The World Owes Us Nothing

The thing is that it wouldn’t, because it never has bothered you, and you’re getting tired of seeing him leave every morning with tense shoulders that you were just getting him to relax. 

So, you decide, you’re taking matters into your own hands today. Literally.

You’re off from work today -- of course he has gone into the office even though he told you he gave literally everyone else the option to work from home -- so you wait until noon before you drive over.

You’ve visited before, so the security knows you, and just gives you a smile along with your visitor badge. Doesn’t even call Hotch’s office first. Because they assume by now that if you’re here, he knows you’re coming.

Except today, he absolutely does not.

When you walk into the BAU, you meet Rossi on his way out. All of the team’s desks are empty.

Dave raises his eyebrows. “Visiting for lunch?”

You just give him a tired smile. “Yes. And going to try to wrangle him home.”

“Good luck with that,” Dave chuckles, dropping a kiss on your cheek. “I tried.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the work wife,” you tease. “I’m the actual wife.”

Dave just laughs as he leaves, shaking his head. 

Unfortunately, talking with him has blown your cover, because just as you turn to head further into the bullpen, you spot your husband standing outside his office, hands perched on the railing. And he’s scowling.

You just smile at him as you ascend the small staircase, his head swiveling to watch you. “Hi honey,” you murmur, sweet as ever, raising onto your tiptoes to kiss the corner of his mouth.

He turns and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you in for a kiss on the lips. “Hi sweetheart,” he says, giving you one last peck before pulling back. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought we could have lunch together,” you say, letting your hands smooth over his (still tense) shoulders.

“You know I need you to call before you come visit.”

He has told you this, and not in a malicious way, just in that he works for the FBI and needs you to let him know if you want to come see him, for security reasons.

“Surprise?” you try, squeezing his biceps. “Oh, come on, security here likes me! And I got a visitor badge!” you look down and gesture at it, as if he hasn’t seen it -- and he definitely has, because you have it pinned to your chest. “I’m not breaking any rules.”

He just hums low in his throat, giving you another kiss. “Yet.”

You can’t help the smirk that you let slip, which only earns you a warning look. Because he knows that smirk, and you know that smirk, which is why you did it.

“I have a meeting first,” he says, leading you back into his office. “Just a conference call, shouldn’t be more than thirty minutes, okay?”

You nod as he shuts the door. You take a seat on the couch since he’s already onto your antics. He rounds his desk and checks his watch.

“What do you want for lunch?” he asks. “I can order us something while I’m on the call.”

“I’ll have to think,” you say innocently. “Just do your call, I can figure it out.”

He gives you that same warning look as before, just as his phone on his desk rings loudly. He fixes you with one last look that practically screams behave before answering.

You busy yourself on your phone for a while, deciding to play the long game, especially since you can tell he knows something is up. It’s hard to get up to anything when your husband has this sixth sense about you.

Fifteen minutes pass slowly and you think, this is fine, just fifteen minutes more, and then you can convince him to come home so you can climb him like a tree. 

Except the next fifteen minutes come and go much quicker, and their conversation doesn’t seem to be dwindling at all. Aaron has been scribbling notes here and there, occasionally speaking, but not more than a few sentences at a time.

Surely he can’t be needed for this meeting if all he’s doing is saying a few words and jotting a few notes down. And the frequent exhales he lets out and the way he keeps rubbing his forehead are just making you frown at him, even though he hasn’t looked up at you.

Once the forty-five minute mark hits, you think, that’s enough.

You stand up and he automatically mutes himself, looking up at you. “I’m sorry it’s taking so long,” he says quietly, despite being on mute. “Do you want to--”

You walk right up to him and sink down to your knees.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” you snort, fingers already working at his belt. “Go back to your meeting.”

One of his hands covers both of yours easily, halting your movements. “Excuse me?”

You look up at him, trying not to think about how big his hands are. “You’re stressed.”

“So the solution is to blow me while I’m in a meeting?”

“It’s just a phone call!” you protest. “And you aren’t even speaking!”

His hand squeezes yours in warning.

You pout. “I wanted to help you.”

His face and his grip softens a little. “I know I’m--” He hears something on the call that he doesn’t agree with, though, because then he’s looking back at his phone and un-muting himself to say his few sentences. 

You huff and shove his hand away from yours, going back to working on undoing his belt. You’ve just gotten it undone and started to work on his zipper when you hear him mute his phone again, and then a hand drops to the back of your neck, craning your head up to meet his stern gaze.

