Welcome To My Hellscape

Night after night you find yourselves talking, and suddenly your vocabulary is filled with terms you’d never imagined discussing outside bureau protocol. Hard limits and soft boundaries. Carefully planned visits. He even tested a few daring suggestions you’d never imagined yourself fantasizing about, intriguing you as much as they embarrass you.

Although mortification isn’t the problem. You’re a born profiler with an inconvenient instinct to study every new stimulus; curiosity is your ruin, so to speak. If shame were meant to deter you, it should’ve chosen a less enticing disguise.

Granted, you’re not exactly surprised when you slip into Aaron’s motel room and spot another presence waiting. You find Spencer like that, standing warily at the foot of the bed, looking strangely out of place despite the fact your knees had brushed in the SUV only an hour ago.

But your heart does a little somersault. A silly patter that spreads through your chest with the dizzy certainty that an idea you’ve only read in ink is about to be written in flesh.

The clause was tucked near the end of the contract — “the introduction of a third participant at the discretion of the primary.” You’d half-skimmed those last few pages, disbelief blurring the words when you couldn’t quite fathom that your fantasies had been printed and bound like actual paperwork.

It’s one thing to discuss it verbally, another thing entirely to see it embodied in your hands like an actual scripture.

“I just want you to feel safe,” Aaron had said, which struck you as almost redundant. You already felt safe without having these stipulations spelled out in twelve-point font. Still, you picked up the pen, humored his need for formalities, and wrote your name in deliberate strokes.

And with Spencer hovering a few unsure steps from the bed tonight, that small flourish of ink seems to glow on the page in your memory.

“You’re late,” Aaron greets from the other side of the room, and closes the space between you in three easy strides.

“Emily cornered me in the hallway," you say, meeting him halfway for a kiss before nudging back, a wry smile on your lips. “So I’m guessing he knows about us?”

His gaze flicks to Spencer before settling back on you. “He found our contract.”

Your brows curve into a frown. “You mean… he found the thing just lying around?”

“Not exactly." He gives a curt shake of his head. "It was on my desk. Didn’t think he’d come in without knocking.”

"Aaron."

“It was an oversight," he tries to defend himself. He spares you the detail that Spencer apparently read enough to memorize every clause and condition. You’re already eyeing him dubiously.

“And why is he here now?”

The same logic that led Aaron to keeping him here.

“For his silence.”

"You’re blackmailing him?”

The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Of course not. I’d call it leveraging a situation for mutual understanding."

“That is the prettiest way I’ve ever heard someone describe blackmail.”

A soft shuffle of shoes answers you from behind.

“It isn’t blackmail,” Spencer interjects. “He didn’t force me into anything. I wanted to understand what was going on and—” He falters at the subtle, expectant tilt of Aaron’s head, then clears his throat and finishes, “—and now I do.”

Aaron’s hand finds its way to your waist. “Are you okay with this?”

Are you?

You don’t answer immediately. It isn’t indecision that holds your tongue to the roof of your mouth, rather the slow crawl of anticipation that coils low in your belly. Skittering around your hips.

Oddly enough, the prospect doesn’t rattle you the way it once did when you first traced those lines in the contract. You’d just never thought the day would actually arrive, and certainly not today, with Spencer, of all people.

You can almost hear the flutter of his pulse from here, see the quiet calculations ticking behind lowered lashes as he tries to stand perfectly still. He’s cinched into his cardigan that's smoothed flat over narrow shoulders, and you’d be lying if you claimed you’d never wondered what hid beneath all those layers of neatly pressed wool.

Pure curiosity, you reason. Curiosity fed by the sparks you’ve caught in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking. A sweep of hazel that dips down your neckline, or by the restless twitch of his fingers whenever your perfume drifts too close. And you’ve idly speculated, maybe more than once, whether those fidgeting hands would feel rough on your skin or as soft as the flush rising in his cheeks.

You let the quiet stretch for one more heartbeat, watching his gaze snag on the top of your blouse before darting back up.

Heat coils languid and sweet inside you.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m okay. I think.”

“Need you to be sure, sweetheart.”

“I’m okay,” you repeat, trying to smooth out your voice. Maybe saying it once more will solidify your confidence. “I’m really okay.”

Aaron’s palm tightens at your waist. “Color?”

It takes you a while to understand what he means, but when you do, you feel the answer rise with the next breath you take.

“Green.”

“Good, if at any point it changes, you tell me.”

You give him a slight dip of your head.

"Reid, come here."

Spencer obeys before he seems aware he’s moving. One cautious step, then another, until you can feel the anxious energy rippling off him. He’s close enough now that the crease of your knee nearly grazes the front of his slacks. Close enough you can catch the soft quiver in his limbs.

Your own chest tightens at the sheer proximity, but whatever butterflies flit through you aren’t half as fierce as the ones etched across his tense shoulders and downturned gaze.

“Spence, it’s okay, you can touch me," you offer.

He curls his fingers into fists, chords of tendon shifting under skin gone too pale.

He’s overthinking, of course. Mental gears grinding loud enough to drown out his own pulse. It’s his nature to second-guess and dissect unfamiliar situations from every angle. He did it when he first spotted the contract on Aaron’s desk, when Aaron quietly invited him here, even when he agreed to come of his own free will. But standing in front of you knots those gears tighter.

Enumerate risks, assign probability, choose the safest option.

The safest option, though, he realizes, is the most dangerous one.

But the real danger isn’t the touch itself. It’s how a single brush of fingertips will shatter his neatly ordered rules.

Consent redraws the margins while he continues to study. You give him an expectant look, Aaron seals it with a nod, and suddenly the universe has shrunk to three conspirators orbiting a single point of contact.

So he closes the last inch between you. Pulls in the same measured breath he’s perfected on the firing line. One, two, three — on four his fingertips drift forward, brushing the sleeve of your blouse. The cotton vibrates under his knuckles, yet even through the fabric he can feel the pliant warmth of your skin. He coaxes higher along your arm, sliding past the cuff and onto the bare flesh of your shoulder.

You’re warmer here, silken, and the softness doubles when his hand cups the delicate column of your neck, thumb resting in the hollow below your jaw. Softest of all, though, is the sight that meets him when he finally lifts his gaze. Plump, glossy petals of dewy lips.

Gone is every ounce of hesitation.

He steel himself for the question hanging on his lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

Useless, of course, when you’re already leaning in.

So he does, carrying the bite of burnt motel coffee and a trace of whatever dessert he demolished tonight. You also catch the tang of his nerves on your tongue. He’s a jumble of sensations — confused, curious, ravenous, and that ripple of hunger makes itself known as he nudges his cock against your hip. The pressure loosens your knees, and just as you begin to sync with the eager pull of his mouth, another hard pressure claims the space behind.

Aaron’s obvious bulge slots perfectly between your ass, as well as the way his mouth latches along the spot where your pulse flutters the most.

It’s nearly impossible to keep your heartbeat steady when attention comes in perfect pairs.

Two mouths tracing heat.

Two cocks hemming you in.

Two sets of hands shaping your body — a pair cupping your breasts firmly, another holding your hip while the last hand dips over the fabric covering your mound.

It takes a drowsy, blinking inhale before you realize it’s Spencer coaxing pleasure through the damp cloth. A new type of pleasure that comes with new territory as his fingers slide in patient circles, translating curiosity into confidence with every slow stroke. It’s a novel kind of surrender that eclipses the rules you thought you understood with Aaron alone.

This is a submission refracted through two different types of needs. Circumstances might look like you’re completely helpless with two men manhandling you, but somehow you've never felt more powerful.

And that power consumes you, bleeding warmth into your skin until it feels like you’re burning from the inside out. Flooding every nerve, soaking through your pores until even the hum of the air conditioner feels weak against the sweat beading at the small of your back.

Aaron feels the tremor beneath his palm.

“Too hot?”

You manage a weak nod. “Mhm.”

He quickly moves to remedy it. He won’t have his sweet girl suffering for even a second longer than necessary. His fingers skim down your blouse, carefully slipping buttons through holes before Spencer’s eager hands join him — unhooking, unbuttoning, and sliding the rest of your clothes off until there’s nothing left between you and the open air.

Your lungs finally fill without the last scrap of fabric, though each inhale stays shallow. The stark contrast between your bare skin and the layers of their tailored shirts and pressed slacks only sharpens the ache gathering low in your belly. You’re so wound up that a slow, insistent throb of liquid seeps between the snug folds of your cunt.

Aaron is quick to notice, too. He’s already attuned to your body by now, the way gooseflesh ripples up your thighs the moment you try to squeeze them together for relief. Before you’ve even fully registered it, his arm loops around your waist, guiding you a step back toward the bed.

In one smooth pull you’re lifted, settled astride his lap. “I think we should show him how wet you are.”

You lean back, heart hammering in your chest.

In another life, shame would color your cheeks, but in this one, you’re too keenly aware of your own arousal as his hands hook under your thighs, spreading your legs apart.

