Stupid Cupid 🧸

mission identities | Aaron Hotchner as Professor Edward Thomas Jameson. You as Isabella Evans (rarely used, other than 'Miss Evans')

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chapter eight: breathe

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"We did that," Strauss crossed her arms and raised her chin, the same way she always did when she felt like someone was threatening her authority, "We thought it would better the chance of catching this guy."

"You did what?" It came out a lot louder than you hoped it would. A lot more angry. It took everything in you to not lose it, not throw the empty coffee cup beside you at the screen where the Section Chief was currently displayed.

The edges of your vision blurred with the sheer amount of raging emotions you were feeling, you pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes to try and clear it up. You had to calm down before you got yourself fired for lashing out.

Although the freedom of never seeing the she-devil again...

After a shaky, and not-at-all steadying breath which sounded more like a huff of disbelief, you tried to pull yourself together. To give the woman some sense through a different perspective, a more logical one. It was doubtful it would work, but you had a certain wishful way of seeing the world that nobody else knew about. Obviously that was the reason for your next, carefully chosen words.

"So, let me get this right," You tried your best to keep your composure, to remain calm and collected and speak in a tone that reflected it, "You sent home every single male student from campus, essentially creating the dream opportunity for the unsub, to 'catch this guy'? What's stopping him from going on a mass spree? There's a campus full of only female students out there, just for him."

Not only was it problematic and sexist, it was incredibly stupid. The anger was evident in your voice, despite your efforts to keep it in check. Honestly, you had every right to be angry.

You ran a hand down your face before finishing with one final, crucial point, "Not to mention, the unsub could very well be one of those male students."

It was baffling, hearing and witnessing the stupidity this woman was exhibiting and presenting in the shape of federal orders.

In your peripheral, you could see Hotch, his focus locked on you. It seemed like he was ready to jump in when you lashed out, reading you as he waited for the outburst he knew was coming.

You would probably say something — even if it would not be nearly as unfathomable and incomprehensible as what Strauss had been bullshitting about — that would, simply because of your lower rank, get you kicked.

Again, that freedom... If you could have managed to draw a full breath, to calm down enough, you would have been able to smell it.

"We don't know that." Strauss argued, glaring at you through the screen. There was a flicker of annoyance on her face, and for that split second, the authoritative scowl she had carefully plastered on like it was a clown mask, faltered. She was getting angry with you, but knowing when to stop was not one of your many good qualities. It was not in your file, so it probably should not even have been expected of you.

"Exactly," You spat the words with the force of your emotions, "We don't know." What was not clicking? It was an obvious point, at least one would think it was. Why would someone make decisions based on nothing?

Unbelievable. It was infuriating to know not only would more students be killed, simply because of the stupidity of her orders, but you were also getting increasingly terrified to think about the lack of support for the role you were to play.

You were supposed to be one of those students, like the ones that were killed. Supposed to lure the unsub out, to make you his next target.

Everything about this mission allowed for just that last part. You were going to be his target at some point, yet that would be all. A target, and then a dead one. Because they would not actually do anything helpful to prevent it.

There was no system, no way for you to get out other than by yourself, and that — thanks to the very first decree of the devil's laws — that was not going to happen. Not without you going against her command, to protect yourself.

To. Protect. Yourself.

You were going to die.

"What the absolute fuck is that kind of decision?" Your voice raised to shout above the roaring in your ears as your pulse increased to a thunder. It was deafening, drowning out the voices around you.

You had to get out, quickly. Now. This could not happen. Not in front of her and certainly not in front of him.

Out of the kitchen at least, you could do that. Yeah, that should be possible. You had to be able to make it that far.

Hotch had said your name at some point, but it was lost in the unforgiving sea of your mind. Whisked away by the stormy winds of your thoughts before it could register.

An explosion erupted in you, a volcano of anger, of panic and anxiety. Fear. The walls were moving in, the floor was a blur. Everything felt like a trap. A cage.

You could not do this.

You could not breathe. It was like the air refused to get down into your lungs, despite the way you were desperately gasping for it. Even as your chest heaved, your lungs ached and burned with desolation.

Breathe, you tried to tell yourself, to command your lungs to accept the air. Breathe for fuck's sake. Why could you not breathe? It was a fundamental requirement to stay alive, and yet you could not even manage that? Embarrassing.

Smell the flowers, blow out the candle.

One, two, three — no, not enough. It was not working.

You could faintly make out the stairs through the haze clouding your vision, and dashed for them. The cold tiles of the bathroom floor, that could help. It had to.

You were going to die, that was what she wanted, was it not? Die for this case, die for them. Yet, the victims were gone, dying for them would not change anything. They were already dead and he would kill more.

It would not stop with you. Not when they were not doing anything to prevent it, to help you, to catch him.

There was nothing to do but die. And for what?

Who would know? There was no one else. Everything around you — the friends you had made, the memories and experiences, every moment you had felt loved and desired — nothing was real.

You were all alone.

All alone and your fate was in the hands of someone who did not even care enough to try. Did not seem to want to, either. You were no value to the team, or the Bureau, that was what you understood now.

Seven lives had been lost for nothing. As would yours be.

You swung the bathroom door open and barely managed the step over the doorstep before your knees gave out. The world tilted and faded to black. The one last reminder of just another one of your failures.

You forgot to breathe.

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"Hey."

A deep voice said from somewhere in front of you as soon as you opened your eyes. You squinted against the bright, white light to locate him, and found him standing tall at the foot of the bed with his eyes narrowed on you.

Hotch held a glass of water in one hand and what looked to be a wet washcloth in the other, dripping onto the floor as he walked around the bed to sit beside you.

He put the glass on the bedside table and glanced down to you, a flicker of hesitation, before he reached over to place the cloth on your forehead. It was lukewarm, not the cold relief he probably intended it to be, but it made your stomach flutter with butterflies. Or nausea.

Yeah, that was more likely.

It was an odd thing, seeing him take care of you. A stark contrast to the Unit Chief you knew him to be.

Very boyfriend of him... Whoever would end up with that man would be very luck—unlucky. In the famous words of the wise Ursula, a Poor Unfortunate Soul. Really.

"How—" Your voice croaked like it had not been used for years, and your throat felt drier than your sense of humor. Which was hard to believe could even be possible.

Hotch furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, until he pieced it together and reached out to hand you the glass of water he had put there only a moment ago.

You swallowed a mouthful of water under the intensity of his stare. It was unnerving, being under the microscope like this. It turned your skin feverish and sent shivers down your spine.

"I ran upstairs after I heard a crash and found you on the bathroom floor. You were out for like two minutes." He sent you a disapproving glare, but it was weak and not at all like the glares you had gotten many times before. This was more fabricated, feigned, to hide the worry flashing in his eyes.

"I carried you to bed, thought you'd be more comfortable." More comfortable than the bathroom tiles? Was that a joke?

Did he make an actual joke?

The gleam that twinkled in his eyes confirmed your suspicions, and the small curve on his lips revealed the enjoyment he felt about his own show of humor. It was cute.

You huffed what could somewhat resemble a laugh, "Thanks, it is." He watched you for a heartbeat, scanning your face as if he was looking for something.

Finally, seemingly satisfied by whatever answer he got, Hotch turned his head to look out the window.

"Do you know where Spencer is?" You asked softly. His whereabouts were still unknown to you. It had been bugging you since the phone call with Lizzie, and you had not gotten the chance to talk to him. So much had happened, yet absolutely nothing at all.

After talking with Penelope, and then the weird conversation with Lizzie, both you and Hotch had ended up on a video call with Strauss instead of Spencer.

The man in front of you looked back from the window as he contemplated his words, carefully picking which ones you would get to hear and which ones you would not, "He's following up with the police."

A non-answer. Nice.

"Where's he staying?" You clarified your question, knowing the Unit Chief sitting on the bed with you would do anything to not really answer, if he decided it was not something you needed to know. A little annoying, that was. A lot annoying, in fact.

Spencer was your friend, not just coworker, and you deserved to know what it was he was doing.

Hotch pursed his lips and furrowed his brows, no doubt calculating how to give you as little as possible, "Hotel." Short and precise, yet not satisfying at all. Just like a lot of men… Not him though, despite his answers being exactly that.

"What are you not telling me?" There was something he was not sharing, something he knew that he was keeping from you for whatever reason he saw fit. You could tell, and it unnerved you more than anything.

Usually he had good reason for his decisions, but good reasons to keep it from you meant there was bits of knowledge you did not know of.

His jaw clenched, his gaze flickering down to the lower lip you were chewing on as he, again, contemplated. "He's got a profile, that's why he's at the station." Oh, okay. Spencer had leads on the case, then. He had actually managed to investigate. It made you wonder if he was under the same orders as you were.

If Hotch even was.

You tried to gather the loose strings of your mind, to tie your thoughts together to somehow make sense of the glimpses and pieces of knowledge you had as you kept chewing on your lip. A bad habit, perhaps, to bite down either on your lips or the insides of your cheeks, but it helped.

It dawned on you then. If Hotch knew of Spencer's whereabouts and that he had made a profile, it would be likely that everyone back at the Bureau also did. "So, the order from Strauss—"

"No." He said quickly, cutting you off as if he was waiting for it. You sighed in honest relief, feeling a lot better knowing you did not make a complete fool of yourself simply because you were left out of the loop. It was the bullshit you thought it was, then.

"What happens now?" You lowered your voice, suddenly all too aware of the weird silence that stretched throughout the room. A calm before the storm, that was what it felt like.

He met your gaze, and the slight furrow of his brows told you he felt it as well, "Nothing, until we're told otherwise." Great.

The energy in the room shifted.

You held his stare, as he did yours. As if they would reveal something, show you the reasons that would explain the shift between you. The words left unsaid, the secrets left untold. Perhaps you were searching for your own.

Hotch cleared his throat and looked away, opting for studying the non-existent pattern on the curtains instead. "Would you mind telling me what happened?" He asked, in a quiet way that seemed almost hesitant.

You were not really sure what had happened. One moment, you were pissed off and about to invent a whole new dictionary of curse words directed to the Section Chief. The next, you had fainted on the bathroom floor.

"Are you sick? Is there something I should know?" He did not follow with 'is there something I should know — as your Unit Chief', yet it was what he meant. You could tell by the scowl reappearing on his face and the authoritative professionalism of his demeanor.

He asked as your Unit Chief. Not as your love interest, not as the Aaron you had slept with. Your boss, team leader, coworker.

Because that was all you were. All you wanted to be. Right? Right.

"No, I'm fine." The lie tasted acidic on your tongue as you spoke it. You were not fine, and it felt like things were getting worse by each passing moment. It was a rollercoaster around him. One second you were sleeping beside each other, eating breakfast he had cooked for you. Another, you shrunk under his glare.

He cared about you, until he had a job to do. He praised you, made you blush, even smile — until he felt the need to remind you it was the roles you were to play. It was confusing.

"You're not fine," He declared, leaving no room to argue with him, "I can tell, but I'm here if you want to talk about what it is that's—"

"I don't. Especially not with you."

It was harsh, shooting him down without letting him finish his sentence, and unnecessarily mean. He did not deserve your attitude, even more so when he had just done his best to take care of you. He was simply worried about you, and offered you a shoulder to lean on. To be there for you.

It sounded worse than you had intended it to. You had not meant for it to come out that way.

The guilt hit you immediately.

You did not want to talk about it, that was true. However, there was a lot more to it. It was not like you did not want to talk about it with him — though, you supposed you did not want to either — it was the ocean of emotions and secrets you did not want to acknowledge. It was the feelings, the new ones more than the old, that terrified you to admit the reality of.

His jaw clenched, the muscles tightening as he got up from the bed. The same way it did when he disapproved of your actions, when you had disappointed him, defied him in some way he did not appreciate. Yet, it was different this time.

This time, you felt the panic rise up your throat. All you wanted to do was take it back, more than anything. Regret and guilt, shame and anxiety, it all churned in your gut. You were getting nauseous.

