and achy, you know?"

He hesitated, every rational thought drowned out by the deafening throb of blood in his veins. His hands were meant to land on your shoulders, to stay there, to be appropriate. But all he could think about was grabbing your waist instead, pulling you flush against him, letting you feel exactly what you were doing to him.

With sheer willpower, Hotch pressed his fingers into your shoulders, kneading into the knots there. You were soft. Warm. His fingers strained, rough skin against delicate muscle, that contrast felt like it might ruin him. He fought not to focus on the way you shivered under him. Definitely not on how your body relaxed, melted into his hands, how your breath hitched when he found a stubborn knot and worked it loose.

"Mmm... that's so good," you sighed, head tilting, exposing even more of your neck to him.

Hotch exhaled sharply though his nose. His mouth went dry as his mind went to the filthiest place possible—you underneath him, whimpering the same words, your body arching as he took you apart with his hands.

His hands dug in just a little harder, his cock pulsing against his zipper.

"How do you know how to do this?"

His fingers tensed. "Experience."

"Well, its working," you sighed and moved, giving him even more skin to look at.

His hand dragged down, his palm pressing into the painful bulge in his slacks, needing relief, needing anything to counteract the pure hell you were putting him through.

It was wrong. So wrong.

You shifted back, adjusting your posture, and Hotch's whole body locked up. His breath stalled, his fingers stilled, his dick twitched sharply as your ass pressed right against him.

And fuck. You had to feel it.

You froze before you tensed. "Oh my gosh, Hotch, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"I know." His breath came out harsh.

His hands shot to your waist, gripping hard, as if that would stop you from moving again. As if that would stop him from thinking about how perfect your ass molded against him. As if that would stop him from picturing how easy it would be to pull your shorts down and shove himself between your thighs, fuck you until you were dripping of him.

You let out a tiny, breathless laugh. "I mean, it's not like it's a me thing, right? This just happens sometimes?"

You moved again—shifting, adjusting, an unconscious motion but it might as well have been an invitation.

"I wasn't trying to—"

And then you rocked forward.

Hotch's head snapped back, his eyes squeezing shut, his jaw clamped shut so tight he thought he nearly cracked a molar.

"Goddamn it." The words were guttural, unrecognizable. "You keep moving like that, and I swear to the gods, I won't be able to stop."

You turned toward him as much as you could, brows pulling together. "Hotch?"

The moment your eyes met his, he snapped. His grip tightened, his arm banding around your waist, dragging you deeper into his lap as if that would somehow soothe the ache pounding through his body.

His other hand slid up, fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head just enough to expose more of your throat.

His nose nuzzled along your skin, breathing uneven and harsh, his lips followed in a slow open-mouthed claim. His tongue flicked out, tasting you, his teeth just barely scraping, following by an inhale—like he was trying to take you into his lungs.

"You don't even know what you do to me." The words were spoken against your neck, half-growled, half-broken, like he was already beyond saving.

You squirmed against him, and Hotch felt it everywhere. The slight roll of your hips, the way your thighs brushed his, the unbearable friction of you pressing right against his bulge.

A ragged, gritted groan left him, his face pressing deeper into your skin, his fingers bruising your waist, keeping you in place.

"Hotch—," Your breath lifted, hands flying to his wrists, but you didn't push him away. You just held on, trembling. "We... we can't... right?"

His grip didn't loosen, if anything it tightened.

"You tell me, sweetheart." Hotch dipped his head, pressing a kiss against the base of your throat, soft at first, then deeper, hungrier. "Do you have any idea how bad I've wanted this?"

His lips trailed up, his hands on your waist tightening every time you moved.

"How long I've been picturing you like this?"

Another kiss, open mouthed, hips lips dragging wet and slow along your throat as if debating whether to bite or beg.

You gasped, hips grinding instinctually, and fuck, he almost fainted. "That's it. Keep doing that. Keep riding on my cock like that."

His teeth grazed your earlobe, tugging just enough to earn a shiver. His breath hit your skin in broken pants, his body strung so tight it felt like he might snap any second.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No—I, no, I don't want you to stop—," Your words broke apart on a moan, your head falling back against his shoulder. "But, we—Hotch we can't. This is wrong, isn't it?"

"Does it feel wrong?"

His hands dragged down, fingertips dipping beneath the hem of your shorts, tracing the creases of your thighs.

You sucked in a sharp breath, body tensing, but not pulling away.

"Does it feel wrong when I touch you here?"

His fingers brushed over your soaked panties, just barely there, but enough to draw the sweetest gasp from you.

"Or here?" His lips skated down your throat, sucking lightly before whispering against your ear. "Because sweetheart, it doesn't feel wrong to me."

Your whimper was a desperate sound, your hips jerking back, pressing into him in the way he needed you.

Hotch let out a groan, hands tightening on your thighs to pull them apart, spreading you open, his finger dipping under your panties.

"Christ." He didn't even realize he'd muttered it, but dammit, he was so goddamn lucky.

He brushed lightly over your clit.

"Hotch—yes, please—," You shuddered, body arching into his touch, but he kept it soft, taunting, his patience an exquisite kind of torture.