Spencer falls to his knees. And wets his bottom lip, eyes fixed on the sheen glistening between your legs — pretty and glossy without a single touch from either of them, and he wonders how much more of a mess he can make of you. That thought sends two fingers pressing against the swollen outer lips, gently stretching them for a better view of your anatomy as he breathes in your musky scent.

God, you smell delicious.

He bets you taste just as good too.

As if drown to a magnetic pull, he leans in and lets the tip of his tongue flick against the tender spot of your clit.

You’re not sure if the gasp that escapes your lips is louder than the rush of blood pounding in your ears. Spencer hears it, feels it, and takes it as permission. He lingers, gently at first, tracing delicate circles that coax your clit into a throbbing fullness until the once shy nub swells under the next pass of his tongue.

The hammering behind your eyes barrels down your veins, skimming collarbones and ribcage, rushing through your gut before pooling right where his mouth is working. Broad laps that drag from your slick entrance to the tip. Sucks a plush fold of your labia into his mouth, testing delicate skin with gentle tugs.

Your next exhale comes out as a moan, and Aaron marvels at the sound. “Feels good?”

Good is an anemic word — barely a quarter of what’s sluicing through you when Spencer curls his tongue inside your tight walls. Pleasure radiates in hot pulses, and language dissolves on your tongue as your head lolls helplessly against Aaron’s shoulder.

He tries to press you again. Hooks a finger beneath your jaw to tilt your chin up, leaving a ghost of space that tempts you to close your mouth around him. He pulls away when you lean in.

“Good, sweetheart?”

He clearly wants an answer. So you give him one — stretch your voice into the space he’s carved for you.

“S’good.”

“Yeah?”

Your hips stutter into Spencer’s mouth. “Yes—yes. Good.”

You're finally rewarded with a kiss and a groan between your legs.

Shame really has nothing on you. Your body is on fire, and the only thing that matters is the taste of his lips plastered against yours while Spencer’s mouth devours you in greedy lungfuls. Drags his tongue slow and heavy across the entire span of your cunt as the faint rasp of his jaw scrapes against your inner thighs.

You’re hardly surprised by how your orgasm coils fast. Starts as a scatter of static in your toes, slithers up your calves and welds the muscles of your thighs as Spencer’s mouth seals around you, lips locking, tongue pressing. Instinct has your legs snapping shut around his head, but a low disapproving sound from Aaron vibrates on your mouth, cuts through your blinding haze.

“No, no—spread them open,” he tuts, prying your legs wider. “Let him take care of you.”

You can only whine in response.

Your thoughts knot and unravel in the same breath, slipping through your grasp the moment they begin to form. Words dissolve. Time warps. You're reduced to pure reaction — tiny, involuntary gasps that stutter out between parted lips. You can't keep still. Can't breathe deep. Every inhale shudders. Heat blooms at the base of your skull, racing along nerve paths until your toes curl in suspended air.

Then it hits again. But his mouth doesn’t stop the mess he's made of you. Slick glistens down his chin, streaking into the shallow hollows of his cheeks, pooling in the groove where his jaw meets his neck. He tilts his head, adjusting just enough to keep you pinned with legs spread wide and twitching as he slurps you up with intense hunger.

A keening cry rips free before you can swallow it.

Aaron notices it. Sees the way you nearly go cross-eyed towards the ceiling, jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose.

“Reid,” he warns.

Spencer barely blinks.

“Reid.”

His voice continues to fall on deaf ears.

“Reid.”

It isn’t until Aaron firmly pushes his head away that Spencer finally snaps out of it. His eyes dart up to meet Aaron’s, then to you, chest rising and falling as though suddenly realizing the state he’s left you in.

“Oh—I’m sorry,” there’s an edge of guilt in his voice. His gaze drops back to your swollen clit, overly sensitive from his relentless attention, and moves in to press a soft, almost apologetic kiss to it. “I’m sorry.”

Your hips jerk at the contact.

Aaron rests a hand over your thigh, “Let’s give her a minute.”

You finally manage to clamp your mouth shut.

It does seem wise to wait until your heartbeat evens out, let your pulse crawl back down from its wild pitch. Yet the space they leave empty aches just as sharply. All you can feel is emptiness and the gnawing urge to be filled, so you shift in Aaron’s lap, sliding forward until your hips brush the sharply pressed crease of his slacks.

“I’m fine,” you blurt out. “I can keep going.”

Aaron’s palm spans your stomach. “I don’t want to push you too far.”

“You're not,” you insist, and with desperation digging its claws way too deep in your chest, you add, “Please?"

His lips curl into a knowing smile. You're practically bleating, and he’s absolutely smitten. "You're begging already."

You are, and you'd gladly do it again. Say it sweeter, say it filthier. You’ve learned to like begging, learned how easy it sits on your tongue when it earns you that look.

"Need you, Aaron."

He looks absolutely pleased.

“You need me?" His gaze slips towards Spencer, still crouched between your thighs, wetting his lips. "Or do you need him?”

Your mouth opens before you can think—

“Need you both.”

Which, after years spent of working alongside them, is something you never expected to admit.

But the honesty on your tongue tastes absolutely sweet.

Everything then unravels in a blur of impatient hands. Buttons pop, zippers slip, fabric rustles to the floor in a blur of motion you’ll replay later but can’t quite track now. Your own senses tunnel to the snap of Spencer’s belt, the soft thud of Aaron’s shoes hitting carpet, the sigh of crisp cotton sliding from skin.

By the time the last scrap of fabric has hit the floor, you’re stretched on your side atop the cool sheets with Aaron’s solid heat pressed along your back. He braces your leg up, while the blunt crown of his cock teases the slick seam of your cunt. You’re already dripping, so incredibly wet that one firm push has the soft flesh of your hole bulging around his girth when he sinks all the way.

It doesn’t dull the shock of intrusion, though. Aaron is all all weight and pulsing veins, and no matter how many times he’s fucked you senseless, you never quite get used to how he stretches you open. The burn hits sharp, then dissolves into a syrupy ache you drink down willingly.

You also swallow around the thick head of Spencer’s cock pressing to your mouth, feeling the bitter tang dissolve on your tongue as he pauses to gauge your reaction. Your first instinct is disbelief. It boggles your mind how someone built so lanky and lithe can carry such surprising weight, but instead you let a tiny, encouraging nod.

It's all it takes for him to nudge forward.

He lets out a tiny gasp, hips stuttering as your warmth envelopes the only part your mouth can comfortably take. A shiver races through his frame, and before he can stop himself, one hand threads into your hair with a desperate grip. He’s trying so hard to be gentle, but his pelvis gives a needy push.

You choke around the force punching your throat.

Aaron immediately slows his own rhythm behind you. “Reid, control yourself,” he warns. “Won’t have you hurting her.”

You pull back just enough to steal a breath.

“No—” You swallow, eyes darting up to meet Spencer’s wide, worried gaze. “It’s okay. Do it again.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I like it,” you manage, and Aaron’s brows lift slightly. He’s never taken you too roughly. Binding you with his tie is an exercise in restraint, a blindfold a test of trust, and when it comes to edging, his patience is almost cruel in its tenderness. He likes to think his dominance is a careful thing.

But clearly he underestimated you. Especially when you lift your gaze to Spencer with glassy, luminous eyes.

“You can use my mouth,” you say softly, a little bashfully. “I want you to.”

The confession snaps something loose in Aaron. He grunts, hikes your leg higher and plunges into you with reckless speed. “You should’ve told me sooner,” he grits out. “Didn’t know you liked it so rough.”

Your clammy back slides against his chest every time he drives into you. “I-I did, you’re just a big softie.”

He gives you another grunt against your bare shoulder while Spencer tries to catch your attention again, brushing a damp strand of hair clinging to your cheek.

“Are you sure?”

You don’t think you’ve ever been this certain.

Confidence has never felt so visceral when you know what you want, and the idea someone as awkward as Spencer surrendering to hunger enough to use your mouth only slicks you further around Aaron’s cock.

So you tilt your head back shamelessly, tongue slipping out in a languid sweep over your lower lip.

And how can he possibly resist?

He wraps his hand around the back of your skull, palm splayed wide and fingers tangling in your hair as he thrusts forward. Sets a smooth languid pace, slow enough you can feel every rigid vein drag across your tongue. Most times he glides in with practiced care, more often than not, the bulbous tip of his cock bumps up against discomfort that lingers just the shy of pain.

Tears prick your lashes, a throbbing ache begins to set in your jaw, but you force your muscles to relax. Concentrate on the rush of air through your nose.

Inhale, exhale.

Gag.

Swallow.

Soft wiry curls brush the sensitive curve of your nose with each thrust as you continue to let him mold your throat into his own perfect fit. He fills your mouth with the same certainty Aaron fills your cunt, so that no inch of you remains untouched.

You’re a mess of body fluids. Spit runs from the corners of your mouth, sweat paints your bruising skin. But it’s your pussy that bears the most, swollen and slick beyond reason, you’re so thoroughly fucked that every plunge punches a shameless squelch into the air. Bounces off the faded wallpaper and the brittle plaster of an old building that has seen better days. Decades, even.