Hotch gave one shake of his head and turned, heading for the door.

You ran a hand down your face, cursing yourself for what you likely had now destroyed with one stupid sentence. Fuck. You watched him leave the room and heard him go down the stairs, with horror and a self-loathing so immense, it caused your hands to tremble. You were shaking as you kicked off the covers he had pulled over you, tucked you under.

Without thinking, you followed after him. Through his bedroom door, down his stairs and out the front door of his house. The house he had let you stay in when you were too drunk to be in your dorm alone. When he wanted to keep you safe.

It was the biggest mistake you had ever made. That was certainly what it felt like, at least. You did not even stop for a moment to think, to wonder what it was that had changed within you. What it was that could have possibly been the reason for your panic. The cause of sudden desperation and desire for his concern.

Because you wanted his concern. You wanted him to continue to worry about you, to keep you safe.

Hotch passed through the gate of the white picket fence and turned right. Your pace picked up, but his steps were faster, determined to get somewhere you did not know about. The area was still so unknown to you, if you lost him, you would not find your way back.

Would he even want you to come back?

The increasingly aggressive wind and the warm, sticky air revealed the thunderstorm rolling in. You could smell it, feel it pressing in your sinuses, though you did not care. There was no room in your panicked and frantic state of mind to think about it. All you could see, all you could hear, all you thought about was the look on his face and the hurt flashing in his eyes.

It replayed over and over again.

You were sure of one thing, and one thing only. The look on his face would haunt you. It made your chest ache and your stomach churn. Your vision blurred and the world around you spun as you followed after him through a creaky gate. Dizzy and trembling.

The line of sight was limited, through the thickening clouds and darkening sky. A sea of trees scattered throughout the grassy park, with wooden benches placed between the spaces between them along the trail. Across the park, behind the tree tops, you could barely make out the tops of stone buildings. Campus, you guessed, it had to be.

Why was he heading for the campus? To get to your dorm and pack your stuff?

Would he send you back to Quantico? No, no. He would not do that. There was still a job to do, even if you destroyed all hopes of building… Building a bond of trust between two coworkers. Right. It was hard to breathe.

You managed to catch his arm and pull him to a stop, right as rain started falling from the heavens above.

Hotch twisted to face you with the scowl still firmly planted on his face. It was nauseating, that scowl, you found yourself starting to hate it. Even more so when it was directed to you. He rarely scowled when the two of you were alone, not anymore at least. The version of him you had come to know, come to like and appreciate, that was the one you felt slipping through your fingertips. And you hated it, more than anything.

"Please," Your chest heaved as you tried to alleviate the thirst, swallowing the thick humid air, "I'm really sorry." The apology fell from your lips repeatedly, an echo of guilt. A chant of shame.

He said nothing, did nothing. Hotch stood still in front of you, listening as your apologies shifted to sound more like desperate pleas. Although that was what it was, a desperate attempt to fix what it was you had broken. You wanted to rewind, to turn back time and do it again.

"If you can't tell me what's going on with you, how am I supposed to trust you? Or know that you trust me?" His voice remained calm and collected, as if the words he had just said weighed nothing. That almost hurt more, seeing him so stoic and unfazed, when all you could feel was panic and restlessness. You hated him for it, despised him for it. Yet, you hated yourself even more.

It was your fault for lashing out, your fault for ruining everything between you. All you had wanted and dreamed of, but did not dare to pursue. A dream that crumbled by your hands.

Everything was confusing.

You could not understand what war was raging inside of you, and even so, it controlled you. It tainted your thoughts and coursed through your veins. The overwhelm of emotions clouded your vision. You swallowed and tried to blink away the haze, "I do trust you, I just–"

"Then prove it to me. Tell me what's going on with you." His demand went unanswered. It hung in the air between you. Not because you could not answer him, but because you did not want to acknowledge it for what it was. To admit it. That made it real.

The truth scared you.

"You had a panic attack so bad, you fainted. On the bathroom floor. Do you expect me to just let that slide, and let you get back to work?" His eyes flickered between yours, searching for the very thing you were trying to push down. The truths he wanted that you clung to with closed fists and desperation to keep from him.

You wanted to expect that he would let it slide, and that you could move on and get back to work, yet you knew better.

Actually, that was not the case. You did not know better, because knowing better meant telling him the truth. Again, the truth was a terrifying thing.

Hotch shook his head, though it was barely noticeable, almost as if it was to himself. "This can't work if we don't trust each other." He spoke quietly. Despite it, you did not miss the undertone of his voice, the insinuation behind his words.

You stilled, frozen in time, while your mind raced.

"What can't work?" The quiet question almost disappeared, whisked away with the wind, but he heard it. He blinked, his jaw ticking as he realized what he had said, what you had heard. Your heart pounded in your ears, the waves of your pulse crashing in time with the swaying trees.

The man in front of you stood silent, like a statue, not even his eyes moved away from you as rain dripped from his face. He had no answer. If he did, then, by the looks of it, he was not about to give them to you.

Which was fair, if you were to be honest. You did not deserve to know his, if you could not give him yours.

His shoulders dropped slightly in defeat as he sighed, "I know you're scared, and I get it. I don't approve of her orders either, but–"

"Yes, I'm scared," You cut him off without thinking, without realizing it before the words had fell out of you, "But the case has nothing to do with it." It was not entirely true. The case had something to do with the stormy waves of fear and panic that flowed through you. Yet, not nearly as much as the man in front of you had to do with it.

There was too much inside of you, and everything wanted out. All at the same time. As if your emotions and your thoughts — every feeling inside of you was a body of water — and the dam you had built to keep it contained, was weakening by each passing heartbeat he kept his eyes on you.

It needed to come out sooner or later, however it was getting increasingly clear that later may never come.

Hotch watched you in silence as he waited for your explanation. He noticed the way your breathing picked up, how your shoulders tensed and the way your gaze flickered to the ground. The pressure weighing on you, pushing and pulling to get out of whatever cage you had shoved it in. He could not do anything but wait and listen, as you let everything spill.

"I'm scared, Aaron, because of the war raging inside me every time I'm near you. Every time I hear your voice, or feel your touch, all I can think about is how it's nothing. There's nothing between us, it's not real." The words rushed out of you with a hurry. Every emotion laced your voice as you revealed them.

If you stopped, if you took a breath, you would not continue. Instead, you would find a way to shove it down deep, so deep it would never reappear.

So, you kept going.

"At the end of the day, I'm going to get killed because of something that's not real. And it hurts to know it's not going to matter how real it feels to me, or how badly I wish it could be. It's not." A tear fell down your cheeks, concealed by the drizzle of rain that fell from the sky.

As if it listened, and did not want you to be alone.

"So, yes. I'm scared. Terrified. I can't breathe." Your chest heaved as the weight lifted and another took its place. He said nothing. He did not move. Only his eyes held yours, unblinking and unflinching, while the sky poured down its own emotions.

In sympathy or understanding, or in pity, it did not matter. The cool droplets felt wonderful on your feverish skin, even as droplets turned to downpour, and soon enough, you were both soaked.

The rain hammered down around you as a crack of thunder shook the ground, yet your eyes remained on each other. Locked. Unmoving and unwavering.

For moments, there was nothing else. Nothing more than you and him, dripping wet, a foot apart under the thick clouds of the thunderstorm. 

And then, there was the screams.

Both of your heads whipped towards the sound. The instincts kicked in and took over all thoughts and emotions you were experiencing. Everything was pushed back as you snapped into the choreographed dance you had done so many times before.

Despite it, and despite his better judgment, Hotch looked back to you. He knew full well it might have been the very act that cost someone their life, and even still, he did it.

It did not even register until it had already happened, but you caught it.

He snapped out of it and reached for the gun strapped to his ankle. It was the only one he had on him, though it was more than you had. You had nothing, no weapon, no means to protect yourself other than your hands and the jumbled jelly that was your mind.

What could go wrong?

Hotch pushed his gun to you as he grabbed his phone and dialed the police, his other hand hovering over to shield the screen from the pouring rain.

It was automatic. Almost natural. A familiar move with a familiar rhythm, akin to the beat of your heart.

You raised the gun up, treading forward quickly and quietly, the same way you had done countless times. Usually, however, you would both be armed and with communication to the team, not sharing a gun and squinting through the thick wall of downpour as you made your way blindly towards the screaming.

As another scream echoed, Hotch hung up the phone and took the gun from your hands. The thick clouds and rumbles of thunder might have dampened the sound, but it was still piercing. It was a female screaming, at least that was something. Not much, but without Spencer's profile, access to anything about the case and suspects, or even communication with the police, it was something.

Hotch held you behind him, a hand firmly gripped around your wrist as a leash. To make sure you were there, or perhaps it was to hold you and keep you from doing something stupid like run off, or faint again. You had not planned any of the above, for once.

On the bench, a couple trees down from the trunk you were standing behind, laid a woman. A girl, more like. You could not see her clearly through the rain, but you could tell by her screams.

A dark figure knelt above her, on top of the bench with one leg on each side of her body to keep her still as she trashed against him. There was no one else, not that you could see.

Hotch leaned down to whisper in your ear, "Stay behind me, you hide and do not engage." The warmth of his breath fanned across the cold, wet skin of your cheek and you shivered, "Is that clear?"

He straightened enough for his eyes to be leveled with yours as he waited for your confirmation. You swallowed, going over the command one more time to try to remember it.

"Have I made myself clear." Hotch repeated himself with a glare. He was not taking any chances with you, not when you had a tendency to defy his orders, no matter what they were. The possibilities of getting to you if you did defy him — which he had weighed and calculated over and over again — they were next to none.

It was also another way of proving your trust to him.

"Yes, Sir." You swore with a whisper and intended to keep it. There was a flash of surprise, and perhaps satisfaction in his eyes, until he moved. You kept close, creeping through the trees to the little opening, before you dashed right to hide behind a big tree trunk.

There was a commotion. A faint sound of someone shouting, but it was drowned out by the loud rumble of thunder. It was unnerving, not knowing what was happening behind you.

You could not see him, hear him. All you could do was trust him to keep himself alive, and hope for the best.

Not ideal.

The panic reappeared in your throat and you tried to remind yourself to breathe.

He could very well have been dead, even despite the unlikeliness. Chances were never zero. Never. Hotch had a gun, the unsub used a knife. But what if it was not your unsub? What if this one did have a gun?

The facts and the panicked thoughts mixed together into a soup of anxiety. Fear coursed through your veins, creating a lump in your throat and mush in your mind.

With your backside pushed against the bark, you closed your eyes and filled your lungs with air, and tried to remind yourself of what you did know.

Number one: you were a trained federal agent. It would be really embarrassing to have a panic attack behind a tree trunk. Get it together. Breathe.

Number two: Aaron Hotchner was somewhere behind you. If there was one certainty amongst the sea of uncertainty when it came to him, it was that he had your back. No matter how he felt about you, or did not feel about you, he always had your back.

Number three: keeping your eyes closed when a serial killer was around, was a bad idea.

The thick clouds, pouring rain and booming thunder hid the sounds of footsteps. Issued no warning of someone approaching.

A cloth forcefully covered your mouth and nose right as your eyes snapped open, but it was too late. You had no chance, whether you would acknowledge that, or not. No chance against the man in black with the familiar shade of stormy blue eyes that you could not place.

Right then and there, you swore to never again carry out breathing exercises with your eyes closed.

The darkness reappeared — it wrapped you in a warm hug as it consumed you — and welcomed you to the silent sea of your mind. Again.

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we're nearing the end guys!!! i think there's going to be two more chapters, but i'm... yuh.

if you tolerated this (which i’m finding increasingly hard to do myself) please TELL ME ABOUT IT so i don’t accidentally never finish this because i hate it <3

love, millie<3

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mission identities | Aaron Hotchner as Professor Edward Thomas Jameson. You as Isabella Evans (rarely used, other than 'Miss Evans')

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chapter six: truth or dare

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"Your choice, Professor." Your whisper fanned across his lips.