“Do not blow me,” he says firmly.

“Can I at least put it in my mouth?” you whine. “I’m bored.”

“You’re the one who came here without telling me,” he says. “Or I could’ve told you I had a meeting and you could’ve avoided the boredom.”

“I know, but--” Your mouth snaps closed when his grip tightens just a little on the back of your neck.

“You can warm me,” he finally concedes. “But if you move, I will make you sit on the couch and I will not touch you today.”

“Today?” you say incredulously. He just nods to confirm it, and then pushes your head toward him.

The temptation to be on your worst behavior is greater than ever, but you want him to touch you later when the two of you are tucked in your bed at home. He can’t not touch you. He wouldn’t.

But still you don’t want to risk it. Right now.

So, you undo his slacks and take him out of his boxers, licking your lips when you see he’s already hard. 

And yeah, maybe you shouldn’t have taken him into your mouth right as he un-muted himself again to say something, but you couldn’t resist. He covers his hitched breath by clearing his throat, and you have to fight back a smile as you settle your mouth on him.

He’s not fully in your mouth, not even close, though he is already hitting the back of your throat, but since you aren’t meant to actually blow him, you stop there. You breathe through your nose, eyelids fluttering as you try not to swirl your tongue. 

You almost think he’s going to scold you for your timing, but he doesn’t. He mutes himself once more and looks down at you, a tiny smile on his lips as he rests a hand on your head.

“Better?” he asks softly, thumb brushing over your cheek.

You nod just a little, conscious of the way it’ll jostle his head in the back of your throat. Aaron thumbs a bit of drool from the corner of your mouth, raising the digit to his lips to suck it off, and you have to stifle a groan.

“Hopefully not much longer,” he says, but then immediately has to say something else on the call. It’s an apparent shitty decision given the way Aaron gets so heated over it.

‘Not much longer’ my ass, you think, deciding to accept your fate and lean your head against his stomach. Might as well relax.

You have no idea how much time passes. All you know is that you can feel him twitching in your mouth after a while, and you’re getting impatient. 

To make matters worse, he’s started speaking more, because apparently they didn’t run something by him and they should’ve. It’s hot hearing him talk like this, with this much authority in his voice, but it is the last thing you need to be hearing when you’re supposed to be good.

You try a tiny, experimental swirl of your tongue. Nothing really, and for all he knows, you’re just adjusting. It has been a while, after all.

And then you try another. His words don’t falter. His breath doesn’t hitch.

So you try once more, swiping your tongue on the underside of his cock, humming just a little. Nothing.

You get too comfortable and decide you can get away with more, so you sit up a little and hollow your cheeks. You push your head down just a bit, letting his head slip past the back of your throat.

That gets a reaction in the form of a hand gripping the back of your neck again. But his words don’t falter. Somehow, they get stronger, and that is really not what you should be hearing right now. It just makes your thighs clench and your core pulse, and you’re trying to behave here, but--

“What are you doing?” he says, scaring the shit out of you, because you hadn’t realized he’d muted himself again.

You whine a little and settle back down, exhaling through your nose as you back off.

“Not much longer,” he says, thumb stroking the side of your neck. “You can be good.”

You can. You know you can.

But you also desperately want to feel him deeper in your throat, and that side of your brain is quickly winning this losing battle.

He goes quiet again, the other matter having been settled, so now he’s back to jotting notes and occasionally offering insight. He’s muted more than he isn’t, and you start to get brave again. 

In your defense, he’s so big that it’s hard not to readjust when he’s constantly prodding the back of your throat. And when your jaw is starting to ache.

You shift around too much, though, and he catches on.

“Do you need a break?”

You make a muffled nuh-uh noise.

“Then stop moving,” he says. “You’ve been a good girl so far. Don’t start being bad now.”

Oh, but you want to. You want to so badly, and this thirty-minute call has definitely turned into an hour and a half by now, and you’re impatient.

So when he doesn’t speak for who knows how long, you decide you’ve had enough.

You swirl your tongue in the way you know he loves, and this time when his hand grips the back of your neck, you don’t care.

You take him further into your throat, pushing past your gag reflex, before beginning to bob your head. He hisses above you, but his hips buck into your mouth, and his hands grip your head, but not to push you off, instead to guide you.

“Just couldn’t wait until I finished this call,” he mutters, voice strained. “What if I wasn’t muted right now?”

The thought only makes the heat between your legs grow hotter and your shifting body gives you away.