This place couldn’t be further from luxury. It’s a simple nondescript motel on the edge of this town that’s only available where the stench of cheap detergent and stale air barely masks the lingering scent of old cigarettes. Though the sagging mattress is more than enough to cradle you between two bodies in a sweaty, desperate mess.

And desperation thickens the air, thick as summer humidity. Aaron’s thrusts grow sloppy, grip bruising your skin as he pants against your ear, “Not gonna last long, sweetheart.”

You don’t think you’re going to last any longer either. Not when the sheer force of his pace makes it impossible to focus on anything else. It’s becoming too much, and Spencer seems to notice your fractured gasps muffled around his shaft. He looks at you through heavy lids and takes pity on your predicament, pulls himself out of your mouth and sits back on his heels.

You still catch the sight of him fisting his cock through the mist clouding your eyes, but even that melts away when Aaron’s lips find the shell of your ear, whispering all the filthy things that ruins what’s left of your fragile composure.

Always so good to me.

That’s it, taking me so well.

—my sweet, sweet girl.

But it isn’t until his voice drops lower that your body responds without permission.

“Gonna fill you up, yeah?” His teeth graze your earlobe. “You'll let me do that?”

Your cunt squeezes him so fiercely that he chokes on a grunt. Slides a heavy palm right at the supple flesh of your belly.

“Or you gonna let both of us fill you up?”

You feel your muscles tensing—

“Let him fuck my cum back into you?"

And moan unabashedly.

The sounds spilling from your throat hardly seem like your own. You try to marshal a proper syllable, but it simply melts on your tongue before it can crawl past your lips. What comes instead is an automatic stutter of nods, frantic little jerks of your head because he’s your boss, isn’t he? And good subordinates follow orders dutifully.

“That’s right,” Aaron croons. “Knew you’d take it. Such a good girl for me, aren't you?"

You nod even harder, grinding back against his ruthless thrusts while he keeps spinning those filthy words.

“Gonna be so full, sweetheart. Mess dripping out this pretty pussy."

The picture he paints is enough to tip you over the edge.

Pleasure snaps bright and violent. Your vision splinters into shards of glittering light as your cunt clamps down around him, walls fluttering in rapid spasms that slowly jerk his own release.

Aaron groans, fingers biting into the soft give of your skin while he keeps you chained. Holds you still as he floods your insides, heavy spurts that seem to pool deep in your belly before trickling down every fold of your flesh. Trickles weave along your swollen lips, mars the plush curve of your ass — stains your already wet thighs as he gently slips free.

You’re in no state to protest when he drags your limp body across tangled sheets. You don’t even have the strength to lift your head as he tucks you effortlessly under his chin, back to his chest, letting yourself dissolve between thick thighs. Your skin is burning fresh from the tremor clinging in your core.

Your lungs still stutter, but your pulse is clamoring for more.

Seldom have you seen Spencer move with such quiet certainty. He sinks to his knees between your quivering thighs, and the dim lamplight silvers the slick shine on his cock as he guides it through the creamy mess clinging to your folds. Quite repulsive, but nothing less than a wicked kind of fascination.

Clearly he sees the appeal — why else would he press the rounded crown against your hole, only to have you seize around him even after being stretched so thoroughly? Mesmerized is a better way to put it as he tries to rut deeper, and with every inch your pretty cunt swallows, he wonders why he’s wasted years fussing over germs when raw pleasure like this exists.

When you simply exist.

He lets out a pleased sigh when you finally stretch around him (takes a moment of more slow rocking and a hissed curse you’ve never heard from his lips) as your eyes hone in on the spot where your bodies merge. Hips flushed, pelvis snug, coarse hair pressed against your puffy clit, and you feel a stab of fullness that spirals straight into your spine.

It doesn’t take long for him to fuck you then.

Like a man possessed, too.

Your nails bite into Aaron’s thighs. Claws sinking into warm flesh as you brace yourself for every brutal thrust Spencer rams into you. The force sends your tits bouncing with each snap of his hips, and Aaron’s hands are there in an instant — rough palms claiming the soft weight, wicked thumbs skating over taut peaks. Rolls them between calloused fingers with just enough pressure to sting your eyes.

The rapture on your face is barely recognizable anymore. Pinched and overwhelmed, you don’t notice him abandoning your perky nipples to skim down your torso until the pruny pads of his fingertips find your soaking clit.

Your back arches off his chest.

“Fuuuck—” you wail, “gonna c-come.”

He can see that. It’s painfully, beautifully obvious to anyone with eyes that you’re right on the edge again for what must be the hundredth time tonight. And Aaron doesn’t think of himself as cruel. Far from it, really. But watching your body almost folded in half has him feeling absolutely wicked.

His voice is toothy sweet as he rubs firm circles against your poor, overstimulated clit. “I know, sweetheart. Gonna come again from being used?”

“Ah, ah—baby—p-please—”

“Gonna soak his cock for me? Show him how good my girl is?”

“Aaron—!”

“Mmm? What’s that?” He hums lazily. “You want me to stop?”

A desperate whine tears from your throat, and your shaking fingers clutch at the coarse hair on his forearm. His muscles flex beneath your grip, then loosen, then tighten. All it earns you is an amused laugh and an open-mouthed kiss to your cheek.

“Oh, my pretty girl. Greedy little thing can’t even decide, can you?”

“I— I can— I want—”

“Shh,” he soothes, though his touch only grows faster. Rubs your tight little bud as your hips buck shamelessly into the twofold stimulation. “No need to think, sweetheart, that’s my job. Yours is to take it, isn’t it?”

Your words slur into a quiet sob—

“You can take it, I know you can—yes—yes, that’s it, sweetie, give it to us. Come on, just like that—”

—before it blares into the stale air.

The back of your heels kick the mattress the moment you come around his word.

Spencer does too, lungs pummeled when your cunt squeeze around his length, gripping him like a steel vise.

He feels it all the way down to his bones, feels the ache radiating from his groin to his thighs and into the small of his back with every pulse of cum that hammers into you. His hips jerk in a frantic rhythm that no amount of bliss can slow, even when the swollen head of his cock nudges the soft resistance of your cervical lip, seeking a depth that simply doesn’t exist.

Still, he grinds deeper, crushing the distance until you’re stuffed full with an ironclad grip on your thighs.

“S-Spence…”

“A bit more,” he rasps. “Promise. Just a little more.”

That little fills you to the absolute brim.

It feels like his own pulse is tangled in the tight press of your walls.

And you’ve never known the smell of sex this strong. The air all but congeals when he finally pulls out, a slow, sticky slide that draws silken filaments of white from your used, swollen hole as three pairs of eyes lock onto the streak.

Yours is a little bleary. You can’t tell which milky ribbon belongs to whom, whose thick release is swirling with the gloss of your own slick, or which heartbeat drums the loudest in the tight space between your bodies. Breath, heat, and sweat fold together until the three of you feel like a single organism with too many limbs and just one shared lung.

Not that it matters. None of you seem particularly bothered by the lack of space. Aaron reclines against the creaky headboard, cradling most of your weight across his chest while Spencer draws lazy patterns over your sated thighs.

You don’t mind in the least. In fact, you bask in them both, drifting in the strange yet comforting irony that it took a misplaced contract for you to realize intimacy could be plural. You never expected it to multiply so neatly.

Some connections, it seems, don’t fit into singular terms at all.

Later that night, when the two men almost twice your size crowd you in the cramped bathroom, you realize your thoughts are already rewriting the contract. You wonder if Aaron would let you make a slight revision, scribble the third-participant clause into something more permanent.

You knew what you were stepping into, a relationship with a man who might as well have been the crown jewel of the FBI, given how seldom he was home. And you bore it with grace. You never demanded much, only ever asked for compromise when it mattered, when it truly mattered.

So one by one, the shirts sailed over the bannister, landing in a crumpled heap by the entryway. Cotton casualties of yet another one of his spectacularly poor decisions.

He’d missed it.

The one thing you’d asked him not to miss. Not a work dinner, not some meaningless social obligation, but your event. The one you’d planned for months, circled on the calendar, reminded him of over and over. The one he looked you dead in the eye and promised he’d be there for.

What did you get instead? A text.

I’m sorry. Something came up.

Something came up, indeed. The collapse of your relationship, for starters.

Okay, maybe that was the dramatics talking. Maybe you didn’t want it to end, but you wanted—no, needed—him to take you seriously. Because how dare he? How dare he treat your life like the flexible one? As if your moments were optional, but his moments, ones that revolved around blood, caution tape, and sirens were the ones that ever mattered.

And the worst part of it all was the fact that despite all your anger, you still missed him in a way that language couldn’t quite capture. He’d been out on a case for two weeks, and even before that, he was barely home, glued to that damn bureaucratic chair in his office like it deserved more of him than you did.