Hotch did not move, his breath mixed with yours, dancing across your lips as he whispered, "I didn't realize we had to keep pretending when we're alone."

The way he spoke — like he was trying to remind you that this was nothing more than pretend — yet it did not sound convincing. His eyes were depths of darkness with gleams of amusement, an alluring contrast. The heat of his breath across your face, and his devilish smirk as he waited for your response made it hard to think.

You wondered what he would do if you decided to press your lips against his. If you tilted your head forward to close the mere distance between you.

Trying to keep your voice steady as you spoke, you gestured between your bodies with a finger, "We only do this when we are alone." It seemed you found yourself almost pressed against his lips more often when you were alone, than in front of anyone else.

Hotch chuckled deeply, his eyes focused entirely on your lips as you licked them slowly. "If that's the case, we are extremely bad at our jobs." That was certainly the case. However, you found it increasingly difficult to care about your jobs. There was little more in your mind than him pressed against you, his body against yours. His hands on you.

It was torture. You were struggling to keep your hands to yourself. He was so close, you itched to reach out. To touch him. Run your hand down his chest, up the nape of his neck. Tug on his hair.

You whispered shakily, it took everything to keep yourself sane and not move to straddle him, "Well, technically Strauss said–"

"Do not mention Strauss when you're close enough I can taste the whiskey on your breath." He growled. The demanding tone of his voice vibrated down your spine, you shivered, a quiet whimper escaping your lips before you could stop it. Hotch cursed lowly to himself, watching as the color spread across your cheeks, "You are not making this easy."

He was struggling. There was not a single part of you touching him, or him touching you, yet it felt suffocating being so near you. It felt like the air was on fire.

"You know I like when things are hard for me, Sir." It was a weak attempt at gaining some fraction of control back. He just hummed. Was it hot in here?

It was unbearable. Feverish. Suffocating. You could not take it any longer. It was too much, and not enough at the same time. It was everything and nothing all at once. There was no air to breathe, nothing but him and you.

You lifted your head to look him in the eyes, to offer him your last piece of sanity and self-control. "Please, if you don't fucking kiss me alr–" The words were cut off, the air knocked out of you as his hand grabbed the side of your neck to pull you to him. He crashed his lips on yours. Pressing your face against his. It was desperate, frantic. Heated.

Your hands flew up to his shoulders, steadying yourself as you tilted your head deeper. His hands moved to your hips as he kissed you with such fierce determination your lungs burned, his grip was so deliciously bruising, you gasped into his mouth.

Hotch groaned, the sound you made was like gasoline to his fire. He would never be able to listen to you speak again without thinking about the sweet noises your mouth could make. You swung a leg over his, not letting his lips leave yours as you moved to sit on his lap.

With your hands tangled into his hair, his tongue pushed into your mouth to dance around yours. The kiss was consuming you. No thoughts formed in your mind, nothing but the desire for him to keep devouring your soul the way his lips did to yours. You wanted him closer. Needed him closer. It was making you greedy.

He pulled his face away from yours, your chests heaving as you gasped for air. "Fuck." He muttered, throwing his head back. A moment passed of you catching your breaths together, of his eyes on yours, of his hands gripping your hips and yours on the nape of his neck. If you kept still, perhaps the moment would never end.

The line he had tried to keep between his personal and work life thinned. All because of your red swollen lips and your thighs pressing against his. It would not matter how much this was… encouraged, when it came to the mission. This was not about the mission, not for him. Not anymore. Maybe it had never been.

"It's just us here." Hotch reminded you, as if it would change anything. As if you would climb off of his thick thighs in panic as soon as you realized it. Not happening. His thighs were made for you to sit on, you were not getting off unless he forced you.

You grinned, playing with the hair on the nape of his neck, "I won't tell if you won't." It was more a hopeful promise than anything. You could not care less about the jobs you were here to do. The scowling man underneath you had been giving you a hard time for too long, with the way he folded up the arms of his shirt, crossed them over his chest and glared at you with disappointment. You would have crawled to him on your first day at the BAU had you not been the stubborn, revenge-seeking brat you were. It was easier to make him suffer the same way you did.

However, now you had tasted him. His scent tainted your lips and it was maddening.

Hotch stared at you, searching your face for any sign of doubt, of uncertainty. Too bad for him, you mused, when he found nothing of the sort. You were long gone, drowning in the sea of him like it was the only thing you had known, and would ever know. Perhaps it would not be so bad.

"You do not get to decide whether I want this or not," You leaned forward to barely graze your lips against his as you whispered, "Especially not when your hard cock is pressing against me. It's dizzying."

He ran a hand down his face when you sat back up on his lap, huffing out a sigh, "Fuck, you have a foul mouth." He liked to point it out, it seemed. Not that it bothered you in the slightest.

You grinned as you ran both your hands slowly down his chest, "Want to find out now, or later?" His jaw tightened, his pulse roaring in his ears.

Before he could claim your lips again — drink the very poison he was sure would kill him — the sound of knocking echoed through the first floor of the house. Both you and Hotch whipped your heads to look to the door, before he raised a hand to check the watch on his wrist. His brows furrowed as he noted the late hour.

"Later." He decided with a smug smirk. He gripped your hips and lifted you off him, placing you onto the couch next to where he sat like it was the most natural thing. You shivered. Fuck, it was perhaps the most attractive thing he had ever done.

He got up from beside you, glancing over to you one last time before he strode to open the door. You bent over the back of the couch to hopefully see who it was, ruining the best kiss of your life. Blocking what would undoubtedly be the best sex of your life, judging by the size of him pressed up against you, straining against his slacks.

Spencer stood panting on the other side of the door, his hands on his knees like he had run a marathon. With the way he ran, you supposed it was understandable he struggled to catch his breath. You struggled to catch yours as well, every time he ran. It was your favorite entertainment.

"What's wrong?" Hotch asked, raking a hand through his hair as the younger stepped beside him into the living room. He was trying to act normal, like he had not basically swallowed your face moments before. You could still see the outline in his slacks. It never occurred to you he was the type to get aroused from kissing for a minute or two. The stoic scowl and furrowed brows made him look a lot more professional — honorable — the very epitome of composed. It was poetic, when you viewed it like that.

"I tried to text you." Spencer said when he saw you.

He did? You had not gotten any texts— your phone. Looking around for your purse, for the phone you put in your purse, it hit you, you had left it behind when you were out drinking and dancing. With a sigh, you looked up at him, guilt shining in your eyes, "I forgot my phone in my purse back at the bar." How could you be so stupid? Sophie even scolded you for not answering your phone as soon as she stopped sobbing in your hair hours ago.

"I know," He admitted, opening the satchel hanging from his shoulder, "I was walking Lizzie back to her dorm, and I kept texting and calling you but it went straight to voicemail. Then Lizzie said she thought your phone was in your purse and that you had thrown it to a corner when you were dancing and probably forgot it. So, when she was safely at her dorm, I ran back to the bar to find your purse, but the bar had closed, and so I had to break–" Spencer paused and snapped his head to look at Hotch, then turning slowly back to you handing you the purse he had dug out.

He was never good at playing it cool when he messed up. You bit back a laugh and mouthed 'thank you' as you took it from his outstretched hands. It was so sweet Spencer followed Lizzie home and then ran his little quirky run to get your purse, he was just the purest angel.

Hotch cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest, back to the ever-so-strict scowling Unit Chief, "Had to break what, Reid?" He pressed. It was exhilarating, knowing that was the man groaning into your mouth not even three minutes ago. The poor boy in front of you had no idea how badly you wanted to kick his sweet angel ass out of here to climb his boss. Your boss. Whatever.

Spencer pursed his lips and straightened, preparing to lie his pretty little face off, "I knocked on the door so hard it almost basically broke, and the owner let me in." Yeah! Everybody nod in agreement, it's his first time.

"Johnson?" Hotch raised a serious eyebrow, though the gleam in his eyes and cunning smirk on his lips told on him. It was a rare sight, seeing Aaron Scowls-a-lot Hotchner mess with Spencer 'the Smart-ass' Reid.

Spencer nodded and snapped his fingers as if he just remembered, "Johnson, yes."

Scratch that. It was a rare sight: Aaron Scowls-a-lot Hotchner outsmarting Spencer 'the Smart-ass' Reid.

"My sweet little Spence," You laughed as you reached over the back of the couch to ruffle his hair, "I think you've been played." He looked like a sad puppy, looking back and forth between you and the man across the room like he was watching a tennis match. Hotch had almost smiled from where he stood, and Spencer pouted, his shoulder slumping slightly.

"Are you taking his side?" He pointed his thumb over his shoulder to where Hotch tried to hide his satisfaction with his arms crossed. You huffed a no, and Spencer narrowed his eyes on you. The same expression plastered on his face as that one time he decided to calculate the significance of various variables in Emily's life — trying to figure out if she was in a good mood because she got laid, or if she simply got a good night sleep. The two could absolutely not possibly correlate.

To everyone's annoyance, yet no one's surprise, he ended up being right. She had gotten laid, and it was the highlight of Derek's day when she walked back to her desk after lunch and Spencer had exclaimed it outright. Hotch had walked past right in that moment, and Emily seized the opportunity to grab his arm and ask to go home. She had apparently gotten instantly sick with something very contagious and needed to isolate, but Hotch did not give in to her. Instead, he ended you all by saying 'You got yesterday off, you're not leaving work early today just because he was good, Prentiss. We have a case'. Derek actually bowed down to the Unit Chief.

Spencer hummed, raising an eyebrow as he came to his conclusion, "So, you liked sharing his mouth-germs."

Why did he always do this? Jesus. Let a girl live.

"Reid." Hotch sighed, scratching the back of his neck. You turned around, debating on sinking so low into the couch you disappeared. Another idea hit you though, as the bottle of whiskey seemed to scream your name from where it stood, so lonely, on the small round table.

"I need a drink, want one?" You asked to no one in particular as you made for the flask of salvation.

"No," Spencer answered, picking up his satchel, "I'm going back to campus to see if I can find anything at the scene." Hotch nodded. The door closed as Spencer dashed out the house, leaving behind a deafening silence.

You filled two full glasses of whiskey, passing one to the man standing behind you without saying a word. The promises hung in the air, unfulfilled, unkept. The two of you emptied your glasses in silence.

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"Truth or dare?"

The bottle of whiskey was empty on the table, though thankfully the man was prepared. He had dug out some fancy Italian wine from somewhere in the kitchen, and you sent your eternal gratitude to one Agent David Rossi.

Hotch slouched on the far and of the couch, "Aren't we a little too old?" He was, probably. Who would turn down a classic round of a good game, such as truth or dare? In what world could truth or dare lead to anything but simple and innocent fun?

Hopefully in your world, if you played your cards right — wait, not cards — truth or dare? Anyway.

"I'm not, now pick one. Unless—you are too old." You waved a finger in his direction before taking a swig straight from the bottle in your hands. The buzz was like a delicious warmth in your body, spreading across your skin like wildfire.

It was ironic, how you insisted on playing this game but you hated to come up with things to say. You chewed on your bottom lip, conspiring on the best way to throw him off his own game. To make him lose it — and perhaps — make him finally touch you.

The tree of a sexy man sitting too far away was relaxing more and more, the deeper down the flask you got.

Hotch sighed, taking the bottle from your hands and drank. "In vino veritas, right?" He muttered with a slight rasp in his voice, and you almost fell to your knees. It was already difficult enough to keep your hands off him — if he said another word in Italian, in that deep tone — your hand would find a way into your underwear.

Truth, right.

You folded your legs under you as you turned to face him. It was one of your remaining functioning brain cells that decided to start easy with your question, "What's something you often think about doing but you've not done yet?"

He clenched his jaw, perhaps trying to come up with any answer different than the first he thought of. There had to be a lot of things he had not done yet, considering he spent all his time at work. "Spend a vacation on a boat." Hotch shrugged, taking another drink from the warm wine. He swallowed, and you watched his throat bob like it was the most fascinating thing you had witnessed.