“Oh, you’d like that?” he groans, holding your head down for a moment before letting up, but not letting your mouth leave him. “You don’t even realize the call is done, do you?”

You make a confused noise and that just spurs him on further.

“Had no idea,” he says, and at this point, you think he’s just talking to himself, but that doesn’t mean you don’t find it hot. “Had no idea because you were too busy focusing on getting your way, weren’t you? Coming here without telling me just because you wanted to do this.”

Sometimes he is so composed that you used to never know when he’s about to cum, but you’ve learned that quirk of his too, the way his fingers tighten on the base of your skull. 

You’re a mess of drool while he uses your mouth, so happy about it all too, that you think he won’t notice your hand slipping between your legs.

But he does. And he uses just one hand to grab your wrists, keeping them away from where you need the friction the most.

“Absolutely not,” he mutters. “You don’t get to touch yourself too, greedy girl.”

You whine again, only this time it makes his head tip back as he pushes you down, his cock twitching deep in your throat. He finally breaks, releasing into your throat in hot spurts, so far down that you don’t even taste them until he backs off, coating your tongue, before he pulls you back further, just so the last bit can shoot onto your face.

You smile happily, feeling it hit your lips and then your chin. You lick your lips, looking up to see Aaron’s eyes closed and chest rising and falling rapidly.

You rest your hand on his thigh, squeezing gently. “Better?” you tease.

He opens his eyes, lust burning in them like wildfire. 

He says nothing, but he swipes the cum off your chin, moving his fingers to your lips so you can clean it all off. He pulls you up into his lap, devouring your lips, never caring that he can taste himself too. 

“I’ll give you a ten-minute head start,” he says against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip.

“For what?” you squeak out.

“Before I’m home to have my way with you,” he replies simply, hands squeezing your waist. “If you’re not on our bed and naked the second I walk in, there will be consequences.”

Shooting Jack an incredulous look through your fingers, you stretched your leg out across the couch and kicked him in the thigh. He clutched it in faux-agony, writhing in his seat. You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. Although he was making it impossible to weasel your way out of another painful dinner with his Dad, it was hard not to love him. Jack Hotchner had been your best friend for the better part of five years. You’d met in college and clicked almost instantly. People around you were convinced that you two were bound to be married and have hundreds of kids but you and Jack were just… never like that. He was like your brother. 

You stood up, grabbing a throw cushion from the couch and raising it above your head. Yes, you had resorted to violence to get Jack to relent. It wasn’t your finest moment, but you were desperate to never be seated at a dinner table with Aaron Hotchner ever again. It was too much. The way he’d stare at you, analysing you, his foot brushing up against yours. It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy his attention, not at all. There was just something fundamentally immoral about wanting to fuck your best friend’s Dad. Sometimes, if he’d had a few too many whiskies, he’d lament about his past with the FBI, and it made him all the more attractive. You imagined him a bit like Fox Mulder, racing about in a beige trenchcoat, suit and tie. Just, instead of aliens and ghouls, it was serial killers and the like. Did that make it worse? He was technically retired. Jack had never gone into the details of why Mr Hotchner had left the FBI, so all you knew was that they went into Witness Protection for a while. Oh, and his wife was brutally murdered. A widowed FBI agent who happened to be your best friend’s Dad. What a perfect pick for a sexual partner.

“I have a date on Friday, anyway. I can’t make it,” you lied. Smirking, Jack raised an eyebrow. He looked exactly like his Dad when he did that.

“No you don’t,” he replied, still smirking. That smug Hotchner grin. “It’s illegal to lie to a cop.” 

Rolling your eyes, you brought the pillow down and thumped it against your chest. 

“It’s also illegal to attack one, too.” 

You grinned triumphantly. “So that means you’ll have to lock me up for at least 48 hours and I’ll have to miss Friday. Tell your Dad I apologise.” 

Sometimes, you’d make Jack laugh so hard he had to clutch his stomach. That was one of those times - his head tossed back, blonde locks falling over his eyes as he roared with laughter. You couldn’t help the genuine smile that crossed your face. This is why it was so hard to face Jack’s dad. Anything that had the potential to ruin a friendship this good wasn’t worth facing. 

“First of all,” Jack laughed, raising the pillow up and positioning it in such a threatening way that you automatically flinched backwards, your hands covering your face. “It’s 24 hours, dumbass. Secondly, you are not missing Friday, come hell or high water.”

”Yes, I am.”

”No, you’re not.” 

You glared at him. “No, I’m not.”

