𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖊𝖓𝖔𝖋𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖙

You’re leaning over the evidence table, deliberately bending farther than necessary to reach a photo, when Rossi sidles up beside you.

“You trying to get fired, kid?” he mutters under his breath. Already knowing exactly what you're playing at. Rossi knows Hotch too well, knows you too well. And has definitely figured out just what your relationship entails behind closed doors.

You don’t even look at him. “Just keeping him on his toes, David.”

He hums, unconvinced. “He’s gonna put you on your knees later, and not in the fun way.”

You grin, sharp and sweet, when in reality you should've been mortified at the words coming out of Rossi's mouth. “We’ll see.”

Hotch’s voice cuts across the bullpen. “L/N. My six. Now.”

You straighten slowly, brushing imaginary lint off your shirt. “Yes, sir.”

You saunter over, boots echoing, and stop just inside his personal space, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to glare at you.

The rest of the room pretends they’re suddenly very very busy. And definitely not listening to whatever is about to happen between the two of you.

“You’re off the raid,” he says, voice low enough that only you can hear the tremor of fury underneath. Meaning that you've just struck bingo, and Hotch is giving you exactly what you were playing for later.

You blink, all mock innocence, before you raise your brows at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re staying here with the locals.”

You laugh, actually laugh, straight in his face. “No, I’m not.”

“That wasn’t a request.” His eyes flash, his pupils dilating, darkening. You can tell that he is trying to claw his way out of Hotch, begging to be released upon you.

“And this isn’t a negotiation.” You step closer, dropping your voice to a purr. “You want me on a leash, Aaron, you’re gonna have to put it on me yourself. In front of everyone. Go ahead.” You cross your arms over your chest.

His nostrils flare. For one electric second, you think he might actually do it, might snap right here, take his belt off, and drag you out by the back of your neck like you both know you want him to.

Instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, trying to ground himself before he says something too unprofessional. When he finally speaks, he leans down to whisper in your ear through gritted teeth, “Fine! You’re with me. You leave my sight for less than .01 seconds, I'll cuff you to the SUV and leave you in the car overnight like some abandoned pet left on the side of the road. Try me.”

You lick your bottom lip. “Promise?”

He turns on his heel before he does something he can’t take back in front of twenty witnesses and the entirety of his team.

The raid is a clusterfuck waiting to happen, and you are the match.

Hotch wants to go in quietly through the back. You’re already halfway across the parking lot toward the front door before he grabs your vest and yanks you back.

“Jesus Christ, do you have a death wish today?” He says, leaving little to no discussion in his tone, you know that tone all too well, even strive to get it out of him on occasion... well, more times than not.

You spin, grinning up at him. “Only if you’re the one pulling the trigger.”

He looks like he’s two seconds from gagging you with his own tie and bending you over right here, right now.

Morgan’s voice crackles over comms. “Hotch, we’re set on the east side. You two coming or getting a room?”

You reach up and key your own comm without looking away from Hotch. “We’re coming, 'baby girl'. Unit Chief’s just having a little performance anxiety.” You can already imagine Morgan's confused look at the nickname.

Hotch rips the earpiece out of your ear and crushes it under his boot.

You whistle, low and a little playful. “That’s destruction of FBI property, sir. Very naughty.”

He grabs the front of your vest this time, hauling you in until you’re nose to nose. There he is. “You do not speak again until this unsub is in cuffs. Not one fucking word. Nod if you understand.”

You nod, solemn and mocking. Already planning to break that exact promise.

He releases you like you’re radioactive.

The warehouse is a maze of rusted machinery and broken skylights. Moonlight stripes the concrete floor. You move ahead of Hotch, deliberately, clearing corners before he can tell you to wait.

He hisses your name, barely audible.

You ignore him.

You hear the unsub before you see him: panicked breathing, the clatter of a dropped magazine. He’s reloading behind a stack of crates twenty feet ahead.

You raise your weapon before you step into the open.

Hotch swears viciously behind you and moves to cover, but you’re already talking.

“FBI! Drop it!”

The unsub spins, wild-eyed, gun up.

You don’t flinch.

Hotch is shouting your name now, furious and afraid all at the same time, but you keep your voice steady, taunting. “Come on, sweetheart. You wanted us to chase you. Here I am.”

The unsub’s finger tightens on the trigger.

Hotch’s arm hooks around your waist from behind, and he yanks you sideways, throwing you both sideways behind a forklift just as the shot rings out. Concrete explodes exactly where you were just standing.

You land half on top of him, ears ringing, heart slamming against your ribs.