"But you're my boss, and—," Your words cut off with another moan, your hands gripping his arm like you didn't know whether to push him away or pull him closer. "Gosh, that feels so good, but—what about work? Are we—oh, gosh—are we supposed to pretend this—,"

Hotch chuckled darkly, his fingers sliding through the slick mess between your thighs, spreading your arousal like he had all the time in the world.

"Sweetheart, you can keep talking if you want." His lips brushed your jaw. "But it's not going to stop me from making you come."

"Oh—oh, okay—," Your breath stuttered.

Hotch felt like he was seconds away from losing it. His fingers rolled your clit, slow at first, teasing, before pressing exactly where you needed.

"Oh my gosh—oh, that's—that's so good, Hotch—," You squeezed his hand, head leaning back even further against him, and he swore he had never been harder in his life.

"This is—oh, wow—this is not what I expected when I checked in—," You let out a breathless moan as your hips tensed, twitched, rolled against him, making him groan through gritted teeth.

Hotch chuckled. "No? This wasn't part of your itinerary?"

"N-no, oh my gosh—," Your voice hitched, nails digging into his hand, body fully fusing with his.

He pushed a finger inside you, slowly, feeling just how slick, how hot, how drenched you were, savoring the way your tight walls fluttered around him.

He could feel it. Feel you dripping down his knuckles, coating his fingers, soaking his palm, making it impossible not to slide deeper, harder, rougher.

His dick jerked so hard it hurt, precum seeping, his own arousal mirroring yours, leaving his slacks sticky, ruined.

"Sweetheart," His voice was breathless. "You're soaking my hand."

You let out a soft, flustered noise. "S-Sorry. I—,"

His fingers thrust a little deeper, a little harder, making you gasp into your words.

"You think I don't like you like this? I want you dripping for me. I want you soaking my fingers, making a mess on my face, riding my cock until you can't think of anything else."

"You can't just—oh my god—Hotch, you can't just say that—,"

But Hotch felt it. The way you squeezed around his fingers, the way your body reacted to every word spilling from his mouth.

"You like it when I talk to you like that, huh?" His fingers thrusted deeper. "You like when I tell you exactly how I'm going to ruin you."

And you did it again.

"You know how many times I had to jack off thinking about you?"

"Thinking about fucking you over the filing cabinet after a long day still in your goddamn skirt, still dripping for me?"

"Thinking about dragging you into my office, making you sit pretty on my cock while I tell the team we're working late?"

"Thinking about you under my desk, looking up at me with those pretty eyes while I tell Strauss I'm too busy to meet?"

Your moans pitched higher, turning into gasping, needy little cries, your body shaking, thighs tensing and releasing around his wrist.

"Oh you're close, aren't you?"

"Your thighs are shaking." His voice was knowing. "Your little pussy's squeezing me so tight. What is it, sweetheart? You want me to keep you full? You don't want to come unless it's on my fingers?"

His fingers plunged deeper, curling that spot with perfect precision, and he felt it, the moment your walls seized around him, holding him so tight, his dick jerked against your back.

"Let me feel it," he murmured. "Let me feel you come on my fingers."

And fuck, you did.

Your body arched, thighs clamping around his wrist, your moan splintering in a sound that was pure sin, your pussy milking his fingers, and Hotch groaned, feeling every flutter and twitch.

Hotch let you ride it out, his hand splayed wide over your stomach, feeling every aftershock. He didn't rush you, didn't move, just stayed there, his fingers sunk deep, feeling you pulse around him, soaking in every last flicker of pleasure until you were nothing but a boneless wreckage in his lap.

Then, finally, he dragged his fingers out of you, watching the way they glistened, the way your slick stuck to him, soaking his palm, his knuckles, his wrist.

He chuckled before bringing them to his mouth, lapping at the mess before sucking them deeply, slowly. His other hand tightened on your hip as if to say he wasn't done with you yet.

"Jesus." His voice was hoarse, his eyes fluttering shut as the taste flooded his tongue, coated his throat.

When he opened his eyes, you were looking at him.

You didn't move, didn't breathe. Just stared, lips parted, your expression caught somewhere between overwhelmed and shock, like your brain was still catching up to what had just happened.

Hotch smirked, watching as your gaze flickered to his mouth, where his tongue had just been, before you swallowed hard, blinking like you couldn't quite believe it.

You shifted around in his lap, arms draping around his shoulders, your weight settling down on him. You let out the softest little sigh, like you had no idea what you did to him.

Then you smiled, still dazed, and whispered, "You—um... you really think about me that much at work?"

Hotch let out a low chuckle, his hands spreading wide over your hips.

"You really want to know how much I think about you?"