Jack’s aim was too good. The pillow hit you square in the face and you flopped backwards onto the floor, furious. 

Clutching a cheap bouquet of flowers, you stood at the end of Aaron Hotchner’s driveway, glowering at the unassuming home. 

How had Jack managed to convince you to come again? You assumed he had evil cop powers and influenced you subconsciously. Maybe that was what Mr Hotchner taught him after his time in the FBI. None of that mattered now. You were there. You’d worn an unassuming black dress and kitten heels. Everything else felt either too casual or too much. Mr Hotchner’s house really was unassuming. You always thought that, surely, after being so important in the FBI that they’d set him up with a good retirement package and he could live in some fancy town house closer to the city. No: Aaron Hotchner had chosen a one-level home with a white stucco shell and a beautiful bay window. It let so much light into the living room, which you all retired too after dinner had been eaten. The only thing alluding to any grandiosity was his accolades, that were hidden at the end of the corridor that housed his bedroom. That, and the multiple locks on his front and back doors, and the security system he set religiously every night before he went to bed. 

You trudged up the driveway, taking deep breaths as you went. No touching tonight. No glancing. Sometimes, you thought you were crazy, imagining his touch. It was so light at first, but then you’d look up from your food and Mr Hotchner would be watching you with those ridiculously dark eyes. He’d poke his food and bring it to his mouth slowly, lips wrapping around the metal and slowly pulling off of it. Like he was showing you how he devours his meals. It made you so stupidly horny that you went red in the face. Jack was convinced that it was his Dad’s wine making you so red. No, Jack. It’s your damned Father. You took the last few steps up to the front door and pressed a carefully manicured finger into the doorbell. 

The noise echoed inside the house, and your heartbeat rose through the roof when you heard Mr Hotchner’s footsteps approaching the door. Anticipatorily, you took a small step backwards. Mr Hotchner had a way of commanding a space, occupying it so fully that it made him seem physically bigger than he actually was, which was already tall and broad. One latch slid and jingled once it was free. Another popped open with a clang. The last slid to the side stupidly slowly. At last, the door swung open, revealing a flushed Mr Hotchner, a batter-splattered frilly apron tied around his waist and a spatula in hand. Wordlessly, he frowned at you, bringing his arm up to glance at his watch. You felt yourself begin to prickle a little. Had you come too early? Actually, where the hell was Jack? You’d been so consumed with your own thoughts that you hadn’t noticed that Jack’s car wasn’t in the drive. 

“No Jack? I thought he’d come with you,” Mr Hotchner mused quietly, looking away from his watch and straight at you. You gazed back at him. Underneath his frilly apron- which, by the way, you had no idea why he had that; Jack vaguely remembered it being his Mom’s, but it fit him a little too well- he was wearing a dark polo and jeans. He looked utterly consumable. Like you could pounce on him then and there, even in his apron. That polo made his arms look unreal. They were the first thing you noticed when you first met him. How, even in retirement, his years in the FBI still showed in the shape of his body. 

You shrugged, looking over your shoulder. “No, no Jack. I thought he’d be here.” 

You wished he was here. It was dangerous for you to be left alone with Mr Hotchner. If the tension from across a dinner table with his son present was enough to make you squirm, the thought of what could possibly happen when alone with him… you tried not to pant. You had to be stronger than this. You had a Masters degree, for fuck’s sake. You weren’t about to let a man reduce you to liquid. 

Aaron Hotchner smirked at you. You felt your legs wobble. Liquid. “I guess it’s just you and me, then. Come in, come in. I’ve just put the cake in the oven.” 

He stepped back and opened the door wider so you could enter. Swallowing nervously, straightening your posture, you stepped into his house and let him close the door behind you. You stilled, clinging onto your purse like it was a lifeline. Behind you, Mr Hotchner clicked all the locks back shut, sliding the last one into place slowly, as if he was contemplating it. Breath lodged in your throat when you felt his large hand ghost along the small of your back, urging you forwards. Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head as you walked towards the kitchen down the hall, Mr Hotchner’s hand guiding you the entire way. It was so close to your ass. One wrong move, one step up, and his palm would be right on the curve of it, almost begging to knead the flesh waiting underneath. 

“Sorry, Mr Hotchner,” you laughed nervously, “I don’t know why I act like I haven’t been coming here for years.” 

He gave a breathy chuckle. It made the throbbing heat between your legs somehow hotter. “How many times have I told you to just call me Aaron? You’re right, though. You need to start making yourself more at home.” 