You’d spent the last eight hours convincing yourself you were done. Done making excuses for him. Done watching your life conform to his schedule, his job, him in general. But your body, the ultimate traitor, didn’t seem done with him at all. Not when your hand drifted between your legs in the shower, picturing the way he used to pin you there, palm flat against your sternum.

Not even now, when you were supposed to be standing your ground. You still found yourself wishing he’d walk through that door and press you against it, like he needed it just as badly as you did.

Maybe that’s all this was. Maybe all you needed was a good fucking.

And you knew that was exactly what you would’ve gotten, had he shown up like he promised. He would’ve started in the car, hand gripping your thigh, maybe even slipping under your dress, getting you all worked up before you’d even made it home.

Then he would’ve railed into you, bent you over the piano in the foyer, lights blazing because of course he’d want the neighbours to see exactly how he rewarded your hard work. But no. You went home alone. Worked up, pissed off, with every intent of emptying your wine stash. Which you did.

And now, you stood at the top of the stairs, breath uneven as your pulse pounded in your throat. And that’s when you heard it.

His car in the driveway.

Shoes. Yes. Shoes seemed poetic. Fitting. The perfect thing to hurl at him with all the grace of a woman scorned and denied an earth-shattering orgasm. Actually, orgasms—plural. Because he wouldn’t have stopped at just one. He would’ve teased the first out of you, held you at the edge until you begged, then made up for it with two more. Rewards for being so damn patient.

You turned on your heel and marched back into the closet, snatching the nearest pair of his smug little leather loafers. Polished, arrogant things, much like the man who owned them.

By the time he stepped through the front door, you were already back at your vantage point, arm cocked, waiting until he turned to launch the first shoe.

It missed his head by a fraction and slammed into the doorframe with a satisfying crack.

He froze, jacket slung over one arm, briefcase in hand, tie loosened and all.

“Hi, honey,” you called out, your voice sweet enough to rot teeth. Then came the second loafer which landed just short of his feet. “Figured I’d give you a hand with the packing,” you added, gesturing to the shirts across the entryway. “Consider it a head start. I assumed your schedule wouldn’t allow for sentimentality.”

He set his briefcase down first, then his jacket, but you didn’t stay to watch the performance. You were already halfway down the hall, disappearing into the closet like a woman possessed, and thoroughly, furiously sexually frustrated.

You grabbed as many of his jackets as your arms could carry, yanking them from the rack with such force—hangers still hooked—you were genuinely surprised the bar hadn’t come crashing down with them.

You heard him then, just shy of the dressing room, steps clear as day. You paused in the hallway and dropped the pile right where it met the doorway, letting the expensive fabric fall into a heap like a makeshift barricade.

Then, back into the closet you went. You reached for what was left, another jacket, two more blazers, and his beloved cashmere sweaters. You snatched them from their hangers like they were the ones that were responsible. And with your arms full again you turned, only to find him standing there. So close that you nearly walked right into him.

“Unless you’re here to carry these to the curb, I suggest you get the hell out of my way, Aaron.”

His eyes dropped briefly to the pile in your arms, then back to your face. “I’m not leaving.”

“Like hell you’re not—”

“Just put my things down and we can talk about this,” he said, with that infuriatingly calm voice that made you want to scream, in two very different ways. “I know I made a mistake.”

You scoffed and stepped closer, close enough to breathe him in. Not the crisp, clean scent you were used to in the mornings when he’d leave for work showered, shaven and put together.  No, this was him at the end of the day. The faint remnants of cologne clinging to his skin, mixed with something more worn-in, and when he exhaled, you caught the faintest trace of bourbon on his breath. Rossi’s doing, no doubt.

Probably his way of trying to calm him down.

You’d heard Dave refer to you as a ‘fiery one’ more than once, always with a little too much amusement in his voice. He’d even joked, right in front of you, that Aaron wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like you. Said he’d fold if you ever gave him real attitude. Clearly, Rossi had sensed what kind of storm Aaron was walking into tonight and had handed him a glass like some kind of offering from the gods.

“So not only are you incapable of being unselfish for one night that doesn’t revolve around you, you also seem to have a stunningly poor ability to follow basic instructions,” you snapped, voice rising in a way that was rare. “Are you absolutely certain you went to FBI school, or did you half-ass that the way you half-ass everything else you claim to care about?”

“Are you done?”

“Not even fucking close. But go ahead, interrupt again. You’re great at that, right?” You shoved the pile of clothes into his chest, hard enough to make him take a step back. “Talking over people, brushing them off, missing everything that actually matters until it’s already too late.”

He stood there for a second, holding the clothes before letting them drop to the floor without a word. You let out a bitter laugh at the sight and moved to shoulder past him, but his hand shot out, catching your wrist.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” you hissed, turning back to face him. “Don’t walk away from the man who didn’t show up? Don’t stop screaming because it’s the only thing that gets through that thick, federal skull of yours?”

“Don’t do this. Not when you want me more than you want me to leave.”

“What? Are you—are you actually insane? Delusional? Is this the sleep deprivation talking? Because if so, you can take that smug little fantasy and get the hell out of my house.”

He let go of your wrist, but only to step behind you. His hands moved to your hips, turning your body to position you in front of the island in the centre of the dressing room.

“You want me gone?” he asked.

You cocked your head slightly to the right, catching his reflection in the mirror ahead as he began to undo his tie.

“Say it,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours in the glass. “Say it while I’m inside you.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Not because you lacked words, lord knows you had plenty. And he hadn’t even scraped the surface of the venom still burning at the back of your throat. But your body—traitorous, wretched thing—had already betrayed you.

You were supposed to be holding your ground. Not standing there, spine taut, with him behind you, visibly restraining yourself from folding over the island and handing him all your anger, gift-wrapped in a neat little bow that read please, fuck me senseless.

His fingers brushed your waist, and your lungs locked up. Your throat was so dry your heart had taken to skipping two beats at a time, just to remind you to swallow.

“I missed one night,” he continued, his fingertips now trailing up the length of your forearms. “But I haven’t missed this. Not once.”

You let out a flimsy exhale, turning your head to meet his eyes in the mirror once more. “You think this makes it better?” You knew it did. Maybe this wasn’t the kind of answer that made sense in a normal relationship, but nothing about you and Aaron had ever been normal.

“No,” he answered like the gentleman he was pretending to be, knowing exactly what was coming. “But I think you want it anyway.” And then his hands dropped from your arms completely. “So…what’s it going to be?”

Your hands moved before your mind did, bracing yourself against the island, knuckles whitening as your spine arched over the marble.

He hummed in approval, hands moving to your neck, brushing your hair aside. “That’s what I thought.” You felt him press into you, the weight of him flattening you against the surface as his fingers found the zipper of your jeans.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you lied, needing to put up some kind of fight.

He stilled for half a second, then let out a quiet laugh. “No?” he mocked, dragging the denim down your thighs until it was bunched at your knees. “Then why are you shaking?”

“Because I can’t fucking stand you,” you spat, forehead pressing to the marble, breath fogging against it as you tried—really tried—to remember why you decided his wardrobe would look better scattered across the entryway.

You heard him click his tongue behind you.

“Honey,” he drawled, his voice so pleased and full in all the ways that you were seconds away from being.“You’re so wet your underwear’s turned three shades darker.” And just to prove your point, his thumb dragged slowly over the soaked fabric making your body jolt, forehead nearly smacking the marble with the force of the reaction.

“Step out of the jeans for me,” he murmured, tapping your right thigh first, then your left.

You kicked the material off one leg at a time, your balance swaying as you did, hands tightening around the edge of the island for strength because it was the only thing keeping you upright.

His hand slid up the backs of your legs again, brushing that spot where your ass met your thighs. Then, without a word, his fingers slipped underneath the gauzy material of your panties.

You sucked in a breath as his middle finger dragged through your folds.

“Do you remember what had you so pissed off in the first place?” he questioned, like he genuinely expected you to form a coherent sentence right now.

“Yes,” you groaned into the counter, hips bucking shamelessly against his hand.

“So greedy,” he tutted, pulling his finger back just enough to watch your hips chase it. “Want me out of the house. Throwing my things out like some scene from a bad divorce. But one finger and you’re already a whiny little mess?”

A strangled noise tore from your throat, something between a curse and a moan, as your hands gripped the counter tighter.

“How many times did you touch yourself while I was gone, hm?”

“I—fuck, I don’t—”

“You don’t know?” He pushed a thick finger inside you, making you hiss at the stretch. “That’s not a real answer. Try again.”

You bit down on your lower lip hard enough to sting, eyes fluttering shut as your body betrayed you all over again.

“I asked you a question.”

“Three,” you gasped. “Maybe four.”

He let out a low, satisfied noise. “Maybe? You lost count?”

“D-Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I don’t need to,” he laughed, adding a second finger. “You’re doing it for me.”

Your right hand curled into a fist, accidentally knocking a bag off the side in the process. “I hate you,” you mewled, the words barely making it past your throat.