"Stay right here, sweetheart." His smirk was slow. "And I'll show you exactly how much."

taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

#Giys.#THE TENSION!!!!#Hotch is a freak ogm #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #val's fic recs ʚɞ #nsft

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therightbeaches · 5 months ago

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hey girlie, first of all absolutely adore all of your hotchie fics no one writes him as well as you do!! second of all i am dying to read bimbo!assistant! x hotch smuuuutt (only if ur comfortable, pls ignore if not!!) i feel like that would be the only time hotch would have her completely and utterly speechless (idk why but i literally cannot get hotch w a breeding kink out of my goddamn mind!!!!!!) anyways hope ur having a fab day, and thank u for feeding us over the last few days 😘

Space Between Distraction & Indulgence - A.H

summary: bimbo!assistant!reader want’s aaron’s attention. aaron wants to finish his case notes. too bad for him, you always get what you want

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit stuff going on here, fingering, p in v, no condom (bc we trust hotch is responsible but you shouldn’t be), dirty talk, hotch is a boob man sorry not sorry, after care with a side of psychoanalysis bc he can’t help himself

wc: 6k (got a little carried away my b)

a/n: thank u sm for requesting ugh!!!! u all r going to give me a god complex if you keep talking about how i write hotch LOLOL i love u sm hope u like the fic!!

Saturdays with Aaron had a way of making time feel like something slippery and golden, something you could almost touch before it vanished between your fingers. The mornings stretched long and languid, a lazy kind of indulgence that should have felt endless, but somehow, with him, it never was.

You woke up late. Very late. The kind of late that made you blink at the clock in mild disbelief before flopping back against the pillows. And then there was the warmth. Not just the heat of the blankets, but something deeper, something winding low in your belly.

Oh. Right. The dream. You swallowed, biting your lip as if that might make the memory dissipate. It wasn't outright filthy, but it had been suggestive enough. Annoying. Frustrating. Embarrassing. It was the kind of thing that made you wish Aaron was still in bed.

He wasn't, of course. That would require Aaron Hotchner to do something reckless and irresponsible, like relax. If he wasn't keeping the country from total collapse, he was finding something equally as urgent to fix, probably buried in reports right now, coffee in hand, eyes scanning the page like national security depended on it. And maybe it did. You didn't know.

What you did know was that you'd been circling him all afternoon, orbiting like some needy little planet trapped in his gravitational pull, and he still hadn't acknowledged you. A small part of you—one you didn't want to name—had hoped he'd notice you by now. That he'd glance up, see you, reach for you. But he hadn't. And that was okay. Really. You weren't needy. You weren't desperate.

But you noticed him. You always noticed him. And this version of him, the weekend version, was particularly hard to ignore. The casual clothes, casual for him, anyway, stomped all over your ability to think straight (not that you had much to concentrate on in the first place).

The grey crewneck he had on stretched across his shoulders, molding to the shape of him like it had been made for him. His jeans, worn in all the right places, settled on his hips in a way that made you feel like a pervert just by looking.

Even his hair had you practically drooling. Not messy, of course—Aaron Hotchner didn't do messy—but it was softer than usual, a little mussed, like he'd dragged his fingers through it one too many times without bothering to fix it.

It made him look almost touchable, like someone who should have been stretched out next to you on the couch, letting you mess it up even more, not hunched over a pile of paperwork like the case files were going to disappear if he blinked.

His forearms flexed every time he turned a page, his muscles shifting subtly every time he moved. You didn't even realize how blatantly you were staring until his fingers skimmed up to his jaw, scratching absently at the stubble there. Because now all you could think about was how it would feel under your fingertips, under your lips, under—okay. Enough.

The magazine in your lap was technically open, fingers flipping through glossy pages filled with designer gowns and scandalous headlines. Normally, you'd be all over it, sipping coffee as you devoured the who wore what and who was caught with who. But today, you weren't really reading, you were just holding it, turning pages for the sake of it. Something to occupy your hands while you definitely didn't stare at Aaron.

He had started keeping these around after you mentioned, offhandedly, how much you loved them. You hadn't even meant it as a suggestion, but the next time you visited, there it was—sitting on the coffee table like it had always been there.

He hadn't spared you so much as a glance since you walked in—not even when you'd practically drifted past his desk, close enough that he should've felt you there. He had mumbled a good morning, sure, but his eyes never left the page, his attention locked onto whatever was in that file.

You sigh—loudly. Pointedly. The kind of exaggerated little huff that normally earns you at least a glance, maybe even a what's the matter, sweetheart? There was no reaction today. He just flipped another page, one hand smoothing over the text, the other tapping against the desk like you were completely invisible.

You toss the magazine onto the table—just a little too hard. Then you stretch out on the couch, shifting just enough that his button-down rides up, baring more of your thighs than should be considered decent. The air against your skin makes you hyperaware of what isn't there—only your favorite panties. The tiniest scrap of fabric between you and absolute obscenity. If he so much as glanced in your direction, he'd have the perfect view. But he doesn't.

You sigh again, softer this time, just enough to sound absentminded, like you're not trying to get his attention (even though you absolutely are). As you push yourself off the couch, you stretch a little, giving yourself an extra moment to watch him. You make your way toward him, steps slow, letting the hem of his shirt brush against the tops of your thighs as you move. His fingers flex against the page.

You settle against the edge of his desk, bracing yourself on your elbows, making a very intentional point of pressing your tits together. It's the kind of thing that should be subtle—just a natural consequence of your posture.

Months of Aaron have taught you more than just the way he takes his coffee or how he organizes his files. You've studied him—memorized him even. And one thing has become crystal clear:

He's absolutely a boob man.

