Im So Into Me Right Now.

“And I only ran three red lights.” You joke and turn around and you’re met with the stoic face of Aaron Hotchner.

“I would hope not.” He deadpans and a bit of you dies inside. The embarrassment creeping up your gut and ripping it downwards. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone for hopefully I’ll be back tonight.”

“Ok.” You answer simply. “What homework does he have due today?”

“Some SPAG stuff, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tonight.” With that he rushes out of the door, closing it quietly. You can hear his footsteps echo through the hallway and you finally let the tension out of your shoulders.

It was an awkward time of the morning. Too close to morning to sleep yourself, but too early to wake up Jack for the day. So you perch yourself on the couch and get some work done. It was a happy accident that you ended up babysitting for Aaron Hotchner, Unit chief of the BAU. While you were in college for Psychology of criminals.

Currently, you were working on an essay and getting sucked into the research. Case upon case, some solved by the man himself.

Then, the sun finally came up and shone into the apartment and small steps tapped down the hallway. The small blond mop curled up next to you on the sofa, and you slam your laptop shut.

“Good Morning!” You wrap an arm around around him, “How did you sleep?”

“It was ok. When is my Daddy back?” Popping his thumb out of his mouth, he looks up at you. He was very obviously still very tired, his eyes blinking shut.

“He said tonight.” You answer and you see his mood improve. Seeing him happy was the best part of your job. “You know what? If you can do all of your lessons today at school, I’ll get you a game on the way home.”

He couldn’t contain his smile then, he jumped up and hugged your bottom half, before running off to get ready for the day.

While he got himself dressed you made his favourite breakfast, chocolate cereal in the starwars bowl with the straw for the milk at the end. He races back to the table, most of his clothes on right, minus the t-shirt he had put on backwards.

“Your shirt is on backwards Jack.” You inform him and mumbles out a noise between shovels of cereal. He finally swallows.

“I want the picture on the front.” He explains and he goes back to piling the food into his mouth. He then slurps up all the chocolate milk up through the straw.

“Ahh.” You make a noise in understanding while packing his backpack. Specifically making sure the homework Aaron mentioned was in his folder. “Brush your teeth and then we can get ready to go!” He runs off and does exactly that.

“I’m ready to go!” He excitedly kicks his legs while you tie his shoes, your hands slipping away from the knots and bows a couple times.

In the car, the closer you got to the school, the more nervous Jack gets. He can’t sit still, shuffling back and fourth and you can hear his breathing getting shorter. When you pull up, you lean over the cup holder. “Hey, remember today is going to be a great day. You get to see all your friends and you’re only in for a half day today.”

He nods along apprehensively. “But remember, I’m buying you a game later so that’s something for you to look forward to.” You gently stroke his arm to calm him down. “That sound good?”

“Yeah.” He mumbles quietly, trying not to sulk and you walk him to the classroom door. However, he sees his friends and runs off happily to them, showing off his t-shirt.

“He’s a bit nervous this morning, but I think once he settles in he’ll be fine. But if not I can come and get him.” You explain to his teacher and she nods along.

“I’ll call you if he seems rough.” She confirms, relief washes over you, knowing that he would be mostly fine.

The afternoon comes around and you’re back at the school gates to collect Jack. His teacher’s face looks mostly positive when you come to the door. Jack comes bounding towards you, hugging your legs and looking excited to leave.

“He was good, we had a bit of a wobble during math but he got through it.” She explains and looks down at him with sympathy.

“Thanks, I’ll let Mr Hotchner know.” You smile at her as Jack pulls at your hand, pretty much dragging you out of the classroom. “I think he wants to go, I’ll see you soon.”

“Cmon! I want my game!” He says excitedly and is bouncing up and down in the seat as you get close to the toy store. The boy was vibrating with excitement as the two of you walked in between the aisles. He picked up a game, then decided he wanted another, then another, then another.

But then he let out a gasp and shoved the monopoly he was holding back on the shelf and ran over to a game. The game was twister.

“I want this one!” He nods firmly. “Me and my Mommy played this one!” The two of you head over to the counter to pay. The cashier hands you the receipt and he looks up with those big brown eyes that just made you melt. “Will you play it with me?”

“Of course I will.” You confirm. “But you need to do your homework first.” He was not happy about that but as soon as you got back to the apartment, he raced to the table and began to scribble on his homework sheets.

“Why do I have to do math homework.” Jack groans and rests his head on the table.

“So you can do whatever you want when you grow up.” You reply, running a hand through his hair.

“Even ruler of the world?” He asks.

“Even ruler of the world.” You confirm with a small laugh. “I’ll help you with the last couple questions.” Pulling out the paper from under him, you encourage him to finish the questions.

“Cmon! I want to play!” He runs over to the box on the sofa and almost rips the cardboard apart with excitement. “I want to go first!” He flaps the plastic sheet out on the rug in the living room, the crinkling noise fills the room and there are fold lines on the sheet, making it stick up slightly in the middle.

"Let me just set up the spinner on the tv." You click through the videos, a great one with a randomised spinner. "Ok, right hand on red and left foot on yellow."

You touch a finger to his left hand. “This hand on any of the red dots. And this one.” You touch his left foot. “On the yellow.”

He wobbles slightly but manages to hold his balance. You play the spinner again and land right foot on red and right foot on green.

Both taking turns, Jack lands a right hand on blue and left foot on green. He clambers over your back to reach the blue dot but falls, flattening you to the mat too. He starts that usual high pitched cute giggle his face scrunched up, flailing around on your stomach.

“Ohhh! I won!” You pick him up and throw him onto the sofa, still giggling. “Alright! time for dinner then we can have a rematch!”

As Jack inhales his spaghetti bolognaise, you go into the guest bedroom, scanning your drawers, no sign of Hotch yet. It was getting chilly in DC, when the wind blew it was biting on the skin. You had closed all the windows, and pulled out your winter pyjamas. Red pants and a matching button up, and fluffy socks with blue dots all over them.

The rematch has Jack win as you tumble to your side trying to reach for a red dot. You hear the front door click open and Jack bounces up and sprints towards the door.

“Daddy! Daddy!” He springs up and jumps up into Aaron’s arms. “Come play the game with us.”

“What game?” He comes through the archway to the living room, his briefcase still in hand. “When did you get that?”