“Liar,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your spine as his fingers worked deeper, curling just right. “You don’t hate me. You hate that I know exactly how to make you come before I’ve even unzipped my pants.”

Your mouth was parted against the marble, and when a moan caught in your throat, you managed to drag it back down just barely. Coaxing it into a shaky breath instead, trying to cling to the last scraps of pride you had left. Because he was right. Infuriatingly right.

“Well?” you hissed, breath catching. “Are you going to unzip your pants, or are we still pretending your fingers are doing anything I didn’t handle on my own while you were gone?”

Your heard an unbothered chuckle from him first and then felt the sharp sting of his palm landing against your ass, second. The impact was muffled by the fabric of your underwear, but the message landed all the same.

“That’s sweet, dear. But I don’t remember hearing you make these kinds of noises the last time you decided to take care of yourself…right next to me.”

You jaw clenched.

It had only happened once. You thought he was asleep—clearly, he wasn’t. He’d gotten in late from work, and you hadn’t wanted to bother him, so you took matters into your own hands… literally.

In hindsight, it explained the sudden burst of sex drive the next morning. You’d woken up to his mouth between your legs like he was trying to make a point that he could always make you come harder.

His free hand fisted in your hair, tugging your head to the side as he angled your face toward the mirror. “This isn’t how you sounded then, is it?” he taunted, fingers slipping out of you just to circle your swollen clit instead.

You gasped, body jerking at the sudden change in pressure.

“And just for that—” his hand stilled, the contact vanishing altogether, “—you can wait.”

You took the chance to catch your breath, heart pounding as you clenched around nothing, blinking back the tears gathering in your waterline like they’d scheduled a meeting.  

Glancing at the mirror you saw his hands work his belt free and you were tempted. So incredibly tempted to prove him wrong, to reach down between your legs and finish what he so cruelly started. Just a few strokes, that’s all it would take. But before you could even move—

“Don’t.”

You stilled. Every muscle locked.

“Put one hand between your legs,” he continued, the sound of his belt sliding from the last loop sharp in your ears, “and I’ll bind both behind your back. You won’t come tonight. Or tomorrow.”

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, barely managing to pull air in. The fabric of your top clung to your skin, sticky with sweat and a rage that seemed to be dissipating by the second. All that remained in its place was a desperate, aching hunger for him.

You pressed your thighs together without thinking, chasing some kind of friction, some kind of relief, but Aaron’s hands were already on your hips. His fingers slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear, tugging them down your legs.

You knew it was his favourite part, especially when he had you bent over nearly every surface in the house. He loved watching the strings of your wetness peel away with the fabric, loved when it dripped down your thigh.

Once you were free of the only barrier between the two of you, you braced yourself flat against the counter, arching your back just enough to let him swipe his thumb through your pussy, allowing him relish in your wetness like a ritual he never dared to skip.

“Still want me to go?” he asked, though his voice carried a gentler note.

You turned your head, eyes back on the mirror. “Just fuck me,” you whispered—no, begged. “Please.”

He leaned in, bending over you to press a kiss to the inside of your forearm. Then another, trailing lazily up the length of your arm to your shoulder. Behind you, you felt his hand move between your bodies, hearing the rustle of fabric as he pushed his boxers down.

He aligned himself with you, dragging the thick length of his cock between your thighs, letting you feel everything. Every vein, every throbbing inch, the obscene heat of him paired with the wet slip of precum he spread over you.

You keened out a moan, barely managing to keep yourself upright even with the counter beneath you, legs beginning to shake with the effort it took to stay still.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” he murmured, voice rasping just below your ear. “I wanted to be there. More than anything.”

“I know,” you breathed just as he guided your hips, braced his feet, and buried himself inside you in one devastating thrust. The stretch sent you spiralling, tears spilling freely down your cheeks as your forehead found comfort in the marble once more.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He pulled out just enough to make you clench around the absence, and then slammed back in harder.

One hand slipped under your shirt, calloused fingers grazing your nipple while the other found its way back to your slick clit. All that came from your mouth were broken, pathetic sounds. Half-moans, half-sobs, every syllable caught between nonsense and pleading.

“A-Aaron, oh my f—god—oh—” Your voice wavered as he hit that spot again, and again, and again, until you were shaking with every thrust.

Drool slipped past your lips, a thick string trailing down to the countertop, followed by more, clinging to your chin, catching in the strands of your hair as you trembled under the weight of his body.

You felt Aaron release your nipple before his hand moved to your neck, his palm firm against your throat, holding you in place just as another string of spit slipped past your lips, landing on his hand.

“Look at you,” he grunted, tightening his hold as his hips lurched forward again. “Dripping from both ends.”

“Please don’t stop—I’m—I’m—”

“You’re close,” he chuntered, breath hot against your skin. “I can feel it, baby. You’re squeezing me so fucking tight, I don’t think I can last much longer.”

Your whole body locked, spine arching violently off the counter, eyes rolling back as the coil deep in your belly finally snapped. Your mouth opened in a silent scream, nothing coming out but air, tears, and barely intelligible sounds that might’ve been his name.

But Aaron didn’t stop.

Not even when your legs gave out beneath you, not when you slumped forward against the marble, sobbing through the aftershocks that tore right through you. He held you up, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other sliding up your back, fucking you through it, slow and deep now, like he needed to feel every last twitch and tremble your body offered him.

You could feel his rhythm start to falter, each thrust getting sloppier, his hips stuttering against you. Then, with a muffled moan into your shoulder, he pushed into you one final time and stilled, cock pulsing as he came. His grip eased, but his whole body shuddered against yours like he’d been hanging on just long enough to make sure you came first.

He made sure you were completely filled before he pulled out slowly, causing you to whimper at the emptiness. You barely managed to brush the damp hair from your face, to wipe away at the trail of drool on your chin, before his arms were around you again, this time gently guiding you down to the floor of the dressing room.

“Aaron,” you panted, landing on a pile of clothes you’d thrown there earlier. Soft cotton, rumpled cashmere, the ghost of his cologne clinging to it all. “What…what are you doing?”

“Shh, honey.” He knelt between your legs, his knees cracking on the way down.

“Sure this is good for your old man frame?”

He spread your legs open, fingers moving to push his come back inside you. “If I throw my back out eating your pussy, I’ll die a happy man.”

Your breath caught, hips jerking instinctively at the contact. “Jesus—Aaron—”

He lowered his head, mouth hot and wet as it latched onto your cunt, tongue dragging through the mess he’d just pushed back into you like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

Your hands shot to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, undecided if you were pulling him closer or trying to push him away. “I don’t think I can go again, baby,” you gasped, your thighs twitching from the overstimulation.

You heard a sloppy, muffled, “You can,” just as he sucked your clit into his mouth, hard enough to make your vision white out for a second.

“Motherfuc—” Your legs locked around his head with such force that it had to be uncomfortable for him, maybe even a little painful. But when you opened your eyes and looked down, he didn’t look bothered in the slightest.

You caught the way his hips were grinding slowly into the rug beneath him, telling you this might not even be for your pleasure anymore but for his.

“I really, really don’t think I can come again,” you cried out, hips lifting into his mouth. “Please, Aar—”

Your voice broke off as he groaned against your pussy, loud and filthy. The vibration of it paired with the way he lapped at you, coaxed that familiar feeling, winding tight in your abdomen.

You shook your head, back arching, mouth open but no sound escaping as he sucked your clit into his mouth and circled it with his tongue over, and over and over again.

“Aaron, I—fuck—I’m gonna—”

The words dissolved into a sob as the pressure inside you reached its peak, crashing over you with a dizzying force. You came again, harder this time, legs spasming, hands clawing at the rug and his hair, tears slipping down your temples as your body convulsed under him.

You felt his mouth finally ease up, the warmth of him pulling away only for a moment until he was crawling up your body, bracing himself on his elbows as he hovered over you.

He scanned your face, watching the way your chest heaved, the way your eyes were still screwed shut as you tried to come down from the high he’d dragged out of you. He didn’t say anything, just let you come back to him on your own terms because he was generous like that.

Your fingers slowly loosened their grip on the rug, the tension bleeding from your limbs. Finally, you blinked up at him, dazed and thoroughly fucked-out.

“Think I went to heaven.”

He huffed a laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Yeah?” he murmured. “Were they impressed?”

You let out a weak laugh, your hands dragging up from the rug to rest on his shoulders. “I’m still mad at you. Just… now I can do it with a clear head rather than a—”

“Horny one?” he supplied, earning a nod from you.

“Mhm. Was this your idea of an apology?”

“I mean…” He looked down at you, then at the mess around the closet. “It stopped you from throwing any more of my clothes, didn’t it?”

You snorted. “Temporarily.”

“I’ll take it.” He leaned down to press a lazy, unhurried kiss to your cheek. “Now, come on, let’s get you cleaned up. Then you can go back to yelling at me properly.”

CHAPTER 7

The clock ticks past 3:00 a.m. as you and Hotch sit side by side at the small kitchen table, a single lamp throwing a weak halo of light over the case files Morgan dropped off.