"Boring," You said with a huff, reaching for the bottle that currently resided in his incredibly large hands, "My turn." He handed over the wine you secretly envied. A frown tilting the very lips you were desperate to taste again. He was probably offended you called his answer boring, and not 'the exhilarating, most adrenaline-inducing idea' he undoubtedly thought it was.

The wine tasted somewhat sour, you noted as you took a mouthful, although maybe that was the point.

Why was he quiet? Had he forgotten how to play or was he just that old? "You have to ask me." You pouted, reminding him of the way of the game.

"Right. Truth or dare?" He pursed his lips, studying your face as he tried to think of something.

You hummed to yourself, weighing your options.

Hotch would find a way to make it boring, no doubt, and you wanted something more — exciting. Saucy, like how your insides were feeling. Heated, like the way he kissed you earlier. So, the only obvious solution was to give the man some easy and kind instructions.

"Dare, but if you make it boring, I'm walking back to my dorm." You prayed he would come up with something. The walk back would be dark and scary — because you would walk back — you always followed through with your threats.

He scowled disapprovingly, and you grinned. You knew it had worked.

Hotch thought for a moment, a second longer and you would probably die from boredom. Or lack of attention. All you wanted was for him to touch you. Everywhere.

"Come sit on my lap."

Oh. Your breath hitched, the growl in his voice sent shivers down your spine. Hotch raised an eyebrow, watching you expectantly, with an amused, dark gleam in his eyes. He savored the blush painting your cheeks as you tried to compose yourself.

"What?" You tried, but it sounded weaker than you would have liked. It was impossible to breathe, to string together coherent thoughts. The air was suffocatingly thick as he waited for you to follow his command. Careful what you wish for, right?

"You heard me." He leaned back, one hand on the back of the couch as the other tapped on his thigh as he spread them. Invitingly. Like a throne.

He watched you, waited for you. It should not have been that difficult to move, but your legs had turned to jelly, your mind short-circuiting. The sight of his finger tapping on his thick thigh went straight between your own legs. You moved closer to him, to do exactly what he wanted you to. Despite the inability to control your own movements, you lifted yourself up to straddle him, the same way you had earlier. When he was plunging his tongue into your mouth.

"Good." He purred, his hands finding their way back to your hips, just as they had been earlier. The pulse roaring in your ears made it difficult to do anything other than stare at him. Waiting for whatever was to come. You could not think.

It was maddening, dizzying, having his body against yours.

Hotch tilted his head to the side, like he was expecting something.

"Aren't you going to ask me?" He raised his eyebrows, the smug expression on his face revealed just how much he was enjoying this. You chewed on your bottom lip, concentrating on figuring out what he meant, what he wanted you to ask. The only thing you could think of was that you needed his lips on yours again. Needed to feel his skin. Tangle your fingers in his hair again.

You squeezed your eyes shut as he tightened his grip on your hips. "Ask you what?" It came out a shaky whisper, whiny, almost. He had that effect on you, apparently. Hotch licked his lips, fully smirking, and it confused you. What was it, exactly, he was enjoying? Your flushed cheeks and whiny breaths? Oh. Fuck.

He hummed, narrowing his eyes as you struggled to hold on to the last thread of your composure. It was not even a thread, you simply had not realized yet, that you were whimpering on his lap. Starved for his touch. The wine had that effect on you, apparently.

"Don't you want to keep playing?" Hotch asked, his tone was slightly condescending and it sent your mind spiraling. He raised his eyebrows again, waiting for your reply, even if he was well aware it was not coming. You were a blushing mess on his lap, your lips parted and brows knitted like you were struggling to keep yourself upright, his cock was straining against his slacks at the sight of you.

"One round, is that all you can do?" He purred in your ear. Well aware of the insinuation. But wine had a tendency to make him not care. You shook your head, not trusting your ability to speak, to not beg for his–

Surely you could manage another round.

You took a shaky breath, speaking with as much coherence as you could manage, "Truth or dare?" Hotch tilted his head again, savoring the look of you on his lap. He licked his lips and bit back a smile as you squeezed your eyes shut. Why were you like this? You could not even manage seeing his smug face without clenching your thighs, it was starting to get embarrassing.

"Fuck, I don't care." He grumbled. Your eyes flew open in shock as his hand cupped your face, and a soft whimper escaped your lips before his mouth took its place. He kissed you with a need that rivaled your own, his tongue finding its way back to dance with yours. It was sparks of flames, of fireworks. His hands were everywhere on you, exploring every sliver of skin he could reach.

You unbuttoned the top of his shirt, desperate to touch him, feel him. His large hands dipped under your shirt, holding you firmly by the waist as he pressed your hips to grind against the hard outline of his cock. You gasped into his mouth, the delicious friction sent shivers down your spine.

It was minutes of heavy breaths, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you rolled your hips against him. Yet, you were greedy. It was not enough for the hunger, not enough to satisfy the pit of desire. Of need. You needed more.

"Just fuck me already, please." You managed, going for the classy, direct way of getting what you wanted.

You got up from him, quickly kicked off your lower garments, and climbed back onto his thighs. He followed, swiftly unbuttoning his slacks, and pushing them down enough for his cock to slap against his lower stomach. Hotch searched your face again for any sign of doubt, however your need for him seemed to be clear on your face.

"Are you sure?" The stupid, ethical man asked, like it was not the only thing you were sure of in your slightly, perhaps very drunken state. Hotch had no sympathy for a girl in need, apparently. You were soaked, dripping, and he wanted to make sure you wanted it. He was killing you. All with his cock out.

"Please," You whined, grinding against the length of his cock in hopes to easy some of the burning ache between your legs. "Please, Sir, fuck–" His hands tightened their grip on your hips firmly as he lowered you down slowly.

He threw his head back and groaned, your cunt swallowing the length of him. You bit down on the skin between his throat and shoulder as you adjusted to the size of him inside of you. Shit, he was big. He stretched you so well, your brain went numb. You were dizzy with the feeling of him, filling you perfectly.

Your hips rolled, bucking, creating the breathtaking pleasure of his cock sliding in and out of you, your clit rubbing against him every time he bottomed out. With his hands on your hips, he helped guide you as you bounced on his cock, his head thrown back, watching you through hooded eyelids. Sinful noises echoed in the air between you as he thrusted up to meet your moves. It was nothing like you had ever felt before. Addicting. Mouth watering. So good. You gasped, digging your nails into his shoulders as he pounded into you.

"Taking me so well, aren't you." He groaned in your ear, tightening his hold on your hips as he slammed you down on his cock. There were no words forming in your puddle of a mind, you barely managed a nod, your head falling forward to his shoulder.

Hotch kept you against him as he raised from the couch, still firmly pushed inside of you as he carried you through the living room.

Your back hit the wall at the bottom of the stairs. His lips crashed on to yours as he thrusted his cock in and out, your eyes rolling at the pace he set. The force of his pounds rattled the few frames on the wall somewhere next to you, though you could not care less as his cock drove into you, so deeply you could feel it in your lower stomach. Your head fell against the wall, eyes screwed shut, mouth falling open, though no sound could be heard — other than the wet noise of him sliding in and out of you — and the occasional low grunt as he kept you like that for another minute. Fucking you against the wall by the stairs.

He carried you up the stairs and turned right, to his bedroom. You nibbled marks on his neck, the skin turning an angry red, like a shade of lipstick you would never wear. Your mouth watered at the idea of him walking around, all serious and scowling, with your bite marks on his neck.

He dropped you onto the bed, and you whined a complaint at the loss of him no longer deep inside of you.

Propping up on your elbows, you watched as he unbuttoned his shirt fully, throwing it somewhere on the floor. You followed, pulling off your own shirt and unclasping your bra, dropping it to the floor.

The moment all your clothes were scattered somewhere you could not care less about, his lips found yours again. Slower, more intimately than the desperation and desire of earlier. He nibbled at your bottom lip, his hands raking up and down your body as he pushed you down to the mattress.

Hotch pressed open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, trailing down your neck, licking and biting the soft skin on his way down until his teeth grazed your peaked nipple. You moaned, arching off from the bed as he circled his tongue around it. His hand traveled from your waist to the other breast, cupping the flesh, you whimpered behind the back of your hand as he pinched your nipple between his fingers.

"Beautiful." He murmured, almost more as an observation to himself than anything else. His hands stayed on you as he pushed himself back. His calloused fingertips grazing your skin, from your breasts to the sides of your waist, across your hips and down to your thighs as he climbed backwards off the bed.

Hotch kneeled down to the floor and grabbed your legs, yanking you to the edge of the mattress. He lifted your legs over his shoulders, licking his lips at the view of you squirming on your back, spread out like a feast. And Aaron Hotchner was starving. There was no time for your mind to catch up before his mouth did.

He kissed your thighs, bit the skin softly, teasing all of one second before he could not withstand the torment of not tasting you any longer. You bit your lip, cursing as his warm mouth made contact with your heat. His tongue grazed your clit, flicking it, flattening against the entrance before dipping into you.

Your eyes rolled back and he groaned with his own satisfaction, repeating the combination of movements until you were tangling your hand in his hair to hold him in place. Straining against the hand on your lower stomach keeping you pressed against the mattress, seeking to buck your hips against his tongue. Chasing the pleasure building inside of you like it was the air you needed to breathe.

His other hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself as he devoured you. Like he could not stop himself. The sight of you squirming on his tongue, your thighs clenching around his head, your soft whimpers and whines — he was enchanted by you. And so painfully hard.

You breathed a string of curses, panting as he pushed you closer to the edge. With your back arched off the bed, your eyes screwed shut, his tongue flicked your clit one last time before stars filled your vision. Shockwaves gripped through your body. He groaned as you rode out your high on his tongue, watching as you completely surrendered to the magic of his mouth.

Hotch raised from the floor, his chin glistening in the dim light. The evidence of the trembling pleasure you still felt the aftermath of. Pushing yourself further up on the soft bed, you watched as he climbed on top of you, a smirk on his face as he licked his lips, intent to drink every single drop of you.

He spread your thighs and you shuddered, sensitive from the dizzying orgasm he had given you by using his mouth alone. He stilled, searching your face for any sign discomfort, anything that revealed you wanted him to stop — because he would stop — it would kill him, but he would stop.

"I can take it." You growled impatiently, pulling his lips to yours with the desperate need you felt reclaiming your entire being. He positioned himself as you wrapped your legs around his waist, and he pushed himself into you in one swift move. The position allowed his cock to hit deeper, your hips slightly angled up from the bed as he slammed his hips against yours. You screamed out, clawing marks down his back from the intensity of his pace.

"Yeah, you can." He purred in your ear. His voice was so soft and deep, like dark silk, but if it was wrapped around your throat. It was messing with your mind. It was nothing like the force of his cock hitting the very spot you were crying out for. Hotch tilted his head, watching you throw your head back and curse. You looked absolutely perfect under him. With his cock ramming into you, and your tits bouncing in time with his thrusts. Beautiful.

He would never be able to look at you the same. Not without seeing your dripping cunt swallow him entirely, not without tasting you on his tongue. He savored the image, the feeling. It would haunt him the rest of his life, but you were taking him so well it really did not matter. Though, he had no idea how he would be able to keep his hands to himself after this.

"A-Aaron–" Your eyes rolled back, his thumb pressing against your overly sensitive clit as he slammed himself into you. He cursed, the sound of his name on your sweet lips affected him more than he thought it would.

"Fuck," He groaned, grabbing your face to make you look at him, "Say it again." Your eyes fluttered open, your lips parting with the intention to say his name again but no sound came out. His pace was taking your breath away, his cock hitting the spot over and over like it was all it had ever done.

Hotch stilled. Stopped moving. Waiting.

You pouted, "Don't you dare fucking stop, Aaron. I will–" He had a talent for cutting of your words by doing exactly what you wanted. He slammed himself into you again, and kept his ruthless pace until you sobbed into the palm of your hand.