He’s shaking with rage, hands gripping your vest so hard the straps bite.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls into your face.

You grin, breathless, high on adrenaline and the feel of him under you. “You’re welcome.”

Another shot pings off metal above your heads.

Hotch flips you onto your back, shielding you with his body, weapon already up. His voice in your ear is lethal. “Stay. Down.”

This time, you finally listen.

He rises in one fluid motion, one precise shot to his leg, and the unsub drops like a puppet that just had its strings cut.

Silence falls in the warehouse, broken only by distant shouting as the rest of the team floods in.

Hotch holsters his weapon, turns back to you, where you’re pushing to your feet.

You meet his eyes across the moonlit warehouse, chest heaving, blood thundering in your ears.

The unsub is down.

The cuffs are clicking.

And Aaron Hotchner looks like he’s deciding exactly how long it’s going to take to make you cry tonight.

The jet is grounded until at least morning due to a mechanical failure in the engine, so the team books into the hotel closest to the hangar and landing strip.

Everyone’s exhausted, adrenaline crashing hard, all a little annoyed from the lack of sleeping in their own beds tonight. But the air between you and Hotch is still a live current, ready to explode any second now.

You’re leaning against the check-in desk, tapping your badge against your palm, when Hotch steps up beside you and quietly tells the clerk, “Two singles.”

You don’t miss a beat. “Separate rooms,” you echo, loud enough for Hotch and the clerk to hear. You flash him a saccharine smile. “How very professional of us, Agent Hotchner. Gotta keep up appearances for the Bureau. Wouldn’t want anyone to know their precious unit chief has been balls-deep in his subordinate every night for the last eight months.”

The night clerk’s eyes go wide. Rossi, waiting for his key behind you, chokes on a laugh which he pretends is a cough.

Hotch doesn’t flinch. He just signs the receipt with a pen that might actually snap in his grip, then hands you a keycard.

“Room 312,” he says, voice flat. “I’ll be there in five minutes. You open that door for anyone else, you won’t sit for a month.”

He walks away before you can answer.

You take the stairs two at a time, pulse already racing.

The second the door clicks shut behind him, the mask is gone.

He shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it toward the chair in the corner of the room, and stalks toward you like a predator who’s finally off leash and pouncing straight toward its next meal.

“Strip!”

You arch a brow at him. “Please?”

He’s on you in two strides, hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back, hard.

“Don’t push me any further tonight,” he warns. “You’ve used up every last ounce of patience I have.”

“Good.” You smile slowly up at him.

He kisses you all teeth, no mercy, until you’re gasping against his mouth. Then he spins you, shoves you chest-first over the foot of the bed, yanks your jeans and panties down in one rough motion.

His palm slides between your shoulder blades, pinning you flat. You feel the heat of him behind you, the hard line of his cock pressing against your ass through his slacks.

“You’ve been begging for this all day,” he says, his voice low and more controlled than you had anticipated when you started pushing him this morning. It's the way he gets right before he completely unravels you. “Every smart-ass comment, every eye roll, every time you said my title like it’s a fucking joke. You want my attention? You have it.”

He drags your hips back until you’re bent perfectly for him, feet barely touching the carpet. The first thrust of his clothed hips against your bare skin is deliberate, grinding, a promise and a threat all at once.

You push back, greedy for him to enter you.

He stills you with one hand splayed over the base of your spine, the other winding your hair around his fist until your neck arches.

“Stay still,” he growls. “You move when I tell you to move.” He leans over you, mouth at your ear. “Color?”

“Green,” you breathe, already trembling. “So fucking green.”

He pulls back just enough to unbuckle his belt, the metallic clink loud in the almost silent room. You hear his zipper, feel the blunt, bare heat of him drag up the seam of your body.

He doesn’t enter you. Not yet.

Instead, he notches himself at your entrance and holds there, agonizingly still, while you try to rock back and take him, sheathe yourself on his cock. His grip on your hair tightens, holding you exactly where he wants you.

“Beg!”

“Please, Sir—”

“Louder.”

“Please fuck me, Sir, I need—”

He slams into you in one brutal stroke, no warning, filling you so suddenly your breath catches on a scream.

Your legs wrap around nothing, toes curling into the carpet, hips snapping hard enough to jolt the bedframe into the wall with every thrust.

He flips you onto your back without pulling out, hooking your knees over his elbows, and spreading you wide. The new angle drags a broken sound from your throat as his thrusts take him deeper and deeper.