You realized it gradually—the subtle stiffening of his posture whenever you leaned a little too close in the office, the way his fingers flexed when your blouse had just a bit too much give.

Then, when you started dating, it became even clearer. His hands never just grabbed—they claimed, like he was making up for all the times he couldn't touch.

His voice would go low, reverent, when he murmured, so pretty, sweetheart, his thumb brushing over your skin like he needed to feel it. And your bras—he had thoughts about those, much to your surprise. Which ones were his favorite. Which ones he hated because they got in the way.

But it wasn't until months later—when he had you spread out beneath him, his mouth hot and urgent against your skin—that he admitted it. His voice was rough, breathless, his grip tightening as he groaned, been trying so fucking hard not to look at these for years. And then, just to prove it, his mouth sealed over you like he had years to make up for.

"Do you need anything? Water? Coffee? Maybe lunch?"

His eyes lift—quick, practiced, almost indifferent.

Almost.

Because before they settle back down, they pause, just for a fraction of a second, right there. Right at the collar of his button-down, where the top buttons are hanging loose, where your skin is warm and soft and practically begging for attention.

But then, before you can revel in it, he's already looking back down. "No, I'm fine, sweetheart."

You bite your lip, actually contemplating throwing his stupid case file out the window. He's either knows what you're trying to accomplish and ignoring you on purpose or he's just that focused. You weren't sure which was worse.

You shove off the desk, but you don't step away. Instead, you step closer. Your hands find his shoulders first, sliding down to his chest as you lean into him, pressing against his back. The shift is immediate. He goes still, his spine going ramrod straight, like his brain has just caught up to what's happening.

Your shirt is paper-thin, your nipples are pressed right against him, and unless he's suddenly gone completely numb, he feels it.

You sink against him, letting your chin rest on his shoulder, breathing him in. Gods, he smells good. Clean, sharp, like something expensive.

You recognized it as the cologne you bought him. The one you picked, the one you dabbed on his wrist in the middle of a department store and grinned, telling him, This. This smells like you. This is the one.

Your fingers skim over his collar, your nails just barely catching against the heat of his skin.

"What are you working on?" You let the question drip from your lips, your voice all honey, sweet, but not innocent.

Aaron hums low in his throat. "Case notes."

"That's boring. Is there anything I can do to help? Your assistant is very willing to be of service."

His fingers pause and your stomach flips. But then, before you can savor it, he moves. His hand finds yours, slow, gentle, lifting it with patience. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, featherlight, frustratingly chaste, before setting your hand back down like you're some good little thing that's been successfully pacified. And then you catch it, the tiniest twitch of his lips.

"Thank you, honey, but I've got it under control."

You make a noise, half scoff, half petulant whine, and shift your chin against his shoulder, angling yourself just enough to shoot him a pointed glare. "You always say that. What's the point of having such a capable assistant if you're not going to use her?"

"Hmm. So that's what you want? For me to use you?"

"I don't know. Is that an option?"

Aaron's laugh is low, the kind that rumbles through his chest without much warning. It's never loud—it doesn't have to be—but it still manages to send your stomach into a ridiculous free-fall.

"There's just some stuff I need to finish up."

You groan, letting your forehead drop to his shoulder, arms squeezing around him like you can physically hold his attention. Like you can will it away from the pages in front of him and back to you where it belongs.

"Is that your way of telling me I just have to sit here and be patient?"

Aaron's pen doesn't pause. "Mhm."

You huff. "And you think I'll be able to do that?"

His answer is immediate. Too immediate.

"You've survived this long," he says, and you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice. "I think you'll manage."

"Fine," you say after a moment, stepping around the chair before sinking into his lap, giving him plenty of time to stop you, but he doesn't. He never does.

You shift until you're settled, one leg draped over his, chest brushing his. His breath stutters—just a little, just enough to tell you that he feels you. His fingers flex against the desk, pressing harder into the wood, tension rolling through his back as he goes perfectly still beneath you, like he's waiting to see what you'll do next.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," you hum, arms draping easily over his shoulders as you sink against him. Your cheek brushes his, lips just close enough that if he turned his head, just a little, you'd be right there. "You said you had to finish working. Don't let me stop you."

A slow inhale, a slight tilt of his head, then—his pen moves again, like nothing's changed. Like you haven't changed anything. You exhale against his skin, hiding your smirk in the crook of his neck, fingers idly tracing slow, featherlight circles along the nape of it. He's humoring you, and that's fine.

You let him pretend for a while, content to exist in the space between distraction and indulgence. You shift in his lap, weight pressing into his just enough.

His body reacts before he does, muscles tightening, his breath slowing like he's thinking too hard about not reacting.

"Sit still."

"I am still," you reply, the words light on your tongue, but the slow curve of your hips tells another story.

"Sweetheart."

You lean in, close enough that your noses brush, your forehead pressing to his as your lips part ever so slightly. "What? I'm not doing anything."