“I got it for him today.” You pipe up, looking bashfully at your feet. “Oh and there’s extra dinner wrapped up in the microwave.”

“Thanks.” He says sharply, then bends down to Jack, giving him a kiss on the head. “I’ll eat my dinner and then we can play, do a couple more rounds of with y/n.” Jack nods enthusiastically and runs back over to you. Getting ready to play again.

After another game, this time you losing. Hotch appears around the corner and you stand up and plant yourself on the sofa.

“Do you want me to spin the spinner for you guys?” You ask, plucking it from the box.

“No!” Jack exclaims, “I want you to play with us, Daddy can she?” He grabs his dad’s and pulls him to the rug.

“Uhh.” He pauses. “Yes of course she can.”

Jack goes first, his right hand on green and his right foot on red. He does that easily, his balance improving from your first game. Then you, have a left hand on blue and a right hand on green. Coming face to face with Jack he starts giggling again. Hotch gets a right foot on yellow and a left hand on green. You had underestimated how much of the board Hotch’s large figure would take up. His broad shoulders knocking against Jack’s hip.

The next round had Jack got a left hand on blue, and was able to add a left foot on red. You get a left foot on green and bring your foot next to your hand a right hand on blue, putting it behind you. Hotch moves his right foot to blue, next to your hand and he added a right hand on red. It was comical seeing your boss crouched like a crab, his stomach facing the ceiling.

Again, you start with Jack. He spins a right hand on red, the only spot left right next to his foot, he tries reach but tumbles down onto his side.

“Oh no!” You exclaim, but Jack hops up right away, bounding to the physical spinner. He picks it up and spins it about twenty times.

“Right foot on yellow!” He points towards the line of dots excitedly.

You clamber over his torso, trying to toe to the yellow line but your fluffy socks you had donned earlier don’t grip the cheap plastic sheet and you slip.

The sudden weight causing you to fall on top of Hotch, and his arms buckle under himself. Chest to chest, you clamber up, now straddling him.

“S-sorry!” You choke out, frozen in shock.

“Haha! You both lose which makes me the winner!” Jack exclaims and jumps onto your back excitedly. Pushing you downwards you get out a gasp, your thin pyjama bottoms not providing much protection from you grinding against his crotch.

You bite your lip and try to stand up, your legs weak, you slip again, this time you make an audible squeak and lock eyes with Hotch, a new shade of bright red flushed across your face. You mutter out another shy “Sorry.”

His stern voice called out, “Jack off now.” His deep voice didn’t help the situation that was currently going on in between your thighs.

Jack clambers off and before you can stand up yourself, there are big hands on your hips pulling you off him and standing up. He places you down on the floor and you sweat he doesn’t let go for a good few seconds.

Shaking your head, you plop down on the couch, curling your feet up underneath yourself.

“Jack time for bed!” Hotch calls, picking him up and resting him on his hip and whizzing him up the stairs before he could even complain about sleeping.

It was almost silent downstairs, the awkwardness lighting you up like a christmas tree. You send an emergency text to your friend, updating her that you had just landed square on your boss’ dick. Your boss that you were sure only kept you around as you were the only nanny that Jack hadn’t hated with every fibre of his being.

You get to folding up the dotted sheet, it crinkles loudly. Shoving it roughly into the box, along with the spinner. Wandering to the kitchen, you get our tip toes, trying to put the box on the top of the cabinets, you sigh. Clambering up onto the counter, you reach up.

“What are you doing?” His deep voice echos from behind you.

Your shoulders jump up, and take a step back but that step is air and you tumble back falling from the counter, bracing your body, you get ready to hit the cold, hard tile.

But you don’t hit the floor, you hit a very strong muscular pair of arms that holds you bridal style. You look up at him, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him this close up. He has a few small freckles flicked across his cheeks.

“Ask me next time.”

“Sorry.” You squeak as he places you on the floor again, he could hold you like it was nothing. Turning away, you put the kettle onto the burner. “Coffee?”

“Stop saying sorry.” He huffs, grasping the marble counter. “Please.” He nods towards the kettle.

“Sorry.” You say without thinking. “Ah- Sorry!” Scrunching your face up and dragging your hands down it, hoping to conceal the bright red on your cheeks.

The kettle offers you respite as it starts to screech, telling you it was ready to be poured. You make your own tea, and pour Hotch’s coffee. Black, one sugar.

“Here.” You slide him the mug and scurry back to the living room. “I’ll stay tonight, I don’t like driving in the rain.” You glance to the window. It was beating down, thumping off the the glass.

“That’s fine.” He hums into his plain white mug.

You scurry away to your room, not wanting to co exist with him in any way other than with Jack. You kept your room, well it wasn’t your room. Only moving in some casual clothes and small travel bottles of shampoo and conditioner. The sheets were plain white, the nightstand had your current read and a lamp on. You didn’t want him to profile your living space, it felt intrusive. He knew so much about you, but you, almost nothing about him.

The later it got, the less you could sleep. Tossing and turning in your bed, never getting comfortable enough to fall away into the land of dreams. However, you thought it wouldn’t be the best idea to dream tonight after the twister incident.

A tea would make you sleepy, you conclude, wandering to the kitchen you boil the kettle again.

Quietly, you creep into the living room, and turn on the tv. It’s dark and still hammering down with rain. The room is lit up by the screen, as you scroll through things to watch on the variety of streaming services that Hotch had let you add an account on. You settle for a shitty romcom, enough to keep your eyes on the screen but not enough to make you think for more than a moment.

“What are you still doing up?”

You hadn’t heard him come down the stairs. He leans on the door frame. You jump again, gasping.

“Stop creeping up on me!” You whisper shout, for a second you think you see him smile.

“What are you watching?” He asks and perches down on the couch.

“A bad romcom, I think they had a one night stand and she ran away and now he’s mad and then they met again and now they’re arguing.” You point to the screen.

“Ah.” He nods as you ramble on.

“It’s really bad and cliche, incredibly boring, and by the end it will all have been a mistake and they’ll declare their love.” You roll your eyes. “Oh and now they’re fucking, how typical.”

It hits you like a truck, you’re watching a sex scene with your boss. Unsure where to look, you stare at the screen and try to not even glance his way, but out of the corner of your eye, you see him, he is looking at you.