“Look at you,” he growls against your collarbone as he shoves your shirt up and runs his mouth over your skin, teeth scraping against you. “Acting like a spoiled little brat in front of the entire team. You think they didn’t notice? You think I didn’t see the way Morgan smirked every time you opened that mouth?”

“Maybe I wanted them to know,” you taunt, breathless, reaching for him. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t belong to—”

He cuts you off by pulling out entirely and flipping you again, this time onto your knees, face and chest pressed against the mattress.

He thrusts back in so hard your hands scrabble for purchase on the sheets.

“Say it,” he snarls, one hand sliding up to collar your throat from behind, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave a bruise in the morning. “Finish that sentence.”

“I belong to you,” you sob, clenching around him. “Only you—fuck—Aaron—”

“That’s right.” He presses you deeper into the bed, hips relentless. “You’re mine. And tomorrow, when you can’t walk straight and my cum still dripping down your thighs during our briefing on the jet, you’ll remember exactly who you answer to.”

He reaches beneath you, finds your clit with better precision than a trained sharpshooter, no searching, no hesitation, just the rough pad of his finger settling right where you’re swollen and aching for him. He doesn’t move at first. Just presses, holds, lets you feel the weight of that single point of contact while his cock throbs inside you, stretching you open, owning every trembling inch.

You try to rock back, to chase more, but his grip turns iron.

“Stay,” he growls against the shell of your ear, breath hot, voice shredded. “You take what I give you.”

Then he starts to move, slow, cruel circles that drag over your clit with exactly enough pressure to make your thighs shake. Every stroke is perfectly timed with the roll of his hips, the thick drag of him pulling out until only the head remains before he slams back in, forcing the air from your lungs.

Your hands claw at the sheets. Your spine arches so hard it hurts. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter, vicious and unstoppable, until you’re sobbing his name into the pillow, broken and desperate little pleas of his name.

He speeds up, just barely, thumb flicking faster, hips snapping harder, the wet sound of him fucking you filling the room along with your wrecked moans.

“Cum,” he orders, voice cracking with restraint. “Cum on my cock right now. Show me who you belong to.”

The command rips through you.

You shatter, back bowing, toes curling, a raw scream tearing from your throat as your entire body locks down around him. Wave after wave crashes over you, so intense your vision whites out, every pulse of your orgasm dragging him deeper, milking him with greedy, rhythmic clenches.

He swears once and loses the last thread of control. His rhythm stutters, hips slamming forward one final time as he cums with a rough groan, spilling inside you.

You feel every throb, every pulse, the way he jerks and grinds through it, forehead pressed hard between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to fuse himself to your skin.

He stays there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving against your back, both of you trembling in the aftermath, slick with sweat and utterly spent. You can’t help it, your hips give a tiny, greedy roll, chasing the last sparks of pleasure, trying to keep him deep.

A soft, satisfied moan slips out of you.

Hotch’s chuckle rumbles against your spine. His arms tighten, pinning you flat to the mattress so you can’t move an inch further than you've already wiggled.

“You think we’re done?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. He nips the lobe hard enough to make you gasp. “Oh, sweetheart. You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my time to play.”

He pulls out slowly, letting you feel every inch drag against your oversensitive walls. You whine at the sudden emptiness, but before you can protest, he’s already moving, shirt buttons flying, slacks kicked the rest of the way off, socks gone.

In seconds, he’s gloriously bare, all hard lines, cock still half-hard and glistening with your cum.

He turns his attention to you next, signaling with his hand for you to flip over on your back. You do as ordered.

Your shirt is shoved up under your arms. He yanks it off, unhooks your bra, and tosses both across the room. Then he grabs his discarded tie and crawls over you.

“Hands up,” he orders.

You obey instantly, stretching your arms above your head. He loops the tie around your wrists, threads it through the headboard, and cinches it tight. Not painful, but absolutely inescapable from your end of the deal. You tug once; the silk holds firm.

A helpless little thrill shoots straight to your core.

He settles between your thighs again, slides back inside you with one smooth thrust that makes your back arch. You’re so wet, so swollen, the stretch burns in the best way, you're not sure you can take the sensation much longer before cumming again.

“Good girl,” he praises, voice rough. “Stay just like that.”

He starts slow. Long and deep strokes that hit every spot inside you. His mouth finds your neck, your breasts, sucking bruises into your skin while his hips roll in that maddening rhythm he knows drives you absolutely insane.

It doesn’t take long before you’re writhing, breath hitching, thighs trembling around his waist.

“Please! Sir, I’m close,” you whimper.