Right, yeah. Aaron. It never sat on your lips right. Mr Hotchner sounded so much more fitting for a man of his stature. He guided you into the kitchen and you felt your shoulders drop when his hand retracted from your back and he stalked away from you to the hob. Why were your shoulders even raised in the first place? Had he made you that tense? Aaron turned and looked at you, asking if you wanted a drink. You nodded, and he leant down to grab a bottle of wine from the wine cabinet at the end of the breakfast bar. You glanced up at the clock above the back door. It was only half five. 

“Bit early, isn’t it?” You joked, and Aaron chuckled again. It was so dark, so flirty. You imagined it tasting like maraschino cherries. If you bit into his chuckle, the juice of it would trickle down your neck and collect in your collarbones for him to dip the tip of his tongue into. The thought made you look away from him entirely.

“Why? Are you nervous about being drunk around me?” Aaron Hotchner wore the most shit-eating grin you’d ever seen him wear. Grabbing three wine glasses from the top shelf- and yes, his polo did happen to ride up, showing you the most delicious slice of his stomach, and the beginning of a deep V leading down, down down…- Aaron looked over his shoulder at you, as if he couldn’t bare the thought of looking away from you right then. It made your stomach flip. 

“No,” you said, confidently. Aaron locked eyes with you, purely because you let him. “Maybe your profiling skills aren’t what they used to be, Mr Ho- Aaron.” 

Aaron had to look away from you to pour the wine. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by his phone ringing in his pocket. Putting the bottle down carefully, he slid the phone from his pocket. 

“Jack? Is everything- oh, alright. Yeah, I’ll tell her. Thanks for telling me, son. Get home safe. Alright, bye.” Blowing his cheeks out, Aaron put his phone back in his pocket and looked at you. “Jack won’t be here until much later, he told you not to wait up for him.”

You frowned. “Everything okay?” 

Everything turned out to be fine. Jack had been held back at the station for unavoidable overtime due to seasonal sickness. So… just you and Aaron Hotchner for the night. Aaron point-blank refused that you go home. Stated that “too many cases started that way”. So you nursed your glass of red, leant against his breakfast bar, and engaged in a conversation that wasn’t as sexually charged as you expected it to be. If anything it was quite charming. 

You threw your head back, laughing. “He used to say what?”

Grinning, Aaron put the spatula down and dug his thumbs into his belt, letting his shoulders slouch backwards as he looked you up and down with lowered-eyelids. 

“Hey, babygirl,” he said in a poor attempt of a Chicagain accent. Slamming your hand onto the counter, you roared with laughter; it was bizarre to see somebody usually so composed as he was let himself be a bit silly. Aaron smiled at your laughter, picking the spatula back up and tossing the food one last time. “Derek Morgan was in his own league, believe me. But he was loyal to the very end.” 

Laughter subsiding, you found yourself smiling as you lifted the glass to your lips again. Honestly, you didn’t even need the wine anymore. Aaron had put you completely at ease; he was a brilliant host. The food, as always, smelt amazing. Jack had told you that he learned to cook like this from Uncle Rossi, who still worked in Quantico. For a long time, they’d been dreaming up a dinner with all of Aaron’s ex-coworkers, but you always sensed a hesitation in his eyes when the discussion was brought up. Neither of them had opened up to you too much about their life pre-Witness Protection. Jack came into your life fully formed, truly imagined, just as you were to him. You met when you were eighteen, the pair of you freshly adult, new to the world. You’d had whole lives before one another and, it seemed, Aaron had had multiple. It made you feel slightly green behind the ears compared to the older man. But the conversation between the pair of you was easy, and flowing. He put the plate of steaming pasta in front of you, and you began tucking in very happily. 

Aaron took a sip of wine. “So, have you ever considered my son romantically?” 

What?

“What?” you spluttered, holding a napkin desperately to your face. You must have looked insane: eyes bulging, brows furrowed in shock. When the piece of pasta you’d been choking on eventually dislodged, you swallowed it down and took a deep, unladylike glug of wine. “Aaron, Jack is like a brother to me. It’s never even crossed my mind.” 

You couldn’t read the way the man was looking at you. His dark eyes seemed to swirl independent of his body in the golden candlelight emanating from the table. The light licked up his face, across the light stubble on his chin, as if pointing at him. This one! This one! He didn’t talk for a minute, considering you closely. You raised your chin, almost as if you were beckoning him in. You enjoyed his eyes on you immensely. 

“So you consider me a fatherly figure?” 