“Why is that typical? I don’t watch these things.”

“Well you know, they’ve been arguing the whole time and then it’s like the sexual tension or whatever.” You say, eyes darting from him to the screen.

You sip your tea.

“Ah, so would landing on my dick count as sexual tension?”

You spit your tea back into the mug and start to cough manically. Your head whips around to him and see a truly rare sight, him smiling and laughing.

“I’m joking.” He clarifies and pats your back.

“I’m so sorry! Jack and my socks are slippery.” You spit out as fast as you can.

He found himself very amusing, smirking and crossing his arms across his chest. Highlighting his arms again, you swallow loudly.

“How about a rematch?”

You can’t believe what you’re hearing and stare at him in shock. “Are you crazy, that game has almost killed me twice.” Shaking your head, “When did you get jokes.”

“I’m not kidding.” He deadpans, going back to his regular serious face. The one that you couldn’t read anything from, the strong brow and straight mouth.

“Shut up.” You scoff with another eye roll, drinking your tea again.

“Well one of us has to win.” He raises a brow. “And I don’t lose.”

“I didn’t know twister meant this much to you.” You joke, shaking your head. But he had already gotten up and grabbed the box, coming back into the room with it. “Oh god you weren’t kidding.”

Before you knew it, the cheap plastic mat was sprawled across the rug. This time, you pulled your socks off, not wanting a repeat of earlier. “I deserve a raise.”

“Left hand red, right foot blue.” He spins and looks at you expectantly.

Groaning, you move to the mat, and place your hand on the dots. “You’re not going to win, you’re like geriatric.”

“Geriatric!” He scoffs and gets up the automatic spinner on the tv, and puts his left hand on green and left foot on blue. “You know I run a FBI team.”

“Surely your back will give out at some point.” You laugh. This was uncharted territory, he’d never been this relaxed, or fun.

You glance to the tv, Left hand stays on red and your right foot has to go across the board on yellow. Holding your breath you put a leg over him again, this time it stays planted on the mat. You nod in satisfaction and exhale a long held breath.

His turn now and he twists over and ends up as before, reaching out to put his right hand on yellow, he slips, crashing down on his back, and reaching out in reflex taking you with him.

This time it isn’t awkward, you don’t scurry to climb off. You stare at him for a couple beats, chest heaving up and down. “Well, I guess your back did give out.”

“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes and huffs.

“I guess you do lose.” You smirk, happy with yourself, finally having something over him. Ready to gloat for the rest of your days caring for Jack.

“I don’t think I’d call this losing.”

His hands creep up the back of your pyjama shirt, the cold chill of his fingers making you arch and gasp. Now he’s the one smirking. They trail up and down your spine and you almost can’t believe this is real.

You can’t form a sentence, just starts and spurts of stutter come from your mouth, your mouth hangs open.

“Speechless huh? Poor thing.” One of his hands moves to your thigh, also stroking up and down. You almost melt.

You’d had enough of him talking, the smugness. Leaving down you press your lips to his and he groans at the contact. Your own hands travel into his hair and on the edge of his neck. Pulling away, you gasp.

“You’re my boss, I can’t, so sorry.” You ramble and jump off his lap but he’s quick to follow you and grasps your wrist tightly spinning you around.

He leans down to your ear and you feel his breath, it’s hot and fans over your ear. “I profiled you, don’t pretend.”

“I-i don’t know what you mean.” Trying to save face, you look at your feet.

“Flushed face,” He tips your head up by the chin, and you lock eyes, his pupils are huge. “Large pupils, raised pulse, heavy breathing.”

You stare at him and swallow thickly. “But you don’t like me.”

He scoffs at that, like it’s the worst thing he’d ever been accused of. “I don’t like you? You wander around my house in these cute little pyjama sets, look after my son at a single phone call, buy him games, cook him and me dinner, clean my house, tell these stupid jokes. How could I not want to bend you over?” He growls the next part, sending a deep chill down your spine. “And God those little fluttering eyelashes and that shade of red you go whenever I talk, you’re irresistible.”

He lifts you off the ground again, this time you wrap yourself around him, locking lips again as he moves the two of you to your bedroom.

Shoving you against the inside of the door, you groan into the heated kiss. He smiles and you feel it against your lips, you pull away and start to trail light kissed down his neck. His stubble starting to grow in rough against your mouth.

“Bed.” You whisper while making quick work on a hickey on his neck, right under his ridged jawline.

He laughs, a deep baritone sound and carries you to the bed and places you down, pulling his own sleep shirt over his head. He was as bulky as you’d imagined in your late night fantasies, thick biceps that you wanted to sink your teeth into, a thick forest of chest hair that you just wanted to run your nails through.

“Jesus.” You lie on your back, mouth agape. Moving to your own hands to your the buttons on the front of your own shirt, pulling it off.

Hotch didn’t hesitate to jump at you, kissing from your neck down, worshiping every part of your upper body with his mouth. Pulling a nipple into his mouth you arch up to him. “Hotch.”

“Aaron.” He corrects, and you nod as he goes right back to kissing you, making a trail down your stomach and ending at the waistband of red pyjama pants. “Can I take these off?” He asks.

“Yes, Aaron,” You add on the end with a smirk.

“You have no idea how much you’re going to say that tonight.” He bites, yanking them down your legs and pulling them off your ankles.

“Oh yeah.” You tease with a light laugh.

“Oh baby, it’s going to be the only thing you can say.” Before you can even think, his head is buried in between your legs, eating like a man on death row.

Your head flies back into the pillow and you gasp, one hand reaching for his head and the other grasping onto the white bed sheets for dear life. He licks and sucks on your clit, sending you to the moon and back. “Oh Aaron,” You moan and realise you have just proved him right but are having far too much fun to care.

He groans into you and he somehow makes you feel even more euphoric than you were before. Your grasp in his hair tightens as you get closer to the finish line, high gasps and groans echo around the room.

“I’m close!” You squeal, your hips flicking up. “Just like that.” And he does that, not like the other fumbling men you’d been with thinking just like that meant harder or faster. Legs trembling slightly, and teeth gashing into your lip, you cum. Crushing his head in between your thighs. He licks you through your orgasm and pulls up, wiping his mouth.