Aaron's breath comes out sharp, ragged, the sound scraping its way from his throat like he's been holding onto it for too long. His chest pushes against yours, every inhale pressing you closer, every exhale heating the space between you. He leans back, just enough to create the smallest sliver of distance.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, savoring the friction that sends a shudder through you, tightening every muscle in your body with anticipation. The feeling sparks through you, sharp and intoxicating, sending heat pooling in your stomach. His reaction was subtle, the shift of his jaw, his hand brushing against the desk, like he doesn't trust himself to touch you yet.

His gaze drops, heavy-lidded, to where your bodies fit together, the rise and fall of your breath syncing with his.

His hands land on your hips, thumbs pressing in, not enough to stop you, just enough to remind you he could if he wanted to. When his eyes meet yours again, there's no rush, no immediate reaction. You knew exactly what it meant and what usually followed, he was just waiting for the moment you tip the scales too far.

"Do you want to tell me what exactly it is you're trying to do?" he asks, his voice low, the kind of tone that makes you forget your own name for a second.

You push against him again, grinding just enough to feel the press of him, the heat of him, and god. His fingers dig in—tight—like he's trying to stop you, but you don't miss the way his breath catches, the way his grip falters for half a second. Your fingers curl into his shirt, and suddenly, you can't remember what your original plan was.

You shift forward, your body molding to his, your breath fanning against his skin as your lips brush his ear. Your teeth scrape, light, but not accidental.

"I'm just feel a little... overlooked." Your fingers tighten where they rest, nails digging in just enough to make sure he feels it. "Is it so bad that I want your attention?"

His grip tightens, harder this time, his fingers digging into your hips with a kind of warning you'd be stupid to ignore. The heat of his palms seeps through the thin fabric of his shirt, scorching into your skin like a brand.

"You have my attention." You don't believe him. Not really. You press your lips into a pout, brow furrowing just slightly. "But if you keep moving like that, I might now be so nice about it."

Your hips shift, an instinctive little squirm, testing to see if you can push past his hold. You can't. "I can't help it."

"You can't help it?" he repeats, almost thoughtful, like he's turning the idea over in his mind. "I think you can. You just don't want to."

You want to argue, you really do, but nothing comes out, only a sharp inhale that never quite makes it into words. Because he's right. He knows he's right.

The little noise that escapes your throat is purely instinctual, frustrated but breathy, like your body is already conceding before your mind catches up.

"I told you to stop," he murmurs, but the way it sinks into you, the way it wraps around your ribs like something stretched too tight, tells you exactly what kind of trouble you're in.

He mirrors you, crowding in, his breath skimming your ear. His palm presses into the small of your back, slotting you back into place. "But you don't listen, do you?"

You shake your head without even meaning to, the deafening roar of your pulse making it impossible to think clearly.

"No, you don't," he murmurs, his tone dipping lower, turning darker, more intimate. His hands flex as if to remind you of the control he holds. Then his lips graze your jaw, his breath fanning over your skin. "You push. You test the boundaries. And then you pretend to be shocked when I hold you to them."

His fingers slide down, dragging over your thigh with an almost excruciating slowness. He pauses to squeeze there.

"First, you sprawled out on the couch—" his thumb sweeps over your skin, "like you didn't know exactly how that would look."

Your breath stutters, catches, knots itself into something tangled and messy as his hand moves, sliding higher, pressing firmer, stopping just shy of where the ache blooms.

His eyes darken, the heat behind them smoldering with something deep, something that settles like fire in the pit of your stomach.

"Then you leaned over my desk, practically shoving these—" His hand moves before the words fully land, cupping the curve of your breast. His thumb rolls over your nipple. "—right in my face."

Your breath catches, your hips lifting, your thighs parting like you're meant to be touched. Like you need him there. But he doesn't give in. He just moves lower, slow and taunting, until his palm covers the heat between your legs, pressing lightly over the thin fabric of your panties.

His fingers flex, testing. Feeling.

"And now this," he murmurs, and gods, his voice, his voice, is like a razor wrapped in velvet, smooth and cutting all at once. "You squirm and pout like you don't know exactly what you're doing. But I know better, don't I?"

The words settle in your spine, and suddenly, you don't feel like you know what you're doing. Like you're the one pulling at a thread you don't quite understand, but it's already too late to stop. A shiver rolls through you, bone-deep, leaving your muscles lax, your body melting into his like you were always meant to be here.

"I'm sorry," you murmur so quietly, you're not even sure if he hears it. "I just... I wanted you to notice me."

Aaron's hum is low, deep, almost amused. His thumb finds your jaw, sweeping along the curve of it as he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Oh, I noticed you. I always notice you. In fact, you're all I ever notice." His hand slips away from where you want it most. "But if this is the only way you know how to ask for my attention, sweetheart, then I think we have a problem."

Your grip on his shirt is useless, you're clinging to him, to anything, but he's the one in control. His hands settle on your hips, demanding, guiding you over the hard line of his cock, forcing you to take the friction, to feel every inch of him through the layers still between you.

The friction is blinding, sending heat licking up your spine, setting every nerve in your body on fire. Your legs tremble, a sharp, choked sound escaping before you can stop it, and you clutch at his shoulders, nails sinking deep into muscle as pleasure coils tight and insistent in your belly.