"Fuck, you feel so good taking my cock, so good." He murmured in your ear, his thumb pressing against your clit as your back arched, chest flush to his. You nodded in agreement, a whimpering mess from the feeling of him. Every thrust, every slamming of his hips, etched him into you. And you would not have it any other way. Not right now. Probably not ever. His cock was tattooed in your brain. There was no escape. The only way forward was over the edge.

Your nails scratched down his back, for anything to hold on to as the top neared. "Jus' for you." The words were barely audible, barely coherent through the collection of soft noises from your lips.

Hotch was smirking, hearing you mumble, well aware of the praise you were seeking. "Yeah—so good, just for me." He growled lowly, relishing the way you whined and squirmed as he continued to praise, "You look so pretty underneath me, so perfect, taking me so well." He was nearing his own climax, his hips stuttering slightly as he slammed his cock into you. Over and over. Until he was barreling for the edge.

You could not even nod for him, you were too far gone. The faint sound of curses falling from his mouth was the last thing you could hear before the edge claimed you. His cock twitched as his hips pressed into you. The warmth of his release spreading through your flushed body.

Your skin was feverish, your eyes had rolled so far back they would likely never find a way out of their sockets. There was nothing but him and you, in a sea of pleasure, of pure bliss. You were drowning in starlight together.

He rested his forehead against yours.

Sweat coated your skins, chests heaving towards each other as you gasped for air. The nerves in your body still buzzed. Your brain struggled to get enough oxygen to manage thinking. It was only the unbearably warm figure above you, caging you to the bed, that mattered. At the moment, of course.

You did not dare push him off you, despite your lungs screaming for air. Air could wait. It was his move, his choice on what to do next. His brows furrowed as he scanned your face, as if he was thinking the same thing. As if he was wrapping his mind around what exactly had just happened.

"I–" He whispered shakily and cleared his throat before trying again, "I'll get you a glass of water, maybe get a bath running?" Hotch was wincing, like it bothered him to think about. Yet, he did not move. He stayed on top of you. Frozen. As if he was reluctant, hesitating, to leave.

"I'll sleep on the couch, you take the bed." He added, like the gentleman he was.

"Fuck a girl and make her sleep alone?" You hummed, raising your eyebrows as the usual confidence returned to you, finally. His jaw clenched and he straightened his arms, pushing himself up. You reached out to his neck, stopping him. "I don't think so. Deal with it." Lifting yourself up, you pressed a kiss to his lips, just to seal the deal.

"So obnoxious." He hummed, tilting his head to stare down at you, "I liked you better whimpering on my cock."

You tried to fight the blush creeping up on your cheeks, to keep that satisfactory smirk off his lips, from knowing exactly how quickly you could fold from his stupid deep voice. However, it seemed you were too late, judging by the smug look on his face.

Hotch pushed himself off from the bed and raked his gaze down your naked body appreciatively. With a slightly shaky breath, you willed the confidence back to you and smiled sweetly up at him, "Well then, you're lucky it's the weekend."

"Thankfully." He chuckled darkly as he turned to what looked to be an en-suite bathroom, and strode toward it without offering you another glance.

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this was... long. filthy. I hope you enjoyed it !!!

if you did, please consider liking and reblogging, it fuels my little ego!

let me know your thoughts and if you have anything you would like to see! your comments and messages are everything to me<3

love, millie<3

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mission identities | Aaron Hotchner as Professor Edward Thomas Jameson. You as Isabella Evans (rarely used, other than 'Miss Evans')

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chapter five: drunk forgetfulness

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"Are you joking?" Lizzie giggled and swallowed the rest of her drink. You shook your head, laughing, "No, I'm serious, he really said that." It was freeing, finally having a girl around you. It had been over a month since you last saw your friends back home, only having Hotch and Spencer around would make anyone go crazy. Who would you talk to about them?

"Wait." She said with a straight face, standing up from where she sat cross-legged on her bed. Lizzie stood in front of you and did her best glare, lowering her voice to a grumble, "You and your perfect grades can't run from me, darling."

"I'm getting goosebumps." You snorted. Her impression was spot on, Emily would be given a run for her money.

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Lizzie lead you through the gates of campus, the chill night air sending shivers down your spine, you suddenly regretted not bringing a jacket. Fishing your phone out from your purse, you opened your messages to send the text Hotch had forced you to agree to send.

There was already a message in the chat.

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From: You | To: Professor Hot.

Let me know when later is.

Yesterday, 1:32PM

─﹒﹒★﹒──────────

What was that supposed to mean? You did not remember sending that.

You scanned the message again, scrunching your nose reading the contact name. Hotch had grabbed your phone yesterday to add his own number, and apparently create his own contact name. He probably sent himself a message from your phone, to ensure he had your number as well. Fucker.

You wondered if he intended to call himself 'Professor Hot' as a way to ensure it fit in with the roles you were playing, or if he simply meant it was short for 'Hotchner'.

It was undoubtedly the latter.

With a huff, you typed a quick 'Leaving campus now' before stuffing it back in your purse.

Three steps later, your phone chimed. Lizzie glanced over her shoulder, looking as confused as you were feeling. For an old guy, he certainly replied quickly.

"Sorry, just have to reply to this text." You gave her a tight lipped smile and she nodded in understanding.

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From: Professor Hot.

Where are you going and with who?

[9:55PM]

── Reply to: Professor Hot. Sunshine with Lizzie, Sophie and Summer. Is that to your liking, kind sir? [9:55PM]

From: Professor Hot.

Yes.

[9:56PM]

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You rolled your eyes and dropped your phone back into your purse again, you took Lizzie's outstretched arm and started walking.

'Sunshine' was a bar on Sunshine Road — only a 5 minute walk from the campus entrance — which was a 5 minute walk from the western dorm building. Summer had called it 'vintage', although you thought creepy sounded more fitting as you took in the stone building in front of you.

The bar was dimly lit and old fashioned. Whimsical. A lot more cozy on the inside than the cold stone exterior. Lanterns of various sunset colors swung from the wooden beams on the ceiling, casting patters of dancing light throughout the room. The tables were of dark stained wood with burnt orange stools around.

It was bustling, the sound of glass clinking and laughter mixed with the loud chatter of people trying to hear each other over the music. The smell of alcohol and perfume tainted the air.

"Come, let's get drinks!" Summer dragged you by the wrist to the bar across the room. You glanced over your shoulder with pleading eyes, hoping either Lizzie or Sophie would pity you and follow.

They just giggled and waved from the table they had sat themselves by.

Summer bent over the counter, "A tequila sunrise for the cutie, and the usual for me, please!" The bartender grabbed two glasses and started mixing. She turned to you and chewed on the inside of her cheek, realizing she had not asked you what you wanted. "That's okay, right?" You nodded and smiled as she beamed, you had never seen someone so happy before. It was addictive.

As Summer chatted with the bartender, you pulled out your phone to begrudgingly send Hotch the text message. You would not have his ass on you for not upholding your end of the stupid promise.

──────────﹒★﹒﹒─

From: You | To: Professor Hot.

At Sunshine.

[10:27PM]

From: Professor Hot.

Good.

[10:28PM]

─﹒﹒★﹒──────────

You shook your head, refusing to acknowledge the nauseating giddy feeling in your gut thinking about Hotch waiting for your messages. Jesus, did he not have better things to do?

Summer paid for the drinks and handed one of the glasses to you. You thanked her, grabbing the drink as you put the phone back into your purse.

The colorful drink in her hand looked similar to yours, only hers had a pineapple garnish, instead of an orange. "What's your usual?" You asked, pointing to the glass she was gripping at an angle. The liquid swooshed close to the brim with her quick movements, it was all you could do to not take it from her and hold it yourself.

"Summer sunset, of course!" Summer chirped, pushing it to you. "Taste it! It's like a tequila sunrise but with vodka and lime seltzer, and I like it with a dash of pineapple juice, so I guess it's more like 'Summer's sunset'." Okay, you were convinced, the excitement in her voice had grown on you slightly.

Only after did you realize it was not, perhaps, the most thought through decision you had made, drinking from a strangers glass. Since she was a stranger, technically.

Still, the drink was refreshing. Fruity. Like a concoction of happiness, which you supposed was perfect for the personification of the sun standing in front of you.

You gasped, "Woah, I think you're onto something."

You slid between the bodies of the room as you navigated back to the table. Summer had grabbed a hold of your hand to make sure you did not lose each other in the sea of people. Finally, you sighed in relief as you slumped into one of the burnt orange chairs.

Sophie was gawking at you, you realized, and Lizzie was laughing so hard she was gasping for air. "What?" Did you have something on your face?

"No way he called you 'darling'." Sophie's jaw was on the floor, her wide eyes almost popping out of her head. Summer squealed and whipped her head to you, "Professor Jameson?"

Oh. You shrugged, flickering your attention to the sticky table in front of you, "It was probably a joke, I don't know. He probably does it to everyone." Raising your drink to your lips, you tried to hide the smile threatening to appear.

They had to believe it and you would undoubtedly give yourself away if you laughed in their faces every time you lied.

"Don't you see the way he looks at you, Bell?" Lizzie crossed her arms and scowled to make a point. The two other girls copied her, glaring at you with their best efforts. The slight buzz of alcohol convinced you it was the funniest thing you had seen, and the laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it, "Like he wants to give me detention?"

Sophie rolled her eyes and raised an eyebrow, "If detention was a code word for pounding you, yes." Your jaw hit the floor as she smirked. Summer hid her face in her hands and you struggled with the effort it took to not do the same. Lizzie even winked at you, before raising her glass to make a toast.

"To Bell and Professor Jameson–" She suddenly gasped and slapped her hand over her mouth. Lizzie started cackling, folding over as she laughed. The three of you exchanged confused looks, watching her wipe tears from her eyes. When she finally calmed down enough to explain, she pointed to you, giggling between each word, "You're Bella and Edward!" Lizzie grabbed the edge of the table to keep herself upright as she doubled over in another fit.

Sophie snapped her eyes to you, shaking her head frantically, "No way." She bit her lip to hide her smile. You groaned and dropped your face into your hands, muttering a string of curses you hoped would find their way back to Quantico. They would be hearing from you, whether it was allowed or not. You would find a way to get revenge.

The laughter around the table was like a light sweet melody, and soon you found yourself laughing with them. It was rare to laugh like this, you could feel the weight on your shoulders lifting.

"Wait," Summer said, scrunching her eyebrows when you finally quieted, all of you wiping away tears from your cheeks, "Like Twilight?" Sophie nodded between gasping for air, and the four of you lost it again.

The buzz of your phone on the table served as a reminder of the promise to Hotch. You sighed, fighting the urge to roll your eyes as you typed the message.

──────────﹒★﹒﹒─

From: You | To: Professor Hot.

Still at Sunshine.

[11:01PM]

From: Professor Hot.

Okay.

[11:03PM]

─﹒﹒★﹒──────────

God, he had to have something else to do. What was the reason for this, anyway? To keep tabs on you?

You looked up to find Sophie's eyes on you and you put your phone away.

"Just be careful." Sophie said as she placed a hand on top of yours. She suddenly turned serious, her blue eyes darkened as she frowned, "You've heard about the–," Sophie scanned the loud sea of people — unsure if she should say it out loud — then she leaned closer to you and whispered, "The murders?"

You nodded gravely and leaning to whisper back, "Not much, though." Sophie chewed on the inside of her cheek, twisting the empty glass in front of her to busy her hands while she thought.

After a minute of staring at the table, you debated on moving on when finally, she met your gaze again, "The last one was my friend." You furrowed your brows trying to remember the names from the files back in Quantico, though it was all hazy — the time passed and the alcohol in your system was not making it easier for you.

"I'm so sorry, Sophie. What was she like?" It felt awful, questioning her like this, but it was the only thing you could do. You hoped it would help her, as well. If you knew what the victims were like, it would significantly improve the chances of the profile.