There was a large tent in his own pyjama pants and he pulls them down, throwing them on the floor with the other discarded clothes. Taking his dick in one hand he crawls up to you placing a light kiss on your lips, you could taste yourself and he lines up, pushing in.

“Aaron!” You cry and he moans, resting his head on your shoulder and you grasp onto his large one.

He waits there for a moment, leaving you with the fullness, and you squeeze down. “You’re so tight.”

Pushing his hips back he starts to thrust, and your eyes immediately roll into the back of your head, still sensitive from your previous orgasm. “H-harder.” You pant, clawing on him.

It was like a switch flicked, he started to pound into you, and you feel your brain turn to mush. Citing his name over and over like a mantra, chest heaving and toes curling. You’d never felt this full, convinced that if you looked down you’d see it bulging out of your pelvis.

“Awh, someone is a little cock drunk.” He says in false sympathy, kissing your forehead and pouting.

“I’m- i’m.” You try to make out, but the head of his cock hits that sweet spot inside of you making you scream out his name again and your head pushes into the pillow. “Close.” You manage to pant out, your weak legs wrap around his back and his own thrusts start to get less rhythmic and more sporadic and harder.

Legs trembling fully this time, you cum, moaning his name and grasping onto his back. He groans, pumping into you pushing you back to the headboard, then releasing deep inside of you.

Pulling out, he rolls over, flopping next to you. “That was.” He starts.

“Fucking amazing.” You stare at the ceiling, coming back to the real world and he turns your head and placing a soft kiss on your lips this time.

“Hang on, i’ll clean you up.”

Disappearing he comes back with a warm cloth, he wipes the cum off of you, holding one of your hands in his. He pulls your own pyjamas back on, doing the buttons back up.

You were sad to see his chest get covered back up and he sits in the bed next to you.

You guys sit in silence with each other, your head rested on his shoulder. “I was wondering.” He starts and your ears perk up. “If you wanted to be Jack’s full time live in nanny. Oh and I’d like to take you on a proper date.”

“Well I think I’d have to consort HR, I don’t want to get this promotion because I slept with the boss.” You joke.

He stares at you seriously.

“But yes, I’d love to be Jack’s full time nanny, and yes, I’ll go on that date with you.” You smile.

“I’ll take Jack to work with me tomorrow, so you can move your stuff in without him getting all in your way.” He states, kissing you again.

“Thank you, I think he misses his auntie Penelope.”

He laughs. “Only because she gives him treats.”

-

Jack wrecked havoc around the office, not leaving a single agent alone, peppering all of them with questions. Dragging Rossi by the hand into his dad’s office.

“Daddy daddy!” He calls. “Uncle Dave said he’d come round and play games with us!”

“Especially all this night time adult twister I’ve been hearing about.” He winks.

“Adult twister?” Derek asks from the door with a bunch of papers in his hand. “Now that sounds like a party.”

Aaron wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

“Uncle Derek!” Jack runs into his arms. “Daddy and y/n played without me! They left the game out and thought I wouldn’t notice.”

“My man!” Derek laughs, before placing those papers on Aaron’s desk and leaving the office with Jack with promises of Penelope’s fun office.

“Adult twister?” Dave laughs, holding at his sides.

trinitys pov

your pov

trinitys pov

getting ready with trinity and dennis was more fun than you had expected. as soon as you had walked into the apartment, dennis was handing you a pregame shot, stating that trinity had made him.

after you had sat your overnight bag down in trinity’s room, you all decided to get ready.

music was playing on a speaker you had gifted her for her birthday last year, while you all got ready.

dennis had finished getting ready first, and proved to be a very kind and helpful man. helping you get your hair the way you wanted it, while you did your makeup.

“you nervous?” dennis questioned, his focus on combing the products you handed him into your curls.

“maybe a little,” you licked your lips, “only for trinity, she gets anxious when I met people in her life.”

“I can imagine why.” he nodded softly.

you hummed, getting lost in your thoughts. trying to figure out how you planned on doing things tonight.

should you ignore samira and jack? no, that would be too obvious.

should you confront her? no, definitely not, that would be worse than ignoring them.

dinah was right, being polite but not overly friendly would have to do it.

“yo! are you guys ready yet?” trinity yelled, pulling you from your train of thought.

after several more shots had been taken dennis had called an uber and you guys were on your way to the bar.

both of you deciding to give her a minute, before she let out a huge breath and smiled.

“alright! It’s now or never,” she huffed, “let’s do this before I back out.”

she pushed open the door and walked in, dennis holding the door open for you as you walked in behind her, dennis following not far behind you.

trinity’s eyes scanned the crowd before finding the right table, slowly making her way over.

you sent a nervous smile to dennis, causing him to send you a soft smile and wrap his arm around your shoulder for comfort.

“party’s here!” trinity exclaimed excitedly.

the group looking up and smiling, one at a time they all got up a greeted trinity and dennis with hugs/shoulder pats (curtsy jack.)

you immediately clocked samira and jack, as much as you hated to admit it, they looked like a couple out of a magazine.

jack looked good for his age, like.. really good, not at all the old man you had been expecting. maybe that was ageist of you, however in your experience most people in that age bracket didn’t look like that…

samira, was another surprise, you fully expected her to be ugly, maybe that was just you projecting your beliefs of ugly on the outside and inside regardless, you actually couldn’t help but get irritated at how attractive she was.

honestly, all things considered, had you not already disliked samira for what she did, and jack by association, and had you met them randomly, you would 100% try to sleep with them. That thought, pissed you off even more.

“Alright, well.. everyone, this is my best friend.” trinity introduced, your name falling from her lips.

a small smile graced your face as you gently waved at them, glad that dennis hadn’t let you go yet, his body weight on your shoulders providing a sense of comfort to your anxious demeanour.

“hi! It’s so nice to meet you! I’m victoria,” her smile lighting up her whole face, “mel and I are huge fans!” She said pointing to the blonde next to her before pulling you into a hug.

“oh, wow,” you hugged her back, “that’s so sweet of you to say! It means a lot actually.” You smile at the two.

as soon as victoria let you go, mel was quick to be the next to hug you.

“are you kidding! stone cold summer is my favorite song ever!” mel informed excitedly, you could practically feel her vibrating with her excitement against you.

you let out a genuine giggle at that “well, I’m glad to hear it!” you reply as mel let go, “our label actually didn’t want us to even include it on the album.”

victoria and mel both giving you looks of shock and disbelief.