"Aaron," his name slips from your lips, high and uneven, like it costs something to say it. Your head bows, forehead pressing into his shoulder, hands trembling against his chest. "I wasn't trying to be bad. I just... I didn't know what else to do."

"No, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You didn't think, did you? And now look where that's gotten you."

His words should sting, but they don't, not when his hands are so gentle, smoothing down your spine like he's soothing something raw inside you. And then his voice, warm and promising, settles over you, "But I'll take care of you now."

And gods, you need him to. He's so hard, the thick length of him pressing against you through denim and cotton, teasing, tormenting. Everything burns—your skin, your stomach, that deep, pulsing ache between your thighs. Your head swims, feverish, your mind caught between more and please and I can't take this. But he knows. Of course, he knows.

"Do you feel that?"

"Yes."

"Good. If you want to keep going, you'll take care of it. Go ahead."

Your hands move with the kind of urgency that betrays just how badly you need this, need him. Your fingers trail down, brushing over the tight muscles of his stomach, and it's almost enough to make you dizzy, just touching him, just knowing what's waiting for you beneath layers of fabric.

The button of his jeans fumbles beneath your fingers before finally popping open. And then you're pulling him free. He's thick in your hand, burning hot against your palm, and something about that, about feeling him like this, for you, makes something feral sink its teeth into you.

And then he finds you.

His fingers slip under your panties, gliding through the obscene slickness there, and you don't mean to react so violently, don't mean to moan so loud, but it rips out of you before you can stop it.

"Oh, honey," Aaron murmurs, almost thoughtful, like he's just now realizing the full extent of your undoing. "I didn't realize you'd gotten this worked up."

Like it's an observation. Like it's fascinating.

His fingers push, stretching you open, teasing just the right spot, and you jerk against him with a sharp, strangled moan. Your grip around him tightens, your strokes turning sloppy, uneven, desperate.

"Aaron—" His name tumbles out high and needy, your head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut.

"I didn't mean to—" Your voice shakes, a hitched little gasp tangled between syllables. "I just—" Your breath stutters, heat climbing, overwhelming. "I didn't know what to do."

"You don't have to know what to do." His fingers slow just enough to let you catch his breath as he murmurs. "You just have to let me take over. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"

Your nod is frantic, almost mindless, as his words echo in your ears.

"Please." It falls from your lips like a confession, like you'd say anything if it means he'll give you what you want.

His fingers thrust deeper, and the shock of it rips a gasp from your lips, straight into his kiss. It's messy, frantic, all clashing mouths and stolen air, your breaths coming too fast to match his, like you're afraid if you let him go for even a second, he'll pull away.

Your grip on him tightens without thinking, your fingers flexing around his cock, but the sensation barely registers now, drowned out by the wetness pooling between your thighs, the slick drag of his fingers against your walls.

You can't keep up. You're chasing something that feels just out of reach, your hands leaving his cock, fumbling for something solid, something real. They find his face, fingertips brushing over the rough stubble of his jaw, trying to find yourself in him, in the way he's ruining you.

You kiss him like you can tell him everything that way, like he might understand the ache better through lips and tongues and the way your body trembles under his hands.

And then—he stops. His fingers slip free, and the sound you make is a whine, a protest, your hips tilting, seeking, trying to drag him back in. But he doesn't move, doesn't give you what you need, just smirks against your lips like he enjoys watching you squirm.

"You're so impatient," he murmurs against your lips.

But before you can protest, before you can tell him that yes, yes, you am impatient, please just give it to me, his hands tighten on your hips. And then—oh.

He lifts you, positioning you just right, and then, lowers you down.

The head of his cock pushes inside, and your breath catches, lips parting in a broken gasp. The stretch is devastating, inch by inch forcing your body to open, to yield to him. He's so deep, impossibly deep, and for a second, you forget how to breathe, how to think, your only thought being how does he even fit?

It feels endless, your thighs shaking against his as he takes his time, forcing you to feel every slow, torturous inch. Your body clenches around him, your nails dragging over his scalp as you bury your face against his neck.

"Breathe," he murmurs, voice thick, lips grazing your temple. "That's it. Let me take care of you. You just have to let me in, sweetheart."

"Okay, okay," you whisper, voice shaky as you bury your face against his neck, arms wrapping tighter around him.

His other hand moves, dragging up your spine before wrapping around your waist. And then—he presses deeper.

The air leaves your lungs in a sharp, punched-out gasp. He doesn't stop, doesn't let you breathe, just sinks in, stretching you open until he's fully seated inside you. Until there's nowhere left to go.

"That's it," he groans, voice tight, his mouth ghosting along your jaw. "So tight. So warm. Fuck, sweetheart, you know this is what you were made for, don't you?"

You try to think of something, something teasing, something bratty, something that might tip him over the edge, but your body betrays you, trembling around him, squeezing down so tight you feel him shudder.

"God, you're tight," he mutters, his fingers pressing into your hips, hard enough to leave bruises. "I can feel every little tremble, every squeeze. You feel that, sweetheart? How perfectly you fit around me?"

"It's like you don't want to let me go. Is that what you want, honey? To keep me right here?"