Her eyes turned glassy and you laid a hand on hers, like she had done to you a moment ago. "Annie was the sweetest girl." Sophie smiled softly, a tear slowly falling down her cheek, "She was really smart and really funny," She turned to face you as you lifted a hand to wiped her tear, "You kind of remind me of her."

Well, you supposed that was the point, even if it hurt to think of.

"Annie sounds great." You smiled sadly, and Sophie huffed a laugh at the hint of a joke you had not realized you made.

"Let's get more drinks, Bell, I don't want to cry any more tonight." She sniffled before standing from her chair and reaching out a hand, you took it with a nod of understanding.

"You guys want anything?" Sophie asked the two girls sitting at the table. They told her what they wanted and returned to the heated discussion you could only barely make out over the noise.

"Jacob is like a warm hug, who wouldn't choose him?" Summer threw up her hands in exclamation and Lizzie shook her head.

"He's a dog, Summer. Edward is a sexy older guy, like twice the size of Bella, that's so much more hot!"

Exactly. Lizzie gets it.

Not that it related to your current situation, because that was entirely different. Hotch was not a vampire.

──────────﹒★﹒﹒─

The night went on, the drinks kept being drunk and the music vibrated in your bones. You were having a great time with the girls — the dance floor had become your stage, the alcohol had turned to confidence and Lizzie had become your dance partner — it was an endless time of giggles and dancing, of easy fun with your new friends. You were floating in the clouds.

Sophie and Summer had found themselves slow-dancing with a couple of slightly older guys. You and Lizzie glanced over to them every now and then, pointing and giggling, like you had for hours. Soon, they had whispered goodbyes in your ears and left with the men of interest.

So, you and Lizzie got a couple more drinks, gave a toast with slurred words and danced some more.

"I'm having so—much fun, Bells!" Lizzie shouted over the music and you nodded in agreement.

You looked at each other and fell into a laughing fit. Lizzie pushed on your shoulder lightly, and you clumsily stumbled a step backwards, swaying with the lack of balance. She tried to stretch out a hand to steady you, but she bent over laughing before you could even attempt to grab it.

Strong hands gripped your upper arms from behind you and lifted you upright. You stiffened, finding Lizzie's wide eyes with your own. The smirk growing on her face told you exactly who was standing behind you.

Aaron Scowls-a-lot Hotchner, wearing his favorite expression.

You blinked, giggling when you noticed the deep scowl itched into his face, "Hot-"

"Miss Evans." He interrupted, stepping closer to you. A flush of color painted your cheeks as Hotch towered over you with an intense glare. He had to know you hated it when he forced you to tilt your head to look at him.

He bowed to whisper in your ear, "You seem to have forgotten something, darling." Disapproval laced his words, almost venomous. Your eyes flashed with panic as you tried to figure out what you had done wrong.

"Where's your phone?" Fuck. Shit.

"Uh–" You tried looking for your purse, turning your head from side to side to find the spot you had thrown it to when you started dancing. Instead, you spotted Spencer over his shoulder, and squealed.

"Spence!" He whipped his head up in time to see you lunge for him. You wrapped your arms around him, smiling brightly as his stiff posture softened. Spencer muttered your name lowly, barely audible, but you felt the air shift. He glanced up to Hotch who was watching you with utter seriousness, and you straightened. Something was wrong.

"What's–" You spun back to face Hotch without calculating the effect on your balance with the alcohol coursing through you. Cursing yourself, you stumbled again. Hotch reached forward, pulling you to stand, again. You had to get it together.

His hand pressed firmly against your lower back, "Let's go." With the light pressure, you took a couple small steps toward the exit before you remembered Lizzie. She could not be left alone, just because Professor Scowls-a-lot decided to whisk you away on some fairytale. Probably.

"Lizzie!" You snapped your head to look at Hotch and gasped.

He sighed, turning to Spencer and said something you could not hear over the music echoing from the speakers and the roaring in your ears. Spencer nodded, his gaze flickering to you for a second, then he turned around and walked back to where you had the time of your life just moments ago.

─﹒﹒★﹒──────────

The silence outside the bar was dizzying. Hotch had his hand still firmly pressed on your lower back, forcing you forward and away from the many eyes at the bar.

As you stepped around a corner into what looked like an alleyway to the other street, you finally had enough of his silence, "What's going on, Ho–" He slapped a hand over your mouth and pressed you up against the brick wall. The reaction had you frozen, blinking up at him in confusion.

"You know better than to call me that, don't you, darling." He growled in your ear. You shivered.

That was why he interrupted you back at the bar, you realized. You had almost blurted out 'Hotch' twice now, and by the looks of it, he was furious. Fuck, he was attractive.

You tried to apologize, but his hand muffled your words. He dropped it to your shoulder to keep you pinned against the wall, "What did you say?" The gleam in his eyes unnerved you, or perhaps it was butterflies, it was hard to tell.

"I'm sorry, Sir." You repeated yourself, apologizing again. It was a real apology, for once. It seemed like he was worried about you for some reason.

He stepped back, dropping his arms by his side. You watched as his jaw tightened, his fists clenched, just like he usually did when there was bad news on a case…

"Another one?" You whispered, taking a step away from the wall. He nodded gravely. "Found on a bench outside the library entrance."

You had studied there with Spencer once. The entrance was in a fairly open area, easy to spot. There should have been witnesses, or would have, had it not been the middle of the night. No one sane went to the library past midnight.

"Have they identified her?" You asked. What if it was someone you had run into during your time on the island? The thought had your heart racing.

He shook his head, "Her face had deep slashes. There was a pool of blood under the bench. Fresh. The only identifying trait I could see from the distance was blonde hair—"

"No." You shook your head furiously, panicking, "No, no, no!"

Sophie and Summer had left hours ago. With men you had no idea who were. They had not seemed suspicious but you had absolutely no trust in your drunk profiling abilities.

You turned to run back, to campus, to the bar, to wherever you could look for any of them. The faint glow from the streetlamps did little to show you the way as you ran, you had barely paid attention when you walked from campus earlier. It was hopeless.

Stopping in the middle of the street, you snapped your head around to look for any street signs, or anything you could remember at all. Tears were flowing down your cheeks, the adrenaline rushing through your body, it was hard to think.

"This way." Hotch spoke softly, pointing to the street he was facing. He had no clue why you suddenly panicked, but he saw the terror in your eyes and knew not to push. The desperation. He was still furious with you.

You pushed to a sprint as the campus gates coming into view.

You had to know. It would never stop eating you alive if one of them had died because you did not pay attention. Because you were too busy drinking and dancing. You had let them leave, not thinking about the possibility of one of them being murdered. All for another drink. All for another song. Another dance. A laugh.

The crowd was thick. Quiet murmurs vibrated the cobblestones. You would have to push through them to get to the body, though the police had likely already taken it.

"Bell!" The high-pitched shout of your name sent you spinning around to find the owner. Twenty feet behind you stood Summer. Your knees wobbled as she ran for you.

That meant…

"Thank god." Sophie cried from behind you. The two girls wrapped around you, sobbing. "I thought it was you." Sophie said into your hair. "I don't know what she looks like and I–" She sniffled, "I thought it was you."

Again, no matter how much it wrecked you to think about, you supposed that was also the point of this.

──────────﹒★﹒﹒─

"You're staying with me."

You whipped your head to the man leaning against the stone pillar of the campus gate, his arms crossed over his chest. "What?"

Did you say that a lot? Perhaps. Although it made sense, confusion seemed to be a dominant emotion lately.

You blinked, wishing it would clear the haze in your head. Hotch raised an eyebrow, looking you up and down as it was clear what he meant. It was not. He heaved a sigh and straightened from the pillar, lowering his voice only for you to hear, "You're drunk and I don't trust you to not snoop around the crime scene." Fair enough. Although it had not been your plan, now that he had suggested it…

"M' not drunk, you just want to get in my pants and you can't when I'm sober." You crossed your arms. The adrenaline had worn off, the world spun again, though that last part referred to the earth's rotation around the sun or whatever. Not the way the cobblestones looked kind of like waves.

Hotch licked his lips, trying to hide the slight hint of amusement on his face. "Let me get this straight. I can only get in your pants when you're drunk, which you are not, but you're not sober?"

"Uh-huh!" You agreed with a nod, eyes focused on his lips. Until the words repeated in your brain. You furrowed your brows in confusion, looking up at the man smirking in front of you, "Wait, what?" He made no sense. Had those been actual words coming from his nice mouth?

"Yeah, you're coming with me whether you like it or not." He decided and placed his hand on your lower back. The warmth of his hand spread up your spine like flames as he lightly pushed you forward, to fall into step beside him to go wherever he lived on the island.

You rolled your eyes, the heat had traveled to your face, "Wow, such a handsome guy but he has to force girls to go home with him." Hotch clenched his jaw to suppress the satisfied smile threatening to form. The compliment was lost on you. The waves of heat from his body next to you made it hard to string together coherent thoughts.

Eventually, he gave up suppressing the smile. He needed the change of mood after the bad news on the case. It was not like he could do anything other than keep playing his role and hope to get something out of the faculty. It felt nice to finally smile.

Your eyes widened at the sight. The smile on his face made him look like an alien. A handsome, dark and sexy kind of alien. The propaganda was working, it seemed.

His dimple made an appearance, the one you had barely and rarely been in the presence of, and this time you reached up to poke it. To your surprise, and perhaps also relief, he did not bite your finger off like you suspected he would. He just stared at you.

─﹒﹒★﹒──────────

You stopped in front of a small house on the same street as Sunset, though a good few stumbles and curses away. It was yellow, sort of like an old-lady-house. The thought of Hotch living here had you giggling.

"Penelope wants to talk to you," Hotch said as he reached the front of the house, "She's been calling me non-stop." He pulled out a key from the pocket of his dark slacks and unlocked the white-painted door.

"What?" You asked and cursed yourself for saying it again. He stepped through the door and made space for you as you stepped in beside him. "About what?" You tried again. The second attempt sounded better, though you were still slightly annoyed now that you were aware of the habit.

Penelope had been calling him and she wants to talk to you. You missed her, and it seemed like she missed you, too. It made you emotional, not unlike how sappy you usually got when you were drunk, although that was absolutely not the case here. It was a coincidence. Just like how climbable Hotch looked as he folded up the sleeves of his shirt was a coincidence.

Wait, hold on — did that mean it was a sober thought? You were drunk. Shit-faced, in fact. Now that you really thought about it.

You kicked your shoes off by the door, sighing. Your feet ached, pulsed, after dancing and running for hours.

"She's been talking my ear off about some Twilight thing, and keeps asking me over and over again if I have taken you out yet, or even kissed you yet—" He trailed off and scratched the back of his neck.

You hummed, following him to the living room. "How did she react when you said no to all of those things?" The couch called your name and you decided to grace it with the presence of your butt. It thanked you, you could feel it.

You watched as Hotch poured himself a glass of whiskey, glancing over to where you sat slumped on the gray couch, before he downed it. He poured another one and set the flask back on the round wooden table, ignoring your whines of wanting one.

He took a sip from his drink before he lowered himself to the far end of the suddenly way too small three-seat-couch.

"She started screaming." He finally said, as he pursed his lips and winced, like he could still feel the sound lingering on his eardrum. Poor guy probably got tinnitus from that phone call.

"I can see it." You laughed, deeply. Honestly. Hotch watched you laugh, the soft sound was somehow foreign to him. He wanted to hear it again.

"Wait." It hit you like a train. A win-win. Checkmate, if you will. You gasped loudly, and jumped closer to him on the couch, pushing your face close to his. More as a method to threaten him than anything. "We can cross one off the list." You said, raising your brows.

Hotch stilled, frozen, a breath away. The only movement was his eyes flickering between yours and your lips. His focus lingered on your mouth before he cleared his throat, "Which one?"

Ding ding ding.

Who would have thought it would be so easy?

You hummed and tilted your head as you scanned his face. Silence stretched for the long second you contemplated your words, "I was thinking watching Twilight, but if there's another one you would rather do…" You trailed off and looked down to his lips, before reaching out to take the half-drank glass of whiskey from his hands.