“that’s criminal!”

“are you kidding?”

they both exclaimed over each other, once again causing a giggle to escape you.

“uh yeah,” subconsciously nodding, “they didn’t think it would do well.” you explain.

“well jokes on them right,” trinity adds, “it’s on the the tops streamed songs on the album.”

causing everyone to laugh, out of the corner of your eye you see two figures approaching you, almost timidly.

“hey! it’s so nice to finally meet the person trinity speaks so highly of,” you look over at samira, jack standing right next to her with his arm around her.

“I’m samira, and this is my boyfriend jack,” she says patting him lightly on the chest, “it’s nice to meet you!”

she smiles, you return it with a polite smile, “and you as well.”

jack quirks an eyebrow at the change of tone and behaviour but introduces himself regardless.

“I’m afraid I don’t know your band but it’s nice to meet you.” he earnestly says, reaching out his arm.

you meet him halfway and shake his outstretched hand, another polite smile gracing your face.

“that’s alright, I wouldn’t expect you to.”

your reply causing both trinity and dennis to side eye you, dennis not use to seeing you like this in his time getting to know you, and trinity shocked and confused at your sudden switch.

after the introductions you all sit down and order drinks. as the night goes on you come to find that you love victoria and mel, they’re both so sweet, they honestly remind you of your band mates, a sentiment you tell them, which makes them both giddy.

you try your hardest to keep interactions between yourself and samira to a minimum, not enough to make faking it feel exhausting, but just enough to avoid arising suspicion.. or at least you thought.

jack abbot has always been an observant man, being in the military had made him that way, and years of working in the ed had heightened it.

he had immediately clocked your behaviour, he wasn’t entirely sure the reason why, but he did notice how you were fully engaged with mel, victoria, dennis and trinity.

then when it came to samira or himself, your body locked up, giving them a polite but not overly fake smile, your tone changing from excitement to even.

he had looked over at samira every time, could see the gears turning in her head, the overthinking, the anxiety, the overwhelming need to be liked creeping in on her.

he gently rested his hand on her thigh and squeezed, pulling her from the thoughts with a soft smile.

the moment missed by the rest of the group as you’d moved to the dance floor, at one point you had victoria dancing on you.

during this moment she had made a comment about living out a fanfic writers daydream, pulling a laugh from you.

she immediately began apologizing, stating that tequila made her lose her filter and ‘a bit gay,’ which pulled a harder laugh from you.

“tequila makes everyone a bit gay.” you replied with a chuckle, trying to ease her anxiety.

after that the rest of the night had passed by in a flash, and before you knew it you were in an uber again with trinity and dennis making your way back to their place.

not a single thought on your mind but grabbing something to eat and passing out in trinity’s comfy bed.

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The case had dragged on for days. A string of murders in a small Midwestern town had called you away from Virginia for the week—hopefully no longer than that.

The unsub had left cryptic messages on each of his crime scenes, and some of the newer ones felt like they were mocking the entire team, taunting you, telling you that the unsub was still ten steps ahead of you.

You were used to the pressure from cases like this, the late nights slouched over casefiles in a poorly lit police station with stale vending machine coffee, and the endless theories bouncing around between the entire team.

But this time, something felt off. It wasn’t something bad, but your focus kept slipping, your mind wandering to places it shouldn't during briefings or crime scene walkthroughs. You zoned out most of the time, vision blurring, ears not listening. You had to force your mind back on taskmore times than you could count.

It was that insistent, gnawing need to have something in your mouth at all times. It was a habit you'd managed to keep under wraps from the team—thank god, because you don’t know if you could’ve handled the constant teasing if they ever found out.

Gum helped sometimes, even a pen cap could satisfy you for a little bit, but lately, it had escalated. All you could think about was Hotch, the way his cock felt heavy on your tongue, the way he tasted, the way it filled you up way down your throat and somehow was the only thing that really quieted the restlessness your urges created.

No one else seemed to notice the subtle signs as you pondered over a file around the table: the way you'd bite your lip a little too hard, teeth pulling tiny flakes of skin off your lips, the way your fingers would come up and fiddle with your necklace chain and nine out of ten times pull it between your teeth, or zone out mid-sentence, eyes accidentally drifting to the bulge in his pants during a quick status.

But Hotch did. He noticed everything, always did.

Back at the hotel that night, after the team had dispersed into their respective rooms after a quick fastfood dinner in the lobby and a promise of an early start, Hotch pulled you aside in the hallway right as you reached his room.

His voice was low and hushed, sending a shiver down your spine as he confronted you. "You're distracted," he said, eyes searching yours to figure out if he was on the right track. "It's affecting your work. We can't afford that right now."

You swallowed hard, heat flooding your cheeks, starting to feel embarrassed about exactly how distracted you were. "I know... I'm sorry. It's just... I can't stop thinking about it."

He didn't need you to elaborate. He knew exactly what it meant in this situation. With a curt nod, he unlocked the door to his room with his keycard and ushered you inside, the latch clicking shut behind you.

The space was standard-issue, impersonal and looked exactly like yours, but mirrored: a king bed, a desk piled with case files, the air conditioner whirring from it’s spot in the corner.

Hotch shrugged off his jacket throwing it on the bed before he sank down in the desk chair and spread his legs slightly. You stood like a statue in the middle of the room. "Come here," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You quickly crossed the space between you and knelt between his legs without hesitation, your hands trembling slightly with excitement as you worked open his belt, loosing the leather a bit from the rings and worked his zipper open.

You knew you didn’t have to ask him permission, knew that this was what he wanted you to do. Hotch was already half-hard from the mere touch of your fingers grazing over his bulged as you’d worked his pants open.

The sight of him made your mouth water the second you laid your eyes on his cock. "Just warm me," he instructed, knowing that his wouldn’t be enough to satisfy you for now. His voice was steady as he picked up the stack of files on the desk. "I need to go through these reports. Just focus on your task, no more distractions... for either of us."

You nodded eagerly, shuffling forward on your knees. You closed your hand around his penis, giving it a few pumps to harden him more.

“Ah!” He reprimanded, giving your nose a gentle tap correcting you. “Mouth only. You’re smarter than that, you know what I want.”