Your body clenches down instinctively, like you're answering him without meaning to, and his breath catches for just a second before his lips curve against your skin. You nod, frantic, a little dazed, a little wrecked, and his chuckle is pure sin.

"Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."

He pulls back just enough to create the kind of unbearable friction that makes your breath catch, your body tightening like a bowstring.

"Every little sound you make drives me insane." His breath drags over your cheek, his lips just shy of touching, like he's teasing himself as much as he is you. "Do you even realize what you do to me?"

You try to answer, you really do, but your lungs don't work properly anymore, your body focused on the pleasure threatening to snap at any second. Your fingertips tremble against his shoulders, your thighs quiver, and Aaron knows exactly what that means.

"That's it. I can feel you trembling, sweetheart. You're so close, aren't you?"

His words strike something deep, something primal, and the fire curling between your thighs roars in response. Your head tips back, your breath breaking apart as your hands scramble for purchase, fingers sliding to his face, thumbs brushing over the roughness of his jaw. You pull him into a kiss that's all hunger, all desperation, your lips parting to let him devour you.

He groans into your mouth, a sound that vibrates through your chest, and then his hips snap up into you. The stretch is suffocating, the sheer fullness of him sending sharp pulses of pleasure up your body with every deep thrust.

"I've got you," he murmurs against your lips. "You don't have to hold back. Just let go for me, sweetheart."

It crashes into you harder than you expected, knocking the breath straight from your lungs. Your moan catches halfway, tumbling out in pieces as your body convulses, clenches tight, gripping him in a way that makes him hiss through his teeth.

He thrusts deep, brutal, final, and then he's gone, his head dropping back as a groan tears from his chest.

He fills you in thick, pulsing waves, each pulse making your thighs tighten around him, making you gasp at how deep it settles. The feeling is overwhelming—the heat of him, the weight, the way his cock still twitches inside you, like he’s unwilling to let a single drop go to waste.

You're not sure where your body ends and his begins, your limbs heavy, useless, boneless as you slump against him. Your breath stutters, still uneven, every exhale pushing against his chest as the last waves of pleasure roll through you.

"You take every drop so fucking well," he murmurs. "Meant to keep you full."

His fingers press into your hips, just a little tighter, just enough to make you feel how deep he still is.

"Don’t move yet."

Your breath stutters, the words landing deep, something fluttering tight in your stomach.

"Just a little longer," he murmurs, his hands absently smoothing up and down your spine. His voice drops, lower, rougher—

"I want to make sure it sticks."

You shudder, pressing closer, your face tucking against his neck as everything—the fullness, every drop of his cum—settles in.

Aaron exhales, his chest rising beneath you, and suddenly, he shifts. His grip on your hips soften and slide up, like he can feel the way you're trembling against him.

"Breathe, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You can do that for me, can't you?"

You try, you really do, but when you inhale, it's a stuttering, gasping thing, barely controlled. Your thighs still shake, your body still throbs around him, and you can feel the way he exhales, like he enjoys this—enjoys feeling you like this, soft and trembling in his arms.

"Easy," he murmurs. One hand slides up your spine, cupping the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. "That was a lot."

You nod—or, at least, you think you do. Everything feels floaty, light, warm. Your head feels like it's filled with pink clouds. Your limbs feel soft, useless, like you're some well-loved doll that's been played with for hours.

He tilts your chin up, catching your gaze.

"You okay?" His brow furrows slightly, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

You blink slowly at him, lips parting, trying to focus.

"Mhm," you hum, then pause, frowning just slightly. "Wait, no—hold on."

His jaw tenses immediately, but you reach up, poking his cheek with a weak, clumsy finger.

"You didn't kiss me," you mumble, like it's the most important fact in the universe. "You're supposed to kiss me after, 'cause, like, you love me and all that."

Hotch lets out a slow breath, like he's holding something back. His head tilts, just barely shaking, like he's in mild disbelief of you. And okay, fine, maybe you do say a lot of dumb things. But this wasn't dumb. It was valid. It was scientifically proven that post-sex cuddles should include at least one (1) I love you and one (1) kiss, and you were simply holding him accountable.

"Of course I love you," he murmurs, like the answer is so obvious, so unquestionable, that it almost makes you feel silly for asking. And then he kisses you.

It's deep, drawn-out, the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are.

You're still in his lap, still tangled in the ridiculous, oversized leather chair, but you don't feel like you're anywhere. Not in his apartment, not even in your own body. Just floating, existing in between his lips and yours.

When you finally pull back, it's not even voluntary—just the sad, unfortunate reality of needing air.

"Wow," you murmur, your fingers lazily brushing over his jaw.

"Wow?"

"Mhm." Your tongue darts out, sweeping over the kiss-swollen curve of your bottom lip, like you're trying to catch what's left of him there, trying to savor it. "Like... I feel very wow."

A smirk tugs at his lips, but his hands don't stop moving, don't stop tracing, don't stop feeling. His fingers smoothed absently over your hips, up your spine, his palms blending into your skin. Like he's checking for something. Like he's making sure you're here with him.