“No.” Damn. That response was a little quick. “I flirt with you far too much for that to be appropriate.” 

It was Aaron’s turn to choke. A grin curling the corners of his lips, he coughed into his own napkin, shaking his head. You tried to seem as calm as possible, but your heart was hammering so hard on the cage of your ribs that you feared he could hear it from across the table. This had gone a little 0-100, but there was no way Aaron didn’t intend for that to happen. Wiping the sides of his mouth, he eyed you. You eyed him. It was a room full of eyes, all staring at one another, all waiting for the other ball to do something, anything. You kept your eyes on him as you brought the glass of wine to your mouth again. Aaron forked pasta into his mouth. All was silent. He chewed, you swallowed. 

“So what are our options?” he asked once he was finished with his mouthful. You thought for a moment before answering. 

“All of our options make us bad people,” you began. Scoffing out a laugh, Aaron nodded. “Jack’s my best friend. You’re his dad.” 

“And that means..?”

Pursing your lips, you flashed him an annoyed look. Was he roleplaying an interrogation with you right now? Kinky. He left his eyebrows raised in expectation, but you took a large mouthful of pasta to prevent you from speaking. You seriously, seriously had to think your next answer over. It could change everything, but it was becoming uncomfortable to sit down you were so aroused. 

Aaron’s eyes never left you. 

“It means that it’s technically immoral,” you replied, your breath catching in your throat when Aaron folded his napkin on the plate and stood. As he slowly made his way around the table to you, you carried on talking. “It’s stupid. We see each other every Friday. I live with Jack. I’d be carrying around this massive weight that I’d fucked his Dad, I mean, it sounds like a badly written joke, I don’t-”

“It sounds like you’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

He stopped beside you, looking down at you, amused. You could smell his aftershave. Something spicy and expensive. He was so close you could count each one of his hairs individually. It was intoxicating. Everything about Aaron Hotchner was precise, organised, specific. Despite the pure hedonism of what you were about to do, it still somehow felt calculated. Putting your napkin down, you shifted your legs so your body was facing his. He hooked a finger under your chin and made him look up at you. Your heart leapt as you stared up at him, mouth slightly ajar. His chest was rising and falling jaggedly. 

“You haven’t?” you whispered, making Aaron release a breathy chuckle. 

“We won’t have much time,” he hummed, stroking his thumb along your jawline. “He could be back any minute.”

You held on to the fact he called Jack “he”. Part of you felt like it was shame, perhaps avoidance. Any excuse to skirt around the topic that the mutual person bringing the pair of you together was his son. The air around you fizzed, each time your eyes met the atoms around you popped, met another again and sizzled. You could feel the heat rising slowly in your cheeks as he slid his thumb along your bottom lip, one of his fingers staying curled under your chin. He had enraptured you truly: you could only stare up at him, lip caught between your teeth. Aaron’s free hand ghosted at your side, and all you could think about was the possibility of it travelling lower down. 

He leant forward, bringing you close to him with your chin, and your lips pressed together. It began gentle, almost tentative, but he grunted and the kiss deepened, tongues sliding together. You gasped into his open mouth as his fingers found their way underneath your skirt. As if he’d pressed some button, your legs fell apart instantly. You didn’t even have to think about it. He stood behind the chair, taking his hand away from your chin and letting it rest on the back of the chair as his other hand snaked back down and pulled your dress up. You shifted your hips upwards to let him pull it up your stomach. You heard his breath catch in his throat as his hand ghosted along the lace waistband of your underwear. 

“Can I touch you?” he asked quietly, and you groaned in response.

“Please do, Aaron.”

His hand disappeared underneath the waistband and your whole body tensed as he ran a finger up the slit, collecting the wetness that had already been brought forth by him. He hummed in pleasure, leaning down so his mouth was at your ear.

“Did I do this to you?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Your head fell back as he let a single digit pass your lips, dragging up from your hole before circling your clit. He chuckled into your ear.

“You’ve been doing this to me for a long time,” you strained out as he pressed a second finger to your clit, making the most delicious figure eights. You’ve done this before, I see. Aaron groaned into your ear, nipping at it softly with his teeth. Aaron’s fingers slowly switched over, from his pointer and middle finger to his ring and middle finger, sliding down from your clit to your entrance. Your entire body shook with anticipation, one of your arms coming up and grabbing him by the back of his neck. Two of his thick fingers slid slowly inside of you, making you gasp out. When you stuttered his name, he only grinned into your neck.