You opened your mouth, hand still around him and guided his cock into your mouth. The weight of him settled on your tongue, head pushing against the back of your throat. You shuffled closer, almost forcing him further down your throat until your nose brushed the trail of hairs leading to his bellybutton.

He was warm, pulsing slightly against your tongue, his cock so thick that all you could do was make small gargled grunts of contentment, and for a moment, the world seemed to quiet. You closed your eyes and tipped your head to the side until your cheek made contact with the upper part of his thigh. You savoured the fullness, the subtle saltiness of his skin.

Hotch’s free hand briefly came down and stroked your hair as he murmured a soft praise before he turned his attention back to the papers, ocassionally scribbling a few notes in the margin, his brow furrowing in concentration. He let his hand stay tangled in your hair.

But it wasn't enough. Not really. You needed more.

The need twisted inside you, urging you to do more, to take what you wanted.

Slowly and tentatively, you swirled your tongue along the underside of his shaft, tracing the throbbing vein, flattening your tongue against him, testing boundaries to determine how far you could get to satisfy yourself before you took action.

You felt him twitch, heard the faint hitch in his breath, but he didn't stop reading. Encouraged by your success, you did it again, circling your tonuge lazily, sucking just enough to pull a low groan from him.

"Stop," he warned, fingers tightening and twisting your locks into his fist, pulling you back enough to still keep his cock in your mouth. He didn’t look up from the file, just kept working. "I said warm me."

You tried to obey, you really did. But your mouth had a mind of its own when it wanted. something. You flicked your tongue again, swirling it around the spongy head, traced it over the slit. You could feel him hardening fully now, filling your mouth more, stretching your lips.

The files rustled as his grip tightened, his jaw clenching. He gave you a chance to behave on your own.

Minutes stretched on like that: you teasing, him resisting, until finally, with a frustrated growl, Hotch tossed the stack of papers to the side of the desk.

They scattered haphazardly, some even sliding to the floor, but he didn't care, he could tidy them later.

His fist tightened further in your hair, pulling you closer as he stood abruptly, forcing you to adjust your position on your knees, your hands bracing yourself on his thighs.

"Enough," he muttered, his voice rough. "If you can't behave, then I'll give you what I want."

He didn't wait for a response. Hotch let go of your hair and held your head steady between the palms of his hands. He thrust into your mouth, with an unyielding pace as each snap of his hips forced his cock deeper and deeper down your throat with each thrust.

You gagged slightly at first, tears pricking at your eyes at the punishing pace, but the sensation and fullness in your mouth only fueled the fire burning deep in your belly. You hollowed your cheeks, trying to bob your head in sync with his thrusts, but his grip only tightened.

Hotch’s breath came out in harsh pants as he neared the edge, his composure cracking. "That's it," he grunt. "Take it. All of it." He said as he came, spilling down your throat in hot pulses.

You swallowed around him greedily, not wasting a single drop. When he finally pulled back slightly, still half-hard, you looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes, still feeling the tingling sensation of needing something in your mouth.

He sank back into the chair with a sigh and a tiny shake of his head at your expression, chest heaving, and guided you forward again. "Go on," he said softly. "You can continue to warm me. I know you need it."

You settled back in, his softening cock resting in your mouth.

Hotch reached for the few scattered files still on the desk, gathering them with one hand while the other rested lightly on your head.

He needed both hands free to work, but he understood, that if it were up to you, you’d have his cock in your mouth 99% of the time, but also needed the reassurance of a soft touch.

He’d simply looked up from the email he was still pretending to read, met Garcia’s determined gaze across the room, and given one slow nod. That was it. No lecture about professionalism, no reminder of the early-morning briefing Strauss had scheduled. Just quiet acquiescence. The team had stared for a full three seconds before Garcia let out a triumphant whoop that echoed down the hallway, yelling something about glitter and high heels.

You’d claimed a large semi-private booth in the back corner, tucked away from the main crush of bodies but still close enough to feel the pulse of the crowd. The curved leather bench wrapped around a cluster of high-top tables cluttered with evidence of how the night was going so far: half-empty glasses catching stray flashes of neon, condensation pooling beneath bottles of IPA and lager that sweat slow beads down their sides, and a handful of vibrant cocktails Garcia had insisted on ordering purely for "aesthetic purposes": blue curaçao things with sugar rims, glowing pink cosmos, and one absurdly tall layered drink that changed color when stirred. Straws bobbed amid melting ice and fruit garnishes wilting under the heat of too many hands.

The music thrummed loud enough to force everyone to lean in close, raised voices, cupped ears, shoulders brushing as conversations overlapped, but not so deafening that laughter couldn’t cut through. Every so often, a burst of it would erupt from the group.

You sat tucked against Hotch’s side, your thigh pressed to his, his suit jacket long since draped over the backrest.

His arm rested casually along the top of the seat behind you, fingers occasionally drifting to graze the bare skin where your shoulder and neck met in absent and affectionate little touches. At first glance, he looked like he always did at the end of a work day: shirt still as crisp and white as when he put it on this morning, tie loosened just enough to reveal the hollow of his throat, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows exposing his forearms, posture straight and composed even in repose. The only giveaway was the faint, persistent flush high across his cheekbones, like the heat of the room had settled there and refused to leave, and the way his eyes kept sliding back to you every few seconds, his pupils dilated, and the usual sharp edges melted away with the alcohol.

He’d started with a single scotch, sipped slowly while he listened to the team decompress. Then another, because Rossi had lifted his glass in a quiet toast to “surviving another week of hell,” voice rough with the same exhaustion they all carried. Then a third, nudged across the table by Morgan with a wide grin and a low, teasing “C’mon, Hotch, live a little, you’re off the clock, man.” By the fourth, Hotch had let Garcia talk him into switching to something lighter: a whiskey sour she’d pushed his way with a little too dramatic flair, declaring “because it matches your brooding aesthetic, sir, and also it has a cherry, which is basically a party in a glass.” The shift had begun then: the first real loosening of his shoulders, the slow blink of lashes that lingered a beat too long on your face, the quiet exhale that sounded almost like relief.

The team noticed it in stages, the realization spreading like ripples across the tables.