You slowly raised it to your mouth and watched him over the brim as you drank, savoring the burn as you emptied his glass.

Hotch stared at you and he swallowed. His lips parted slightly as you licked yours. With a sweet smile, you leaned so close to his face, the heat of his breath sent shivers down your spine.

"Your choice, Professor." Your whisper fanned across his lips.

──────────﹒★﹒﹒─

thank you so so much for reading

if you enjoyed this, please consider liking and reblogging, it fuels my little ego!

let me know your thoughts and if you have anything you would like to see! your comments and messages are everything to me<3

i’ve been a little sick so if it doesn’t make sense… don’t look at me— i just work here

love, millie<3

─﹒﹒★﹒──────────

mission identities | Aaron Hotchner as Professor Edward Thomas Jameson. You as Isabella Evans (rarely used, other than 'Miss Evans')

──────────﹒★﹒﹒─

chapter three: interpretations and meanings

─﹒﹒★﹒──────────

Your knee started bouncing as soon as you sat down in the lecture hall. The nerves had evolved into anxiety and mixed with what felt like anticipation.

What you were anticipating though, you were not entirely sure of.

Spencer slid into the seat next to you in the very front row. The tiered seats stretched behind you, every row with one long bench serving as a desk and what looked to be around 15 fold-down seats each.

You glanced over your shoulder again — like you had done at least half a dozen times now — to watch as the students filled up the room. Normally you would sit in the back, preferring the overview rather than the unease of having everyone sit behind you. If anything were to happen, you would not know.

Not to mention escaping meant passing them all.

You were nervous and Spencer could tell. He offered you a tight lipped smile in hopes it could ease whatever was bothering you, even if he had no clue what it could be. You had not spoken much, and he was scared he would slip up if he started speaking now. The fake name he was to call you felt too foreign, he did not like it on his tongue.

It was not right. It was not you. Spencer did not like to think about calling you something other than your name.

Names were special. Names had power.

So, instead, he pulled out his leather-bound notebook from his satchel and started scribbling something, before he tilted the notebook so you could read the page.

Are you okay? You seem nervous.

You gave him a hesitant nod. It was not nerves as much as something — just feeling off. Perhaps it was simply sitting with your back to the sea of unpredictable students. With a serial killer somewhere on the campus. Allegedly.

The air shifted as Hotch strode in through the doors, a folder in one hand and a white to-go cup from the same small cafe on the corner of campus. He made it to the wooden desk placed in the middle of the open space before you noticed Spencer studying you in your peripheral.

He was searching your face when you turned to him. His focus landed on your lips, lingering, until he picked up his pen again.

You're biting your lip. It's going to bleed.

Spencer met your gaze and pointed to his own lips, as if he wanted to make sure you understood what he had literally written out for you.

You clamped your lips together tightly, hoping to suppress the urge to sink your teeth back into the flesh. It was a habit — biting your lip when you were unsure what to make of a situation — when you were lost in the ocean of your own mind. When you were turning every rock of thought until you found one that made sense of whatever was occupying your pretty little brain.

Hotch finally cleared his throat as he scanned the many faces in the room. As they found yours and lingered a little longer than what was appropriate, you found yourself wondering what his teeth would feel like sinking in your lower lip instead of your own.

Wait. You did not take responsibility for that thought.

This was not the time, nor place, to deal with such propaganda.

The lecture on symbolic interactionism felt like it had dragged on forever, yet the row of girls behind you seemed to be awake and suspiciously alert. You were certain there was drool in your hair from the way they were practically bent over the bench — either to offer your professor an eye-full of the cleavage spilling out of their tops — or perhaps they were simply all blind. The lot of them.

Spencer tilted his notebook for you to read. It was so out of character for him to pass notes in lectures rather than pay attention, even though you supposed he did know the material very well.

I never thought I would see anyone look at Hotchhim that way.

He had crossed out 'Hotch' so many times it ripped the page. You tried to bite back the laughter bubbling in your chest as you took his pen and scribbled back.

SameI'm dead serious there IS drool in my hair!!

Spencer huffed a laugh before he could stop himself and both your heads snapped up to look at Hotch. The horror was evident on your faces.

"Miss Evans."

Oops.

You glared at Spencer — who was shaking with the effort of not laughing when he noticed the flush of color on your cheeks. The gleam in Hotch's eyes revealed he noticed it as well.

"Yes, Sir?" The slight shake in your voice could be blamed on shyness and embarrassment, right? It could not be that easy to see the panic rising in your throat from the underlying desperation for praise and validation, right? Right!?

Good. That would be humiliating. And not to mention entirely untrue. Wrong, in fact.

Hotch watched with narrow eyes as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, like you were really trying to sell the illusion, before he cleared his throat. "What is the core idea of symbolic interactionism?"

You froze, chewing on your bottom lip as the girls behind you snickered. What was their deal, anyway? Was he trying to humiliate you as a punishment for not paying attention? If that was not a professor thing to do…

It is an act, you told yourself, it literally does not matter. There is no need to panic, it would not change the fact you have a degree in this.

Wait. You have a degree in this shit.

With a surge of confidence you straightened, combing through what knowledge you had on the subject. "Blumer said, and I quote: The first premise is that human beings act toward things on the basis of the meaning that the things have from them."

You took a steadying breath before continuing, hoping to calm the shake in your voice. "The second is that the meaning of such things is derived from, or arises out of, the social interaction that one has with others around."

The room fell quiet and you bit back a smile. Spencer nodded his approval beside you as he scribbled down what you said word-for-word. One would imagine he had already read the book on Classical and Contemporary Sociological Theory, but still it was nice to get your ego boosted. You could give Spencer a run for his money, by the sound of it.

Hotch kept his stare focused on you as he moved around his desk and leaned against it. His brows had furrowed slightly, like he had not expected you to actually know what you spent years studying, yet you could see the little twitch on his lips. The hint of surprise and — pride? — amusement? — in his eyes. Fuck, he was insufferable. Really.

"Meaning?" He raised his eyebrows with challenge. Who were you to say no to a challenge?

"Actions and interactions are formed by socially constructed meanings and interpretations — because meaning is not inherent in things or actions themselves — and the interpretations of these things or actions is what shapes the meanings."

You held your breath for a moment as you collected your thoughts, "In other words, how we think and how we act is shaped by what we deem appropriate in a situation, and what we deem appropriate is based on the situation itself and how we interpret the situation."

It was like you were a mouse in a glass cage, surrounded by researchers deciding your fate. Though, you supposed it was fitting.

Your professor rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked strict, like he was about to sentence you to eternal detention. In a way that could potentially make you almost wish he would. Even despite the anxiety blooming in your chest at the thought of… The thought of what? Academic failure? Disappointing him? Yeah. As if.

"Very good, Miss Evans." His voice deepened and you swore one of the girls behind you shrieked. The color painting your cheeks probably made you look no better than them.

You could tell he was enjoying it. Way too much, in fact.

To your displeasure, Hotch was not yet done with you. He wanted to push you a little further.

Even more, he wanted to find out what caused the pink flush. To his defense he had never seen you like that before. What kind of profiler would he be if he did not even try to figure it out?

"Would you mind giving me an example?" You did not miss the way he said 'me', but you would think about that later.

It was an opening. He was giving you the opportunity to come up with something — something perhaps borderline inappropriate — that would give him a reason to keep you behind after the lecture. Just like you had planned.

Yes, you could come up with something.

"For example, your power as a professor increases in the lecture hall, because the meaning behind your power is knowledge, education and title. It creates a power imbalance, you are above us because that is how we measure power here." You could see Spencer nodding to himself as you spoke.

Hotch watched you with a hint of amusement, waiting for you to continue. "Society could argue that a student pursuing a relationship with her professor would have been taken advantage of, if you only consider this situation and the power imbalance." You licked your lips and took a shaky breath, steadying the increasing heartbeat in your chest.

"However, if you see them as two rational and consenting adults outside the lecture hall, the relationship would not necessarily be wrong. The relationship is in other words deemed appropriate or inappropriate based on factors that coexist, that forms — and therefore changes — the meaning."

A deafening beat of silence. It took all your willpower to not shrink in your seat under the piercing stares of the entire room.

Hotch cleared his throat, "Very well. You are all dismissed." A split second went by without anyone moving, not even the particles in the air seemed to move. It was suffocating. If you were lucky, Hell would be located somewhere underneath your seat, ready to swallow you up.

"Remember to join a group for the presentation next week. Each group will present a news article from the past week and analyze it using a relevant theory from the curriculum." His voice echoed over the sound of grumbles as the room bustled with every student making their way out.

"Miss Evans, a word please." There it was.

You sat, frozen, watching in terror as he scratched the nape of his neck and turned around to gather the papers on his desk. He was embarrassed. Or unsure. Not that it mattered which one, it was certainly not good for you anyway. 'LFF' and all that.

Spencer nudged your shoulder as he got up from his seat beside you. "Split up for the group presentation?" You nodded, although absentmindedly, and he disappeared. It was a good idea to split up, to join different groups, cover more social grounds.

The assignment was also a decent idea, you begrudgingly admitted to yourself. Discussing a news article from the past week created an opportunity to discuss the recent university murders with a group of students attending said university. The only thing left was to find a group to join, and hope they would be willing to gossip.

After 'the word' with Professor Scowls-a-lot, of course. That would be fun, right? Right.

──────────﹒★﹒﹒─

This was not an optimal situation. It had the potential to be catastrophic, actually.

Your mind went a million miles an hour, yet seemed dead silent at the same time.

Hotch could not help the satisfactory grin plastered on his face as he repeated himself, "As I said, I'm impressed. You did well."

Was he unsure if you had heard him?

You had heard him, very well in fact. His voice was clear as day when he said it the first time. Now, however, it was barely audible over the roaring in your ears. It was like all the blood your brain needed to function properly, to string together coherent thoughts, had rushed elsewhere.

He was studying your reaction with a microscope and every fibre of your being suddenly regretted choosing a field of work that put you with profilers. As if you were not one of them.

You fought to keep your expression neutral. Desperate to shrug with indifference. Intent on not giving him the satisfaction of seeing you react. It was a game and he still did not know just exactly who he was playing with.

The silence felt suffocating as he waited for your response. Was this how he acted when you were not spewing insults or nonsense at him? It was unbearable. Honestly.

He was insufferable, just standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes locked on you, silent. Like a fucking tree.

A deep chuckle captured your wandering attention. Brows raised and eyes wide, you snapped your head up to stare at him. Appalled and perhaps a little concerned.

No way did Aaron Scowls-a-lot Hotchner make that sound.

He did. Was he unwell?

You forced yourself to stand, to step towards him with unhurried steps. The tips of your ears were burning, an exact mirror to the muscles in your thighs, screaming in agony, aching. Yet you refused to let him win. To let him think he won.

It did not matter how much you craved his praise, or how it turned your mind into putty. Not even how much it complicated the process of rational and critical thinking. What mattered was not letting him figure it out by himself and letting him get the upper hand. It was not an option. If you quit, they no longer have the opportunity to fire you, right? Tell your own secrets and no one has leverage?

Hotch studied you making your way closer, like you were a prey pretending to be a predator. The unhurried steps and calculated gleam in your eyes told a different story however. The prey might not have been pretending after all. Perhaps you were a predator, perhaps he was the prey.

You licked your lips slowly. Noticing the way his eyes followed the movement, and the way his fists clenched and unclenched by his sides. Similar to what he did when he was readying for an attack.

His focus lingering on your mouth for a moment too long and you swore he was holding his breath. With a click of your tongue, and an amused hum, his eyes snapped up to meet yours.

"Sir." You purred, savoring the way his jaw ticked as you stopped in front of him. His chest was heaving slightly, like he was suddenly struggling to breathe in the thickening air around you. The wave of warmth from his body burned against yours, almost feverish. You tilted your head to the side, a smirk toying on your lips, "You know I have a praise kink, right?"