He pulls out completely.

You cry out, hips bucking at nothing. He watches you struggle against the tie, thighs squeezing together for friction that isn’t there.

“Shh.” He strokes your hip in a soothing yet cruel manner. “Calm down a little. We’re nowhere near done.”

He waits until your breathing evens, until the desperation fades, then slides back in and starts all over again.

He does it four times.

Four times, he builds you right to the brink, fingers on your clit, mouth on your nipples, cock dragging slow and steady against your walls, until you’re sobbing, begging, tears of frustration gathering at the corners of your eyes.

The fifth time you get loud, really loud, a broken, whining “Please, please, I can’t—” spilling out over and over.

Hotch clicks his tongue. “Too noisy, baby.” He reaches for your discarded panties and balls them up. “Open.”

You shake your head, playful defiance flaring even through the haze.

He arches a brow. “Open that pretty mouth, or I stop entirely and you get nothing.”

Your lips part instantly. He stuffs the panties in, the taste of yourself flooding your tongue, muffling every sound to desperate, garbled whimpers.

“There we go,” he croons, brushing the back of his hand over your cheek. “Much better.”

He fucks you like that for what feels like hours. He comes once deep inside you again, groaning your name against your throat. Pulls out, strokes himself, and paints thick stripes across your stomach and breasts.

Later, he pushes your knees to your chest, and spills across your face while you keen helplessly behind the gag.

Each time he finishes, he starts again, sliding through the mess he’s made across your frame, using it to make you slicker, filthier. You lose count of his orgasms. You’re a trembling, oversensitive wreck, and still he denies you that second release, pulling out the instant your walls start to flutter.

Finally, finally, he collapses over you, sweat-slick and breathless, cock spent and utterly dry. He reaches up and carefully unties your wrists, massaging the faint red marks with his thumbs. Then he gently pulls the soaked panties from your mouth. You work your jaw, swallowing hard, voice hoarse.

He kisses you softly. “Up,” he murmurs.

You’re boneless, but he helps you sit. He slides the same wet panties that he just pulled from your mouth back up your legs, tugging them into place with deliberate care. The fabric settles against your abused, swollen pussy, trapping every drop of his cum inside you. You whimper at the pressure.

He leaves for a second before coming back with a wet cloth in his hand.

When he settles back down beside you, he cups your chin, tilts your face to his, and with the warm cloth, he cleans your cheeks, your lips, your eyelashes with tender, reverent strokes that make you melt against his hand.

But when you reach for a tissue to wipe your chest and stomach, he catches your wrist.

“No.” His voice drops into that stern, deep tone that makes you freeze. “You don’t clean the rest off. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until we’re wheels-down at Quantico and you’re standing in my shower at home. You’re going to feel me on your skin every second on the jet, every time you shift in your chair. You’ll remember exactly who you bratted off to today, and exactly who owns every inch of this body. Understood?”

You nod, throat tight, arousal somehow flaring all over again despite everything.

“Yes, Sir.”

He smiles, a small, satisfied, and soft smile, before he pulls you into his chest. His hand spreads possessively over the sticky mess on your stomach, holding you close.

“Sleep, trouble,” he whispers into your hair. “You’re going to need it.

You’re already half-asleep when he speaks again, voice low in the dark.

“Next time you pull a stunt like that in the field, I won’t wait until we’re in a hotel room.”

You smile against his skin, sore and sated and utterly ruined.

“Next time,” you mumble, “I’ll be worse.”

He bites your shoulder in warning.

You wake up to the alarm on Hotch’s watch at 5:47 a.m. He’s already sitting on the edge of the bed, hair damp from the shower, knotting a fresh tie. You try to roll over and immediately regret it. Every muscle between your hips screams. Your thighs are sticky, your pussy swollen and aching, and when you clench experimentally, you feel the slow, obscene slide of everything he left inside you only a couple of hours ago.

He glances back, eyes satisfied.

“Up,” he says, voice still rough from sleep and sex. “Wheels up in forty.”

You groan. Actually groan. Getting vertical feels like an Olympic event that you never trained for.

He watches you struggle into yesterday’s jeans with the faintest smirk curling his mouth, when in reality, all you want is a pair of sweatpants.

The panties he pulled back up your legs after he finally untied you are soaked through, his cum, yours, the evidence of four separate loads, and every step makes the fabric drag against your oversensitive clit.

By the time you limp into the hotel lobby, the whole team is already waiting. Morgan does a double-take.

“Damn, sweetheart. You pull a muscle wrestling that unsub... or something?”