First, Emily caught him staring at you while you laughed at something JJ said. Your head was thrown back just enough for the lights to catch the curve of your throat. Hotch’s usual guarded expression had melted into something so openly fond, so unguarded, that Emily actually froze mid-sentence, drink halfway to her lips. She blinked hard, did a double-take, then whispered under her breath, “Is Hotch… smiling? Like, actually smiling?” Her voice carried just enough disbelief to make the others closest to her turn their heads.

Morgan leaned forward, elbows planted on the table, squinting through the shifting colored light as if trying to solve a visual puzzle. “Nah, that’s not smiling,” he drawled, slow grin spreading across his features. “That’s… glowing. Man looks like he swallowed a damn sunrise.”

Penelope, mid-sip of her neon drink, nearly choked when she followed their line of sight. She set the glass down with a clink, eyes wide behind her sparkly glasses. “Oh, my God. Look at his eyes. He’s got full-on heart-eyes. Heart-eyes on our Unit Chief’s face! I need photographic evidence before he sobers up and denies this ever happened.”

The booth went suspiciously quiet for a beat. Everyone’s attention had zeroed in on the two of you, the air between the team crackling with barely-contained amusement and something softer, something almost protective of the way Hotch was looking so relaxed for once.

You felt Hotch’s fingers brush your shoulder again. The touch was light and absent, tracing the strap of your bra through your shirt, almost like he couldn’t help himself, like the contact was as necessary as breathing for him. You turned your head, catching his gaze in the fractured light, the usual sharp focus softened into something warm and hazy. He gave you that small, lopsided smile he usually saved for Jack when the boy scored a goal or for the quiet mornings at home when sunlight slanted across the kitchen table.

“You okay?” you asked softly, leaning closer so he could hear over the music, your hand coming up to rest lightly on his knee under the table.

He nodded once, the motion carrying the careful precision of someone aware he was tiptoeing toward drunk but not quite there yet. “Better than okay.” His voice was a little rougher now, words slurring just at the edges. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

The table went even quieter... if that was possible at all ...the team exchanging wide-eyed glances like they’d just witnessed a miracle.

You laughed, the sound bubbling up despite the sudden heat in your cheeks. Reaching up, you smoothed a hand over his jaw, feeling the faint rasp of stubble under your palm, the warmth of his skin. “You’re drunk, Aaron.”

“Little bit,” he admitted without hesitation, no defensiveness, no attempt to play it cool. He leaned into your touch like a cat seeking warmth, eyes fluttering half-closed for a second as though the simple contact was the best thing he’d felt all night, all week even. “Doesn’t change facts.”

Rossi raised a brow across the table, one corner of his mouth twitching upward as he swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler. The low light caught the silver at his temples and the faint lines of amusement etched around his eyes. "Never thought I'd see the day Aaron Hotchner gets sappy in public," his voice rich with that familiar dry humor you’d all come to love since the day he first stepped foot back in the BAU after ending his retirement.

"Public?" Hotch echoed, blinking slowly, lashes heavy with the weight of whiskey and sudden confusion. He turned his head in a lazy arc, scanning the booth as though the team had materialized out of thin air, like he was only now registering the audience. His brow furrowed for a second, processing the faces lit in shifting neon hues. "You're all here?"

Morgan barked a laugh, his shoulders shaking as he leaned back against the leather of the booth cushion. "Yeah, boss. We're here. Watching you turn into a puddle right in front of our very eyes."

Hotch frowned again, almost boyish in its puzzlement, then... miraculously so ...he shrugged. Actually shrugged. One shoulder lifting in a careless roll that sent the collar of his shirt shifting against his throat, like the opinion of the entire table carried no more weight than a passing breeze in his inebriated state. "She's worth it," he said simply, voice low and matter-of-fact, as though stating an indisputable truth.

Your face heated instantly, warmth blooming from your cheeks down your neck. You slid your hand down his leg, finding his larger one already waiting near his knee, fingers curling around yours. You laced them together, palm to palm, and gave a soft squeeze, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. "Easy, tiger," you murmured, keeping your voice light despite the sudden thickness in your throat. "You're gonna embarrass yourself."

"Too late," Emily muttered from across the table, grinning wide behind the rim of her glass, eyes sparkling with mischief as she took a slow sip, knowing that come Monday morning, this would be the talk of the bullpen.

But Hotch wasn't listening anymore. The team's barely-contained amusement faded into background noise for him. He turned fully toward you, body angling in the booth until his knee pressed against yours, free hand rising to cup your cheek.

His palm was warm, calloused from years of gun grips and late-night paperwork, his thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone in slow, reverent sweeps. "You always take care of me," he said quietly, voice dropping to an intimate, gravel-rough register. "After cases. When I'm tired. You make coffee exactly how I like it, but you always add that tiny splash of cream anyway because you know I secretly like it better. You rub my shoulders without me asking, right where the knots live. You… you make everything better."

The table had gone dead silent now, the chatter and clinking glasses swallowed by the moment. Even the music seemed to fade a little, the relentless bass retreating to a distant pulse as though the club itself had paused to listen.

Garcia clutched JJ's arm so tightly her knuckles went white, glittery nails digging into sleeve fabric. "Did he just... ?" she breathed, voice pitched high with disbelief and delight.

JJ nodded slowly, eyes soft and a little misty in the shifting light. "He did."

You smiled, eyes stinging just a bit at the raw honesty in his words, the way they landed. Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, lingering there for a heartbeat, tasting the faint sweetness of whiskey sour. "I love taking care of you," you murmured against his lips, voice barely above a whisper. "And I love you."

He exhaled, as if the words had physically settled something inside him. "Love you more," he said simply, then pulled you closer until your head rested on his shoulder. His arm wrapped fully around you now, hand splaying protectively over your ribs, fingers spreading wide as though to shield every inch of you from the noisy world beyond the booth.

Morgan cleared his throat dramatically, the sound theatrical enough to draw a few chuckles from the group. "Alright, I'm calling it. Hotch has officially left the building. We got a lovesick puppy dog in his place."

Emily snorted, covering her mouth with the back of her hand to muffle the sound. "A very tall, very serious lovesick puppy dog."

Rossi chuckled and raised his glass in a lazy salute. "To Hotch finally loosening up. And to the woman who made it happen."