His lips parted slightly and his eyes seemed to glaze for the split second of unexpected surprise, before he cooled his expression. Hotch cleared his throat as he glanced away. The muscles in his jaw and the furrowed brows told enough.

Then, as if he could not find it in himself to stop, he glanced back to your lips, before meeting your gaze with his own amusement gleaming in his eyes. Hotch straightened and tilted his head forward, forcing you to look up to him, to see the victorious smirk on his lips.

"It's really obvious."

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if you enjoyed this, please consider liking and reblogging, it fuels my little ego!

please let me know your thoughts!

love, millie<3

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mission identities | Aaron Hotchner as Professor Edward Thomas Jameson. You as Isabella Evans.

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chapter two: plan and prepare

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Wonderland University was huge. The campus was shaped like a square, large buildings surrounding a courtyard and a couple small cafes scattered throughout it. There was a bookstore on the far end of campus, right next to one of the cafes you would frequent. It was closed for the time being, as the university cleaning staff frantically scrubbed away any remaining blood after the most recent murder. 

How they could get away with it, you had no idea. It was sickening to know not only were students being murdered, but the university took the job of cleaning it off. It made you wonder, were the numbers of victims in the case file even close to the truth?

It had been weeks since you last saw anyone on the team, except Spencer who had knocked on your dorm room door a couple of nights before to ask if you had done the reading for your classes. 

Hotch had left Quantico three weeks earlier to settle into his new job, get ahead of his own work and start establishing himself amongst the faculty. You wondered if he was nice to the professors here, if he had spent the time at Wonderland University, going out to get coffee with his new friends/colleagues/suspected murderers/confirmed creeps. 

Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, pretending to be a creep to solve some murders. Hot.

The idea amused you. 

The dorm room you had been assigned to was a corner-room at the end of the third floor corridor. It had its own bathroom, thank every fuck, and the view overlooking the courtyard was a bonus. 

Even if it was a temporary arrangement, only serving as your residence for the duration of the mission — or at least until you would start sneaking off to wherever Hotch would be living — there was still something thrilling about being back at university. 

All the while it was terrifying being back. 

You suffer from a condition called 'LFF' (Lack of father figure), and the main symptom of the disease in your case is the extreme desire for academic validation. Which would not be great for you, considering who exactly was to give you said validation. 

So, when Spencer came knocking on your door with a message from Hotch, and to ask if you had done the reading, and you shook your head to say you had not done it, panic climbed up your throat.

It would be fine, right? You had a degree in the Social Sciences for fucks sake. Not to mention you were a trained federal agent with experience in the field. The same theoretical framework making up the readings were the same ones you used out in the field to profile serial killers. You would be fine.

When you opened the closest textbook and stifled a sob, you realized it would most likely not be fine. 

So you studied. And read. A lot. 

Perhaps just this once could your fear of failure and need for academic validation be useful. A teacher’s pet, they had told you to be, so that was what you would become. Whatever it took. 

Though, with any normal professor, you could probably get away with flashing a little cleavage and twirling your hair. But this was not any normal professor. It was Aaron Scowls-a-lot Hotchner who was to judge your capabilities, to deem you worthy of becoming his favorite student. And you knew he would not make it easy on you.

You would have to impress him. Catch him off-guard.

Blow his mind like they wanted you to blow his– nevermind. 

Despite the exhaustion weighing you down after a long day of trying to get ahead of your studies, and despite the surprisingly soft dorm-mattress, you slept fitfully. The nerves buzzed like ants under your skin and a headache pressed against your eyes as you tossed and turned. 

Somewhere around 4 in the morning you gave up, even if sleep felt just out of reach. It never was. 

So you opted for a shower instead. 

Hotch had told you to meet him a few hours later at the small cafe by the bookstore, at the far corner of campus. Communication was a challenge, you were not allowed to text him or call him until your roles had been established. You wondered if he would send a dove or something, but it was Spencer who came bearing the message. 

The nerves had built up during the time you had spent alone on campus, though you felt like it should have been comforting knowing you would see the familiar face of a man you saw every morning back at the Bureau. 

However, he would not be the same pain-in-your-ass-man as he was back home, Hotch would be your forbidden desire — the man who would have you throw everything resembling morals out the window — to be with him. Gross. Right?

He was now something a lot more complicated than just your unit chief and colleague, all while he was someone a lot less complicated. 

The rules were written out. Playing the game however, was an entirely different thing. 

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Hotch was quiet when he handed you the vanilla latte in a to-go cup. He did know your coffee order, then. Penelope would swat him if she learned he had lied, before she would squeal and say something stupid that would earn a glare from the man sitting in front of you. 

His silence did absolutely nothing to help calm your nerves. Nerves which you blamed on exhaustion, obviously, and not the anxiety and anticipation buzzing under your skin. 

This was not the same as being back at the Bureau, with the insufferable suggestive comments about you coming from your other team members. It was something far more scary. Two adults having to pretend to like each other to solve some murders. 

Chills.

"How do we do this?" You turned the paper cup in your hands before placing it on the table in front of you, staring at it like you were fascinated by the intricate design on the plain white cardboard. Anything other than looking up to meet his piercing stare.

The coffee shop was empty in the early morning, save for the two servers behind the counter. The sputtering sounds of the espresso machine and soft jazz music floated from the speakers offered little distraction.

Hotch stayed quiet for another heartbeat, pinching the bridge of his nose and drawing in a breath. "At first, mostly during the lectures." He exhaled slowly and scanned your face, "If they told you to be a teacher's pet, then that's what you'll be."

"I believe the words Pen used were 'good little student girlfriend', wasn't it?" You watched him purse his lips and smiled sweetly.

"Look," glancing around to the still empty coffee shop for any ears listening, "We'll have to suck it up and do a damn good job about it." Even if you could not see anyone listening, you would not take any chances. "It doesn't matter how much you dislike me, the She-Devil is on our asses about this and I know you dislike her more, even if you won't admit it." Strauss had it out for you two, that was certain. 

Not that you had done anything to earn her distrust. You know, other than the occasional not-listening. It was not your fault she spewed bullshit, you were just using your critical thinking skills. Obviously. 

Hotch furrowed his eyebrows, though if it was regarding the code name you just made up for Strauss, you were not entirely sure.

You looked at him, like really looked at him. He seemed tired, the bags under his eyes looked even darker, his hair slightly disheveled like he had dragged his hand through it repeatedly. 

You wondered if that was what he looked like when he woke up. Shirt and slacks included, you guessed. The tie probably stayed on as well. 

You imagined him sleeping in a coffin, like a fucking vampire, or a corpse. It would explain the permanent scowl on his face, it could not be comfortable. Oh, it could also explain the back pain you originally assumed was because of his age. 

"You might be annoying and infuriatingly bad at following orders, but I don't dislike you—" He pursed his lips to stop himself from saying your name, and furrowed his brows again, "What do I call you?"

The hint of a resemblance of a compliment still held your attention. Did he say he did not dislike you? You would think about it later.

"What do you call the other students?" You asked, leaning back in your chair. He had already held a couple of lectures before you arrived, a product of Strauss' argument of really making an entrance. A late entrance, that is.

Hotch licked his lips, as if trying to figure out what the name would taste like when he said it, "Miss Evans, then." It felt foreign on his tongue, wrong even. You tried to hide the slight wince, it would be hard to get used to, especially having to respond to a name that did not belong to you. 

"Anyway, Professor." You crossed one leg over the other as you steered the conversation back, “I’ll be a shameless suck-up, answer every question you ask and you’ll start giving me the attention I so desperately need?” 

The thought of his attention on you that way unnerved you more than you would like.

“Yes, but,” Hotch nodded slowly, a sheepish smile forming on his lips, “Only if you answer them correctly.” 

Just what you expected.

With a tilt of your head, you asked, “What happens if I don’t?” You held his stare as you reached for your cup, taking a sip as he contemplated his response. Would he watch over your shoulder as he forced you to study? You shivered. 

“Since you’re supposed to act as my TA at some point, I expect you to be able to know the material. If that’s too hard for you–” He trailed off, pursing his lips and a little dimple appeared on his cheek. You wondered if he would bite your finger if you poked it. 

Bingo.

“Don’t worry, professor,” You licked your lips and smiled sweetly at him, “I like when things are hard for me.”

Hotch sighed, “Focus, please.” The muscle in his jaw ticked as he glared across the table at you.

You hummed, not quite finished yet. It was too enjoyable to watch him struggle. The way his arms flexed against the fabric of his shirt as you closed in on him. How he held his breath, like he could not stand sharing the same air as you, and you wondered how he would react if you closed the distance entirely.

“Are you prepared to-” You raised a finger on your lower lip and pouted innocently, “Kiss me, Sir?” 

He could practically taste the sweet coffee on your breath and his mind no longer functioned properly.

The image flashed behind your eyes, of your lips crashing together, his teeth sinking in your bottom lip, his hands firmly placed on your hips as he...

You shook the vision out of your head as silence stretched between you, the air felt so thick you almost suffocated. Hotch released a shallow huff, not nearly as nonchalant as he hoped it would sound. "Sir?" The way his voice dropped to a near growl sent a shiver down your spine.

The title change was intentional, knowing it would mess with him and blur the lines between this pretend-mission and the real relationship between you. It was not uncommon you called him 'Sir' back at the BAU, though usually just to annoy him.

Although if he got annoyed by it, or if he just got turned on, you would not know. It seemed like it would look the same on him.

That little realization got tucked safely in the back of your mind.

Another deafening silent moment passed. “You’re supposed to ‘not be able to keep your hands to yourself’,” You remind him, tilting your head to the side, “And I’m supposed to be a good girl and let you. Should be easy enough, don’t you agree?” 

You shrugged, more in hopes to shake off the lingering feverish warmth than an act of indifference. Hotch ran a hand down his face and exhaled.

"If we're doing this to draw them out, they have to believe it's something worth going after, right?" You asked, chewing your lip as you went over the information you managed to remember.

"You mean they have to believe you are worth going after." Hotch reminded you, his jaw clenching at the idea of endangering you like this. If only the mission allowed him to actually investigate, like he should have done, none of this would be necessary. You would not have to risk being targeted. No, not 'risk being targeted', you were supposed to be targeted.

He struggled with it more than he should have. Not only the part where you would be targeted because of him, but the part where you had to play the part of being with him for it to happen. He could not stop thinking about it.

Just thinking about sneaking around with you, holding you, kissing you, kept him up at night. It haunted him.

You were insufferable and so insanely stubborn, he could not even get you out of his own head.

So he decided to do exactly what you said, suck it up.

“Promise me you’ll tell me if you get uncomfortable, and please-” He sighed and his eyes locked on you, “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” 

“Title of your sex tape.” You grinned. “But I promise,” Stretching out your hand, you pointed your pinky out, “I won’t make suggestive comments regarding our mutual attraction when you’re unprepared.”

“Fine.” Hotch muttered with a sigh and reached out to partake in your pinky-promise. He wondered if you meant for it to sound real, if you noticed the way you said ‘our mutual attraction’ like it was a fact. You did. It was.

You pointed to his face after he released your finger from his, “But you need to fix that scowl, you look like you’re about to give me detention, not bend me over your desk.” 

It seems you had forgotten there was no longer any professionalism to hide behind. To keep him biting his tongue. Hotch smirked, “Two things can be true at the same time, can’t they, Miss Evans?” 

If the suggestions behind his words were not enough to send your jaw to the floor, the shit-eating grin on his face was. The shock of hearing him say something like that would probably never wear off.

But as you saw the satisfaction gleaming in his eyes and his face brighten to a little healthier shade, it stirred something inside you.So, you decided the only thing left to do was bite back and play the game you had laid out. Might as well enjoy it, right?

Hotch found himself staring as you bit your lip and lowered your voice, “Tell me when and where, Professor.”

Derek would have pissed his pants.

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if you enjoyed this, please consider liking and reblogging, it fuels my little ego!

please let me know your thoughts! love, millie<3

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