“I thought I’d reward you for being so patient,” he hummed, making your eyes roll back as he began to pump his fingers in and out of you. Kicking your heels off, you propped yourself up on the balls of your feet, angling your hips up, allowing him a ridiculously deep angle. A swirling heat was building inside of your lower abdomen, growing from a buzzing to a maddening vibration. Your toes curled as he wrapped a hand around your neck, so gently you could barely tell it was there, his fingers curling up your jaw and holding you close to his chest as your back arched, eyes rolled like bowling balls as he brought you closer and closer to your impending orgasm…

He paused, looking at you. 

“I haven’t done this in a while.” 

That’s when you really took him in. Glassy-eyed, chest moving in jagged spurs, split glistening on his lips, the apples of his cheeks pinked from the effort of pleasuring you. Underneath all of that, all of that apprehension, arousal, and excitement, is a man who was worried about his performance. You could see it in the way he didn’t look at you fully. Well, he did. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. But there was something internal that was holding him back from drinking you, the sight of you on his dining room chair, skirt hitched up your legs and underwear around your ankles, completely in. It made it hard not to be annoyed at him for completely blue-balling you (can women even get blue-balled? Saying I got blue-clitted sounds vulgar and gross). Aaron removed his hands from you and took a step back, his breathing heavy. He crouched next to you, looking up at you.

You moved forward, holding his face in yours. You could feel the weight of him fully, it felt. As if he kept it all locked in there. The only thing that kept his body from blowing away in the wind was the weight he kept in his head. Underneath the rub of your thumb, his stubble poked back at you. 

“We don’t have to,” you said softly, and Aaron laughed in your face. 

“I want to,” he replied, reaching up to stroke your hair. “I just can’t promise I’ll last very long.” 

This is quite possibly the most attractive thing a man has ever said to you, and you are quite convinced, even now, that nothing anyone says to you will ever match it. You crashed your mouth into his, dragging him to you by his polo. He broke his crouch a little, keeping your tangle of tongues attached, digging his large hands under your rear and hoisting you up and over to the breakfast bar. Ooh, kinky kitchen sex. Panting, he pulled away, standing between your open legs, one of his hands moving down to palm himself through his jeans. His eyes flicked up from your exposed pussy to your face, connecting the dots, profiling the sex. Profiling. Oh my God, I’m about to fuck an FBI agent. 

“Do you have a condom?” he asked, and you cringed. Yes, in your handbag. Did it look like you came here with it because you’d been planning this? Did it make you look like you went everywhere with a condom just in case? 

“Yes,” you replied, your voice small. “I keep them in my handbag.”

“That’s smart,” he replied. Giving you a quick kiss, he lifted your ass a little to put you further back on the breakfast bar. It was such a stupid thing to feel like crying over, but you seriously had to compose yourself when he turned and disappeared into the hall to your handbag. Yeah, this it it, you thought to yourself. I’m never fucking a man under the age of 40 ever again. 

Aaron reappeared, condom in hand and belt unbuckled. He put the condom next to you and brought your mouths together again. You shifted your hips to feel the curve of his erection through his jeans, moaning into his mouth when he grabbed you by the waist and pushed his hips towards your searching ones. 

His mouth on your neck, your hands went about unzipping his jeans, a hiss escaping your mouth as he began to nip at the taut skin along your jaw. A shove, a pull, a scramble of hands, Aaron’s cock was free. He let out a shuddering breath when your hand wrapped around it, easing a bud of precum onto your thumb and bringing it to your mouth. It dissolved into your tongue as you looked up at him. He was slack-jawed, awe written so deeply in his face it made him look stupid. You loved it. Nobody had looked at you like that before. You continued to stroke him, squeezing him at the tip, eliciting the deepest, grumbling whimpers from Aaron’s mouth. His hips jerked up in response, chasing your hand, one of his hands shooting up and gripping your arm tightly.

“Don’t-” he choked out, and you paused, snapping your hand open and looking up at him, terrified that he’d regretted his decision. He whined loudly, urging his hips towards you. “Nooo, nonononono, I didn’t mean stop- I meant- fuck- I’ll cum if you continue like that. I don’t want this to end here.”

You wanted nothing more than to pounce on him then and there. He really hadn’t had sex in a long time. Your mouths met again, Aaron palming at your hips. He gripped himself, looking up at you for permission. God, you nodded. Of course you did. You wanted to grip him and repeat the word “yes” until it was the only word you knew. Aaron lined himself up with your entrance, his jaw practically unhinging as he sank into your damp, warm heat. Eyes rolling back, you groaned, your body accommodating Aaron’s size, legs already feeling like jelly. Once he was fully sheathed, he kissed at your neck, moaning senseless words into the shiny skin, completely still inside of you. 