Everyone toasted except Hotch, who was too busy nuzzling into your hair like he was trying to memorize the scent of your shampoo, even though it currently resided in his shower, nose brushing against the strands with slow inhales. "You smell like home," he mumbled, voice muffled against your scalp, barely audible over the music.

You laughed quietly and slid your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, nails gently scraping in soothing little patterns. "You're adorable when you're drunk."

"Not adorable," he protested with the smallest hint of a whine to his tone, but there was no heat in it, just a sleepy, half-hearted grumble as he tilted his head further into your touch. "Handsome. Stoic. Intimidating." Repeating things he had heard others call him throughout his career.

"Adorable," you repeated firmly, leaning in to press a kiss to his temple.

Hotch hummed in contentment, his eyes half-closed, lashes casting soft shadows on his flushed cheeks. "Fine. Only for you."

The team watched the exchange with varying degrees of shock and delight, wide eyes, barely suppressed grins, and a few phones discreetly angled over the edge of the table.

JJ smiled softly, resting her chin in her hand, eyes warm. "It's sweet. He deserves this." She muttered, mostly to herself.

Emily nodded. "Yeah. They both do."

The tone switched up as quickly as the attention had fallen on the two of you as the song changed. Garcia gasped, clapping her hands together. "Dance floor! We need to dance!"

Most of the team piled out of the booth, dragging each other toward the lights with laughter and mock-protests from Rossi. You started to shift, intending to join them, but Hotch’s arm tightened around you, fingers curling gently into your side.

"Stay," he said quietly, almost pleading, his voice low and rough against your ear. "Just… stay here. With me."

You melted instantly, all thought of dancing vanishing. "Okay."

You turned in the booth so you could face him better, knees bumping his under the table. Hotch looked at you like you were the only person in the room, maybe even the only person in the world. His hand found yours again, thumb stroking over your knuckles in slow, absent circles, tracing the ridges and valleys like he was learning them by heart.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," he said, words careful but clear despite the alcohol. "After everything… Haley, Foyet, Scratch, losing so much… you walked in and made me believe I could still have this. Happiness. Love. You."

Tears pricked at your eyes. You moved to cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over the faint stubble along his jaw, feeling the subtle tremor beneath his skin. "Aaron…"

Hotch leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, breath mingling in the small space between you. "Don't ever leave me," he whispered. "Please."

"Never," you promised, voice thick with emotion. "I'm right here. Always."

He closed the distance, kissing you. It was tender, reverent, like he was pouring every unspoken feeling into it, lips moving against yours with an aching gentleness. When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy, but he was smiling, really smiling, small and crooked and brighter than the club lights.

The team filtered back eventually, flushed and laughing, hair slightly mussed from dancing, and found the two of you like that: you curled into his side, his head resting on top of yours, both of you quiet and content amid the chaos.

"You two good?" Morgan slid back into the booth across from you, still catching his breath.

Hotch lifted his head just enough to look at him, cheek resting against your hair. "Better than good." Then, without missing a beat. "She's perfect."

Garcia squealed, hands flying to her cheeks. "I can't handle this level of cute! My heart is literally exploding! I need air!"

You laughed, burying your face in Hotch’s neck to hide your blush, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne.

The night wore on, more drinks (water for Hotch from now on, at your insistence), more stories, more laughter, but Hotch stayed glued to your side. Every so often, he'd murmur something sweet against your ear, or brush his lips over your temple, or just look at you like you hung the moon. Because you’d hung his moon.

By the time the group called it a night, Hotch was leaning heavily on you for balance, arm slung around your shoulders, steps a little unsteady on the sticky floor as you guided him toward the exit.

The team watched you go, his broad frame swaying slightly into yours, your arm secure around his waist, the two of you murmuring quietly to each other like the rest of the world had fallen away.

Emily shook her head in fond disbelief, arms crossed as you slowly slipped out of sight. "Who knew? The big boss man is a cuddly drunk."

"Only for her," Rossi smirked, slipping his coat on.

Morgan grinned, clapping Rossi on the shoulder. "Lucky bastard."

“Smells incredible,” he murmured, turned his head slightly, and brushed his lips against the shell of your ear.

You smiled, tilting your head to give him better access. Hotch pressed a few kisses down the column of your neck. “It’s just pasta sauce for later. Nothing fancy.”

As you kept stirring the sauce, careful not to burn the bottom, Hotch’s hands started wandering.

They drifted upward, slowly, until his palms made contact with your breasts and cupped them  through the thin cotton. He squeezed them gently, no hesitation, thumbs circling over your nipples until they poked hard against the fabric. They were sensitive and aching almost instantly under his touch.

“Baby…” Your voice caught in your throat, half laugh, half moan at the stimulation.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he turned you around in his arms until your back met the counter. sHotch turned the stove off and pushed the sauce to one of the cold hobs. He then dipped his head down and kissed along the swell of your breast, right above the open neckline of the shirt. His tongue traced the curve, then dipped lower until he met the edge of the shirt. With a frustrated growl, he unbuttoned the shirt further, nudging the fabric aside, freeing your breasts until he could close his lips around one nipple, while his hand came up and rolled your other between the pads of his fingers.

A soft moan slipped out of you, and Hotch groaned in response. Like the sound of your pleasure was enough for him to cum right then and there.

“God, I love these,” he rasped against your skin, voice rough with want, with need. “So soft.” He sucked harder, tongue flicking over your nipple. “Every time I see you like this, in my shirt, without a bra on, I can’t think straight. Just want to touch you. To taste you. To bury my face here and stay forever.”

You arched into him, fingers threading through his hair, and giggled. “At this point, it sounds like you’re obsessed.”

“Completely.” He switched sides, giving the other breast the same slow, devoted attention: kissing, licking, and sucking until you were trembling against the counter. “I dream about them. About how they fit in my hands. How they bounce when you ride me. How they look when I fuck you.” Another flick of his tongue. “They’ve ruined me for anything else.”

Heat started pooling between your legs.

Hotch finally lifted his head, eyes dark and glassy, pupils dilated, lips swollen and wet. “You can finish the sauce in five minutes.”

“Only five?” You laughed breathlessly, knowing exactly where he was going.

“Maybe ten. I’m very thorough.” He smirked, already walking you backward toward the hallway, hands never leaving your chest.

And he was. Very devoted, very reverent, and utterly obsessed, just the way you loved him.