You flip through the photos — crime scene shots, forensic reports, witness interviews — while Hotch skims handwritten notes, his face set in grim lines.

Every so often, your knees bump under the table. Neither of you says anything, but each brush seems to spark something in the heavy silence between you.

You’re both too wired to rest, too tense to pretend like any of this is normal.

Hotch slides a new stack of documents toward you, and you catch his hand lingering for a fraction of a second too long — not enough for him to be careless, but enough that you notice. Enough that you feel the answering twist low in your stomach.

Focus, you tell yourself, shaking it off. There’s still a killer out there.

You flip open a slim black folder — and stop cold.

Your photo stares back at you.

Not just any photo — a picture from the first night you’d seen the first set of pictures, when Hotch came over to your house. A candid shot: you in the kitchen, barefoot, laughing about something stupid he’d said. Hotch standing just a few feet away, watching you with a rare, unguarded smile on his face.

The angle is from outside the window, the same angle the video is from.

Hotch freezes beside you, his body going rigid as he leans closer to see.

The photo is attached to a printed page of notes — messy, obsessive scrawl barely contained on the paper:

We belong together.

He can’t save you forever.

Soon you’ll see the truth.

You feel Hotch’s hand close into a tight fist on the table, his knuckles whitening.

He tears his gaze from the page and looks at you — and what you see there makes your breath catch. Anger, yes. But something deeper too. Fear. Guilt. Something achingly raw.

Hotch stands so abruptly the chair legs screech against the floor. He paces a few steps away, running a hand over his face like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“This isn’t just stalking,” he says tightly. “It’s fixation.”

You nod slowly, your fingers trembling slightly as you push the photo aside, not wanting to see it anymore.

“He sees us,” you say aloud, and the words feel heavier once they’re spoken. “Together. But we’re not.” 

Those words felt heavier than expected.

Hotch’s jaw clenches. “It doesn’t matter, he sees you with me and believes the worst possible outcome. You’re no longer his.”

You push back from the table, rising to your feet, needing to move, to do something. The room suddenly feels too small, the walls too close.

Hotch steps into your path without thinking, steadying you with a hand at your elbow. His touch is firm, grounding — and this time, he doesn’t pull away immediately.

“ He will not have you.” he says, voice low and fierce.

You meet his eyes, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades — the case files, the threat outside, even the fear.

It’s just you and Hotch.

And the dangerous, beautiful truth blooming silently between you.

He doesn’t say it. Not yet. Neither do you.

But you both know.

Later.

Always later. It’s always later when it comes to you and your love-life. Something you and the other person can put off for as long as possible, until it eventually fizzles out. The excuse of it wasn’t meant to be or it’s not your time. 

The horizon outside the window is just beginning to pale into the dull grey of morning when Hotch’s phone buzzes sharply against the table, slicing through the heavy quiet between you.

You flinch, hand instinctively going to your weapon before you realize it’s just a call.

Hotch checks the screen, frowning.

“It’s Garcia,” he says, answering immediately.

The video call flickers to life. Garcia’s bright hair and wide, worried eyes fill the small screen, and below her, on a split screen, you can make out Morgan and Rossi, but see other shoulders so they are all crowded into the precinct’s cramped briefing room. 

“Morning, my little fugitives,” Garcia says, her voice unusually grim. “Sorry to interrupt your romantic hideaway, but we’ve got a situation.”

You and Hotch exchange a brief glance — there’s no teasing between you now, no easy smiles. Only tension. Only readiness.

“What is it?” Hotch asks, his voice clipped.

Garcia taps a few keys, and the screen splits. New footage pops up — grainy, black and white, from a traffic cam.

It shows your street. Your house.

The footage is from last night.

“There,” Garcia says, pointing with a bright pink fingernail. “See that?”

You lean in closer.

A dark figure moves across the frame — too far from the camera to make out any details, but the build is unmistakably masculine. He’s carrying something under one arm — a box, maybe. A bag.

“Two hours after you left for the safe house,” Garcia says. “He came back.”

You feel Hotch stiffen beside you, a muscle ticking sharply in his jaw.

“He stayed for thirty minutes,” Garcia continues, voice tight. “No forced entry this time. Whatever he wanted, he already had a way in.”

“Jesus,” Morgan mutters in the background. “It’s like he’s daring us.”

Rossi leans into frame, his expression grave. “And there’s more.”

Another feed clicks into view. This one’s closer, tighter — footage from a neighbor’s security camera aimed at the woods behind your property.

At first it’s just shadows and trees.

Then, movement.

The same figure.

Dragging something heavy into the treeline.

You feel your stomach turn over sharply.

“What the hell is he doing?” you breathe.

“We don’t know,” Garcia says. “But we’re sending a team to sweep the area now.”

“No,” Hotch says immediately, his voice cutting through the connection. “No team. I want to see it myself.”

The others glance at each other across the call, reading something in Hotch’s tone that tells them arguing isn’t an option.

“We’ll send you coordinates,” Garcia says quickly. “Be careful, you two.”

The call ends, the screen going dark.

You’re left staring at the blank phone, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might shatter your ribs.

Hotch turns to you, his eyes sharp, focused — and full of something deeper.

“You don’t have to come,” he says quietly. “You can stay here.”

You shake your head without hesitation.

“I’m not letting you go out there alone.”

Something flashes between you — fierce and unspoken, stronger than fear.

Together.

Hotch nods once, the barest hint of something proud, something fond in his expression, before locking it down again beneath the steel of command.

You check your gun, your spare mags, double-tie your boots with shaking fingers.

By the time the two of you step out into the chill morning air, you’re no longer just agents chasing a case.

You’re hunting a ghost.

And this time, you intend to catch him. 

Seeing your house again sent shivers down your spine. After what happened here, you wondered how you could possibly feel safe here ever again. A constant reminder that even though you had every means to be able to protect yourself, you were still vulnerable to those that wanted to hurt you. 

The woods loom ahead, dimly lit by the rising sun, tangled and wild. You never thought much about the woods behind your house. It never scared you, the woods. They were just trees and rocks and leaves, a potential deer or squirrel. A place you walked occasionally, to take time away from the drone of everyday life. But now, something more sinister lurked here. 

You and Hotch move carefully, boots crunching on the underbrush, every sound amplified in the tense silence. Breath clouds the air between you, quick and shallow.

The GPS coordinates Garcia sent lead deeper off the path than you would have liked.

Far enough that you can’t see the house anymore.

Far enough that no one would hear you if something went wrong.

You glance at Hotch, just a step ahead, his gun drawn and sweeping the trees methodically. His posture is all control, all focus — but you can read the tension in his shoulders, the sharpness in his breath.

He’s worried about you. Probably more than he’s worried about himself.

“Almost there,” you murmur.

The last few yards are harder — roots clawing at your boots, dense brush scraping along your arms — but you push through it together, a silent understanding anchoring you.

Finally, Hotch holds up a hand to stop you.

You crouch beside him, peering through the early morning gloom.

There — in a small, unnatural clearing — something half-buried under a tarp.

Your stomach twists instantly.

You cover each other as you move forward, eyes scanning, guns raised.

The tarp is old, filthy.

Rocks hold it down at the corners.

There’s no movement. No sound.

Hotch kneels first, reaching out carefully to lift one corner.

The smell hits you immediately — blood, coppery and wrong. You turn your face away, swallowing hard, but force yourself to look back.

Underneath are two things:

A bloodstained duffel bag. Which no doubt had a body or something dead inside.

And something else, laid out carefully on the frozen ground.

Photos.

Hundreds of them.

Your house. Your car. The precinct offices. 

Candid shots of you — laughing, frowning, brushing hair out of your eyes.

You try to focus but the scent from the duffel bag keeps penetrating the air, making you sick to your stomach.

Shots of Hotch, too — holding case files, leaning against his SUV, standing too close to you while investigating crime scenes.

And in the center, placed deliberately —

A new photograph.

One neither of you has ever seen before.

You kneel beside Hotch, feeling your pulse roaring in your ears.

It’s a picture of the two of you.

Inside your house.

Together on your couch.

You’re asleep, head tucked against Hotch’s shoulder, his arm resting protectively around you.

Vulnerable. Unaware.

Completely exposed.

Hotch stares at it for a long, frozen moment, his face carved from stone.

And then — without warning — he slams the tarp back down, standing abruptly, turning away like he can’t bear the sight of it. The slamming of the tarp wafted the decomposition smell back into the air, instinctively your hand raises to cover your mouth and nose.

You rise too, heart pounding, and reach out instinctively — catching his wrist before he can pull away. You’re stomach twists and hot bile starts to rise in your throat

“Hotch,” you say quietly, your vision blurring. 

He doesn’t look at you at first, unaware of the condition you find yourself in. That’s when you turn from him and land on your knees and start dry heaving until the contents of your stomach end up on the forest floor. 