And for a second, you think he's about to kiss you again. He looks like he wants to, his gaze flickers to your lips, his hands flex just slightly, his body leans in just a hair. But then his gaze flickers, his lips part slightly as if he'd just remembered something.

"You said something earlier."

You blink again, brain lagging behind slightly as reality creeps back in, still floating somewhere in bliss. Which you felt was a more pressing topic than whatever he's about to say.

Your face scrunches up immediately, like maybe if you look cute enough, he'd drop it.

"I said a lot of things earlier," you rush out, voice a little too high, a little too hasty, your hand flapping vaguely in the air. "So many things. A real stream of nonsense, actually. I was just saying words, you know, as one does—"

You shift slightly, suddenly painfully aware of the position you're in, and he doesn't even blink.

"Aaron," you say, narrowing your eyes. "You're literally still inside me and you want to have a conversation right now?"

"Yes," he says simply, like of course he does, like this is completely reasonable, like you aren't still wrapped around him, skin warm and sticky from what you just did.

His brows furrow slightly, and his head tilts in that very specific way that means he's already pulling apart the words, unraveling them like a thread, and working through them with that brain of his before you can even begin to take it back.

"You said you felt overlooked," he states plainly, like a fact, which you guessed it was. "If that was something you just said in the moment, we can drop it."

His eyes narrow, studying you like he already knows the answer. "But if you meant it, then I want to understand why."

Your mouth parts, ready to push out something easy, something light, something that won't lead to the very real, very terrifying act of actually admitting things.

He was serious. Not angry or annoyed. Just serious. And concerned.

You exhale, suddenly very invested in dragging your nails lightly over his chest, watching the way they disappear into the fabric of his shirt, how his muscles shift slightly beneath your touch.

"I mean... it's not a thing," you mumble, barely glancing up. "More like a thing-adjacent."

"Sweetheart." The firmness in his voice made your stomach flip. It's not a scolding or a warning, just his way of making you hear him. "I'm not interested in whether you think it's a thing or not. I'm interested in whether it's true."

"I mean, I guess... maybe a little."

His fingers flex, like he's taking that in. He nods once, slowly. "That makes sense."

Your brows furrow. "It does?"

"Yes," he states plainly, like it's obvious. "You pick up on subtle changes—even the ones I don't intend to project. And when I get hyper focused on something, I shut everything else out. Not just you. Everyone."

"It's a defense mechanism. A way to compartmentalize. It doesn't mean I don't notice you. It means my brain assigns the highest level of urgency to the task at hand, and everything else—everything outside of that—is temporarily shut out."

"When I do that, it makes sense that you would feel like I'm not paying attention to you," he continues. "Because in those moments I'm not."

Your breath catches. He says it so matter-of-factly, so plainly, that it almost doesn't sting at first, it just lands.

His grip tightens ever so slightly where his hands rest on your like he already knows how you're taking it.

"But that doesn't mean I don't want to be paying attention," he murmurs, fingers brushing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. "It doesn't mean you don't exist in the back of my mind, even when I'm caught up in something else."

Aaron leans in a fraction, his eyes holding yours.

"Do you know what I did last night after you fell asleep?" he asks.

You blink. "Uh... sleep?"

He smirks. "Eventually. But first, I checked the thermostat. You always get cold at night, even when you say you won't."

Your face warms. "That's just—,"

"And before I left for work last week, I moved your car closer to the building because I saw you left your umbrella at my place."

"I—,"

"And when I'm out of town, do you know what I do every morning?"

You swallow.

"No."

"I think about what you're having for breakfast," he murmurs. "Not consciously. It's not something I try to do. It just... happens."

"You always eat something sweet," he continues, his thumb brushing over your jaw. "It's usually a pastry or something covered in chocolate. Sometimes cake, if we're being honest."

Your scrunch your nose again and he smiles.

"So, tell me," he murmurs, tilting your chin up. "Does that sound like someone who overlooks you?"

Your lips part but nothing comes out. Your heart aches—not the bad kind, but the kind that makes your chest feel too small for everything inside it. Because he's right. He notices everything. Not in the big, showy romance-movie ways but in the little things. In ways that matter.

You inhale a little too hard, blinking quickly, but the stinging in your eyes isn't going anywhere.

Aaron sees it immediately. "Sweetheart."

You shake your head quickly, sniffling.

"I'm not crying," you announce, even though your voice cracks on the last word, which kind of ruins the effect.

He smirks. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," you say firmly, poking his chest. "I just—I feel very loved and now I have to process that."

"Okay," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Do you need time to process, or should I just assume you're going to be attached to me for the foreseeable future?"

Your smile is instant, automatic, the kind that takes over your whole face before you can even think about stopping it. Your arms tighten around his neck, fingers curling into his shirt like you have any intention of letting go.

"Oh no, you're definitely stuck with me," you declare. "Like, you might need to call someone if you ever actually want me to let go."

His smirk is instant. "You're saying I should alert the authorities?"

You nod sagely. "I mean, that would be the responsible thing to do. But by the time they arrive, I'll have already made a compelling argument about how you should just let it happen."

Aaron huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I'm sure you would."

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#eating good tonight #thank you mariasont for feeding us so well #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #nsft #val's fic recs ʚɞ

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