You flip him off with the hand that isn’t clutching your go-bag strap for support.

Hotch doesn’t say a word, just opens the back door of the SUV for you like a perfect gentleman, as you make it to the cars. You slide across the seat and bite the inside of your cheek to keep from whimpering when your ass meets cold and slightly hard leather.

On the jet, you take the seat farthest from the group, legs pressed tightly together, praying the movement of the plane doesn’t jostle anything loose. Hotch sits directly across the aisle from you, tablet in hand, leading the debrief like nothing happened last night. Like he didn’t wreck you so thoroughly that you’re still tasting him through your pussy.

He starts with the profile review. You’re supposed to contribute. Instead, you’re hyper-aware of the slow trickle working its way down your thigh every time the jet banks left. You shift, and the wet drag of cotton against your folds makes you swallow a gasp.

Hotch’s eyes flick to you. Calm and professional. Except for the slight curve at the corner of his mouth that says he knows exactly what you’re feeling.

“Agent L/N,” he says smoothly, “care to walk us through the victimology again and what we can learn from it for future cases?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Clear your throat. “Uh. Females, twenty-two to twenty-nine, brunettes, all abducted within—”

Your voice cracks on the last word because the plane hits a pocket of turbulence, and you feel a fresh pulse of warmth slip free. You clamp your thighs harder, face burning.

Reid starts rambling about geographic decay rates. You stop listening. All you can focus on is the slow, steady throb between your legs and the way Hotch’s gaze keeps drifting to your lap like he’s cataloging every squirm.

Forty unending minutes later, the wheels finally touch down in Quantico. You stand too fast, and your knees nearly buckle. Hotch’s hand shoots out to steady your elbow, the perfect picture of a concerned boss... or partner.

You make it down the stairs on wobbly legs, every step making the mess in your panties shift and cling. You’re praying no one notices the way you’re walking like you just rode a horse for twelve hours straight.

Rossi falls into step beside Hotch as you head for the car park. He doesn’t even bother lowering his voice.

“Atta boy,” he mutters, clapping Hotch once on the shoulder.

Hotch doesn’t answer, but you catch the faint, wicked tilt of his lips before he slides on his sunglasses.

You flip Rossi off behind Hotch’s back.

Rossi just laughs knowingly and calls over his shoulder, “Feel better, kid.”

You’re going to kill them both.

Later.

Much, much later.

When you can walk again.

You can hear him though.

No words, you stopped using those around sun-down. Instead it’s wet, vulgar noises as he laps greedily at your cunt. Your thighs, the sheets beneath you and his face are all soaked. You don’t know how much of it spit and how much of it is you.

You also don’t know that at the end of the bed Steve’s made his own mess.

He holds your legs down to the mattress, big calloused hands firmly gripping the meaty flesh above your kneecaps. He’s warned you he’d do it, “If you don’t stop squeezing my head, I’ll spread ‘em myself.” He’d whispered, then pressed a soft kiss to your inner thigh.

When you failed to listen he just sighed, and did exactly as he said.

You’d cum two more times since then.

Your hands are useless, clutching at the sheets, his shoulders, even pulling your own hair after Steve told you not to touch his. (“I know honey, but I can’t eat right if you’re pulling on me.”)

Tears stream down your cheeks, every pass over your clit earning him another sob. Silently, you thank the women who laid there before you, who taught him how to use his every part of himself, to nudge his nose like this. Then you thank yourself, for drinking an entire bottle of pineapple juice yesterday.

“Gonna drink it all.” He murmurs, pulling back just enough to let the words escape. “Until I’m drunk.” His breath huffs against your clit, and despite yourself, your hips twitch, instinctively chasing his mouth.

Sirens wail in the streets below, unaware of the worship taking place in Steve Roger’s bed.

A dark chuckle echoes from between your thighs, melting your dignity or any self-respect you had left.

“Please Steve.” You beg. Your voice is more air than sound.

He shushes you, gentle lips and rough hands caress your thighs. “I know,” he coos, “You still need more.” He sounds awestruck. You fumble for the bed side lamp that you know is out of reach. Just want to see his eyes. “Gonna take care of you.”

Your hand falls, a sharp cry tearing from your lips as he descends once more. The coil in your stomach pulls, it’s already unraveling. No choice but to let yourself be undone by him.

The wheel starts to spin again.

Three cherries.

Jackpot.

Pinktober Masterlist!

Main Masterlist!

Couldn’t let October go by without giving my first husband some love (he’s still on thin ice though) see you lovelies tomorrow!