Your breathing labored as he crouched behind you , rubbing circles in your back letting you slowly regain composure. 

“Shit. I’m okay.” You say, though you’re not so sure of that yourself. “I’m okay”

“This isn’t right,” he says finally, his voice low and rough. “ He’s distorting reality, creating a relationship scenario that doesn’t exist.”

You nod once, feeling the cold bite deep into your skin. Is it the cold, or was it the words Hotch uttered that cut you deeper than you wanted them too. He stands and takes a few steps back, waiting for you to get back up. 

“We’ll catch him,” you say, steady even though you don’t quite feel it. “We’ll end this.”

Hotch finally looks at you — and the raw fear, the fury, the helpless protectiveness in his gaze nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

“This isn’t just about you anymore,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s both of us.”

You swallow hard, finally standing from the ground.

“I know,” you say. “The moment you got here it became about the both of us.”

Something flickers between you — sharp and undeniable — but before either of you can speak, your radios crackle sharply to life.

Morgan’s voice, urgent.

“Hotch, you copy? We found something on the other side of the property. You need to see this.”

You exchange a glance with Hotch — tight, full of a thousand things unsaid — before you both turn and head back into the trees, weapons ready, hearts hammering.

The real hunt has begun.

You and Hotch move fast, weaving through the trees toward the secondary location Morgan flagged. Your breath comes hard and fast, boots slipping occasionally on the fallen leaves, but you don’t slow down.

The woods thin a little ahead, and you catch sight of figures moving between the trees — Morgan, Rossi, and JJ, guns raised, scanning the area.

Hotch raises his hand in silent acknowledgment as you approach, both of you falling into step with the others without a word.

“Over here,” Morgan says, jerking his chin toward a narrow clearing. His voice is tight, controlled.

You follow him to the center of the clearing — where another tarp has been spread out carefully, weighted at the corners with stones. Just like the last one.

But something feels off this time.

Too deliberate.

Too easy.

Hotch notices it too — you can see it in the way his eyes narrow, his stance sharpening.

“Nobody touch it,” Hotch says immediately, raising a hand to halt the others.

Rossi steps closer, examining the setup from a distance.

“Tripwires,” he says after a moment, voice grim. “Thin, fishing line. Barely visible.”

Morgan exhales sharply through his nose. “Booby-trapped.”

“Classic escalation,” JJ mutters. “He wants to hurt whoever finds this.”

Your stomach turns.

If Hotch hadn’t been cautious, if you’d rushed in like the unsub expected—

You don’t finish the thought.

“Should we get a bomb squad out here? We don’t know what’s under the tarp.” you ask.

“No. The unsub, doesn’t want you dead, or at least not now. An explosive would end things too quickly. It’s too impersonal.” Rossi says.

You approach the tarp, slowly, barely breathing. Afraid your breath would trigger something. You bend down at the knees and trigger the tripwire. The tarp falls revealing a hole about 8 feet deep.

He had planned to capture you or Hotch or both. 

And he’s still out there.

Watching.

Waiting.

By the time the area is cleared and the evidence collected, the morning sun is high overhead — weak and watery through the trees — and you’re no closer to finding the man hunting you.

Hotch confers with Rossi and Morgan in low, urgent voices while you hang back, scanning the woods, every instinct screaming that you’re being watched.

Finally, Hotch returns to your side.

“No leads,” he says, voice tight. “He’s gone. Again.”

You nod stiffly, swallowing the bitter taste of frustration.

“Safe house,” Hotch says after a beat. “One more night. We will regroup tomorrow.”

You should feel safer knowing the team is closing in, knowing they’re close.

But as you and Hotch make your way back to the SUV, you can’t shake the feeling pressing at your spine:

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

Later that evening, the safe house feels smaller, heavier, as the sun sinks and darkness creeps back in.

You move around the place on edge, checking locks, peering through curtains, hand never far from your weapon.

Hotch notices. Of course he does.

You find him standing in the doorway to the living room, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with a gaze that pins you in place.

“I—” he starts, voice low and rough, but he cuts himself off, glancing away like he’s wrestling with himself.

You reach out before you can think better of it, fingers brushing lightly against the sleeve of his shirt.

“What, Hotch?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “What is it?”

He turns back toward you, his expression open, unguarded in a way that sends a shiver through you.

He begins again, slower this time. “Before this gets any worse. I should tell you-”

You know exactly what he means. You can feel it radiating off of him — the guilt, the need, the fear that if he says it out loud, it’ll be real. It’ll be one more thing he might lose.

“You’re doing everything right,” he says, voice low and steady. “You’re not alone.”

You force a tight smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

The unspoken I won’t let anything happen to you hums between you.

You nod, feeling a little of the cold leave your bones.

For tonight, at least, you have each other.

The clock ticks past midnight, and the safe house is finally, blessedly still.

No new calls. No new alarms. Just the two of you, huddled in the soft, dim light of the kitchen, an unopened bottle of whiskey sitting between you like a silent agreement neither of you needed to say out loud.

“One drink,” Hotch says, arching a brow at you across the table. “We still need to be sharp tomorrow.”

You smirk, feeling lighter for the first time in days. “Is that your way of trying to intimidate me into drinking less than you?”

His mouth twitches — the barest ghost of a smile, but real. It sends a pleasant warmth curling through your chest.

“Can you hold your liquor?,” he says, deadpan.

You gasp, placing a hand dramatically over your heart. “Excuse me? I have excellent tolerance, thank you very much.”

Hotch leans back in his chair, arms crossed, looking at you like you’re the most fascinating puzzle he’s ever had to solve. There’s a spark in his eyes — a rare glimmer of mischief that he usually keeps buried beneath all that stoic control.

“Prove it,” he says.

You snatch the bottle with a mock glare and pour two fingers into each glass, sliding one across the table to him with an exaggerated flourish.

He takes it without hesitation, clinking the rim of his glass lightly against yours.

The whiskey burns on the way down, but it’s a good burn — sharp and grounding — pulling you out of your own head for a moment.

You lean your elbows on the table, chin resting in one hand, studying him openly.

“You know,” you say slowly, swirling the amber liquid in your glass, “if you’d told me a few days ago we’d be hiding out together drinking whiskey and dodging booby traps, I wouldn’t have believed you.”

Hotch huffs a soft laugh — a real one, rough-edged but genuine.

“I would have,” he says without thinking.

You blink.

Something thick and heavy settles between you — not the fear this time, not the weight of the case — but something warmer. Older. Like it had been waiting for a long time just beneath the surface.

He meets your gaze head-on now, no shields, no barriers.

“You,” he says quietly, voice dropping an octave, “This is always the risk.”

Your heart thuds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“And this always makes it worth it.”

The air feels charged, electric.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then — with a small, almost reluctant smile — Hotch breaks eye contact, standing up and stretching, setting his glass aside.

You follow a second later, and the two of you move almost at the same time toward the narrow kitchen, your paths colliding at the small counter.

You squeeze by him, the space far too tight, your body brushing along his.

The brief, solid contact is a jolt straight through your system — and by the way Hotch stiffens, he feels it too.

You glance up at him, your face just inches from his — close enough to see the golden flecks in his dark eyes, the fine tension in his jaw.

He doesn’t step back. Neither do you.

His hand comes up, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing lightly against your wrist — the barest touch, enough to feel like a spark against your skin.

“You should get some sleep,” he says, voice low and rough.

“You too,” you murmur back, not moving away.

The moment teeters on a knife’s edge — could tilt either way with just one more breath.

But instead, after a heavy pause, he gives a small, strained smile — all control, all restraint — and lets his hand fall away.

“Tomorrow,” he says quietly. A promise.

You nod once, heart hammering.

Back at the precinct, you and Hotch meet up with the rest of the team, who currently have Garcia on the line. You couldn’t help but feel like nothing useful actually came out of the fake ruse at the restaurant. Ian, the server, definitely aroused some suspicion in you, but you had no concrete evidence. It wasn’t like he was doing anything out of the ordinary for a waiter that sees you at that restaurant frequently and you had never seen him outside of that context. 

And the fact that Garcia wasn’t drumming up anything on his record wasn’t helping the feeling of wasted time. 

But you knew he was there, you felt it. Eyes on you the entire time, you were being watched.

“Okay, so our charming Ian Hynes, 27, born and raised in Baltimore, no college, has been working at Rec Pier Chop House since he graduated High school, in which he was a straight A student. This kid is pretty clean besides two restraining orders, one from an ex, from a neighbor who caught him watching her kids through Binoculars. Ew.”

Morgan chuffs and rolls his eyes, “Sounds like a real prince.”

“If by “Prince” you mean “Creep who thinks ‘no’ is a challenge”, then yes, he’s royalty.” Garcia quips back.

“Were either of the previous restraining orders for stalking behavior that escalated?” Reid interjects, leaning on the arm of a chair in a way that could not possibly be comfortable.