“You’re killing me,” you groaned, shifting your hips, begging him to move. He was right there, his tip just nudging the most delicious part deep inside of you. When he drew his hips back and began moving, you moaned his name loudly, arms shooting up to grip his, digging your nails into the skin. “Oh, my God.” 

Aaron hissed at the feeling of your nails, panting as he moved harder into you. Your back arched and he put one of his hands flat on your chest, pushing you back so you were flat on the counter. He was so stupidly lanky that he just made that position work. You lay back, staring at the ceiling, your entire body writing like a pit of snakes. Aaron’s hands scrambled at your chest, pulling your dress down far enough that your breasts fell out. His hand found one instantly, gripping at it, rolling your nipple between his fingers, digging them into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise. All you could do was squeak his name, eyes wide, your body shuddering. He wanted all of you. It was just pure greed. 

“Is this- okay?” he panted, his hand moving up from your breast to your face. Somehow, you managed to sit yourself up on your elbows and look at him. God, he looked like a puppy. Staring at you with his big brown eyes, head dipped, hips moving without falter. “Does it feel good.” “So fucking good,” you replied, panting. You wished you could bottle up the shy, exhausted smile he gave you. “You’re doing such a good job.” 

Aaron choked out a moan, his hand going straight back to your breast as the other gripped your thigh. It was too much. His fingers groping your chest, his cock pistoning in and out of you at a sloppier and sloppier pace as he grew closer to his orgasm.

You threw your head back and groaned his name, your entire body seizing as your orgasm overpowered you. Aaron’s grip on you became bruisingly tight as he reached his own, his eyes squeezing themselves shut and a hiss of your name tumbling from his mouth. He stilled inside of you, growing soft, panting. 

“I didn’t last very long,” he laughed, and you lifted your hips up and away, making him gasp softly. 

“I don’t care,” you said, sitting up properly on the breakfast bar and holding his face with one hand. “Neither did I.”

You fell into a comfortable shared laughter, silence following it quite quickly. Aaron went about binning the condom and washing his hands, tucking himself back into his jeans. You sat on the breakfast bar, watching his careful movements closely. He kept himself so particular, probably after years of precise document filing, clue hunting and gun toting. You were happy to give him the outlet for that preciseness, for his disciplined life to fall apart for half an hour every now and then. You’d seen a different side to him that day, and it was a side you were willing and eager to see again. And again. And again. Aaron Hotchner was an addictive man. Fuck. This is exactly what you were worried about. Maybe this was a one time thing, then all the tension around the dinner table would stop. Yeah, that was definitely it. No more messing about. Just like a one fuck and done sort of scenario. 

Simple. Right?

“... and then I pulled rank and managed to get us all to go to his mansion.”

You burst into laughter, shaking your head. Aaron’s arms were wrapped around you as you both lay naked (and slightly sweaty) in his bed. The only thing illuminating the room was a small lamp by his bedside that he’d turned all the way down. You were slightly turned towards him, your head tipped up, staring at him in admiration. It was never meant to happen like this, but you sure were happy it did. 

“And what? He taught you how to make pasta?” you asked, putting a hand on his chest. Aaron looked down at the placement, smiling gently. His eyes flicked to you as he placed his own hand on top of yours, wrapping his fingers around it. You couldn’t help but smile. 

He hummed in acknowledgement. “Little did I know it would lead me to cooking so good that I get to do this with you.” 

Grinning, you pulled yourself up to kiss him, the duvet sliding down your body as you straddled him again. As you pulled away to say something, your phone rang loudly on the end table. Rolling your eyes, you grabbed it. It was Jack. You flashed it at Aaron, and he laughed quietly.

“It looks more suspicious if you don’t answer it,” he said quietly, and you sighed, putting a hand over his mouth as you clicked answer. 

Jack spoke instantly. “Where are you?”

“I’ve gone to Amanda’s for some drinks,” you replied, trying not to laugh when Aaron’s eyebrows shot up and he stared at you, accusingly. “I’ll probably stay over the night. Why?” 

Jack was quiet for a long time. Your features flicked into a frown, and Aaron moved your hand so he could mouth “What?” to you. His hands came up and held you by your waist, his thumb moving up and down the soft skin there, comforting you. 

“Jack? What’s wrong?”