“Not officially, but there is a pattern. I’m seeing a lot of borderline harassment complaints that never went anywhere - mostly women, mostly ignored. But he is definitely consistent”

“Well that’s a classic escalation profile. This time he picked someone who can fight back.” Emily said, crossing her arms.

“He picked the wrong damn woman.” You said underneath your breath.

“Actually what if that’s part of it.” Reid Says standing up

“What do you mean?” Hotch askes.

“ Everything else has been too easy for him, which is why it escalates to killing the surrogates. He likes the challenge that you propose to him, he wants you to fight back, it’s mostly likely an arousing factor of the chase. Inferior man dominating a superior woman.” Reid says standing at the whiteboard. 

“ Detective, gather the police officers, we are ready to give the profile.” Hotch said, before gathering up files to move into the main section of the precinct. 

While everyone moved out of your office, you stayed behind to gather yourself before putting on the brave face you’ve plastered on as a means to protect yourself. Derek hangs behind, noticing you facing your desk, arms crossed, and teeth grinding. He moves forward and around the desk slowly. He lets you speak first. 

“ We’ve got three bodies, Morgan. Three. And it’s because of me.” You say sharply. “ We’ve got families calling everyday, the press breathing down my neck. I received an email from the commissioner earlier today. And We’re still building and delivering a fucking profile. I can’t keep telling them ‘We’re working on it.’” 

You turn away from him and start pacing the room. 

“ This is not your fault. I get it. Believe me.. I do. But rushing this, that’s how we miss him.”

“ So then what. It seems everything I try to catch this guy goes south. I can’t sit around anymore and wait for this scumbag to finally reveal himself to me.” 

“ You keep saying you, but you’re not alone in this. It feels like you are, but you’re not.” He says, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You take a breath. “ Yeah. You might be right about that.”

He gives you a side smile, “ Of course I’m right. Let’s go deliver the profile and finally get this bastard off the streets.”

The whiteboard covered in photos, maps and strings connecting locations, gets rolled out into the room outside of your office. You stand off to the side as the rest of the precinct gathers around to listen to the BAU deliver the profile. 

“First, I want to thank Detective “Y/N” for her patience as we completed this initial profile.” Hotch started “ We believe the unsub to be male, early 20’s to late 30’s, white, average build - someone who blends in with the crowd easily. He is intelligent, methodical, and patient - he watches the women he kills for days, maybe even weeks.” 

“Now, what is being shown to you is sensitive information. It is imperative that this is not leaked to the media, it could cause our unsub to spiral and go on a spree or disappear. Detective “Y/N” is the target of our unsub.” JJ Says as the photos of you that appeared on your desk are passed around the room like a goddamn class project. “ The women he is killing are surrogates of the real thing. Many of you are pictured in these photographs, he knows who you are and knows you stand in the way of getting what he wants. Most likely he already knows who is on patrol at “Y/N” house.”

“This isn’t about love or obsession in the romantic sense. It’s about control. Power. He targets strong women - women who intimidate him. Not in the physical sense, but in terms of success. He feels that it should be him as the moneymaker of the relationship, but nothing in his life has allowed him to be so. So he finds ways to feel dominant without engaging directly, until his desire becomes so overwhelming that he has too.” says Rossi. 

“This kind of stalker exhibits what’s called “Intimacy-seeking behavior,” but it’s warped. He creates a fantasy bond with the object of his desires - thinks he knows them, that they owe him something. When that fantasy is threatened by reality, he lashes out.” Reid says.

“That’s when escalation happens. He wants you to feel afraid. He wants you off balance. And when fear doesn’t work, he’ll get creative. That’s why he moved from the notes with a code to “Y/N” badge number to dropping off physical copies of photos. He wants you to know he’s watching. That’s a part of the psychological manipulation” Morgan adds.

“So what’s next? What does a guy like this do when he gets tired of watching?” The police chief interjected.

“If he follows his previous pattern, the next step is confrontation. Not necessarily violent, but physical proximity. A break-in. An ambush. Something symbolic to him that says: Now you see me. And with my best guess, we have about two to three days before he gets violent again, either with another surrogate or he’ll go for his real target.” Hotch hesitates before saying the last part and spares you a glance. 

And with a curt thank you, the crowd of police officers disbanded. 

It feels like a bomb dropped in your gut, because realistically you know his next move is you. You rub your fingers on your palms, noticing the sweat building there. You dreaded the thought of going back to your home, alone. The ease that you felt this morning had drifted away and was replaced by fear. 

The sun was down, it was time for you to go home, but you were lingering in your office. The precinct was nearly empty by now, a few lingering bodies filing away the last of their paperwork. You sit at your desk, fingers tapping at the dark wood, pretending to be engrossed by the file of your own case that no longer holds any real purpose. You know the case, you’re living it. 

The tasks you use to fill the time are trivial - reorganizing your files, rechecking emails you’ve already answered - but they serve a distraction, a means to delay the inevitable journey home. 

You glance at the clock - it’s late, not beyond your usual hours, but late enough that anyone left at the station knows you are procrastinating. Yet, the idea of stepping into the night, of driving those familiar streets with the possibility of unseen eyes watching, keeps you rooted to your chair. Your office, with its warm lighting and predictable routines, offers a semblance of control, a buffer against the unknown that waits beyond it’s doors.

You tell yourself it’s just for a little while longer, just until the feeling passes. But deep down you know the truth: anywhere feels safer than home right now. What if you just didn’t go home tonight? You have a couch in the office, it would be easy to just lay down and…

“Are you alright?” 

Hotch’s voice rips you back to reality, you hadn’t realized that you were sitting uncomfortably still, staring at the wall, fingertips tapping at the desk. 

“Uhh, yeah, I’m good. Just finding a way to pass the time.” 

“Instead of going home?” He saw right through you, it didn’t take a profiler to be able to see you were a nervous wreck. 

“ I guess so. It’s silly of me to not go.”

“ You’re allowed to feel afraid. There wasn’t a day when I wasn’t afraid for Hailey and Jack's safety. Let’s go. I’ll escort you home.” He gestured for you to follow him as he turned and left the doorframe of the office.

It was a short interaction, but the way he checked in on you, asking if you were okay and the reassurance from him made your chest tighten and skin warm. You know he’s just doing his job but it feels nice to get a little bit of male attention, when you’re not particularly looking for it. 

You try to pretend tonight is like any other, even though you know it isn’t.

The jazz record hums low in the background. Slow, moody stuff your father used to play on Sunday mornings. You put it on for comfort, but it doesn’t help. Not really.

You move through your kitchen barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed to your elbows, fingers wrapped around a mug of chamomile tea that’s already gone lukewarm. You haven’t touched it. It’s just something to hold. Something to do with your hands. Your gun sits on the counter, closer than it probably needs to be. You keep glancing at it anyway.

The sliding glass door to the patio is locked. You checked it three times. You still keep glancing that way, watching how the curtains move with the slight breeze from the vent. You know it’s nothing, but you don’t trust “nothing” anymore.

You settle on the couch and pull the blanket over your lap, like warmth will protect you. You open that same book you’ve read a dozen times, the one with the cracked spine and the hero who always knows what to do. But tonight, the words blur, and your mind won’t stay on the page. You’re too aware of every creak in the walls, every gust of wind against the windows, every shadow that shouldn’t move but still does.

Something thumps lightly - maybe it’s the creaky old floor boards, 0r maybe not. Your hand tightens around the blanket. You don’t get up. Not yet.

Eventually, you do. You step quietly to the stairs and stand still, waiting for something to make a noise. But the room stays still. Silent. 

You lock all of the doors and windows and redraw the blinds again anyway.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. It lights up your dark living room like a flare. It’s from Garcia.

 Garcia: Still monitoring. Nothing new yet. You’re not alone. Sleep if you can. <3

You almost smile. Almost.

You set the phone face down. You stand in silence for a minute in contemplation. The phone manages to find its way back into your hand and before you know it you open the text thread between you and Hotch. It’s not much, just that single text message he had sent you this morning. 

You start typing a message. Delete. Reword it. Delete. 

With a sigh, you put the phone back down, unable to conjure up a single intelligent thing to write.

You won’t sleep. Not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow either.

Instead, you sit there in the quiet, the jazz record stopped a while ago, needing to be flipped to its B side, but you pay it no mind. The tea cold in your hands, waiting for the sun to rise. Because when morning comes, you get to stop being the prey and go back to being the one who hunts. There was something about that, which deeply unsettled you.

The notion of being prey. 

It’s not just fear - it’s violation. The feeling of being hunted by someone you can’t see, don’t know, can’t reason with. Someone who has learned you, maybe without even stepping into your light. They know when your lights go out. When you start your car. When you rest your head. 

The silence in your home, once comforting, now sounds wrong. Off. It’s the kind of quiet that hums too loudly in your ears, makes your skin itch as if your body knows something before your mind can piece it together. The corners of your home suddenly seem to darken. Shadows stretch deeper. The coat hanging on the back of the front door becomes a figure in your periphery for half a second too long. Your breath catches.

You tell yourself you’re just being dramatic. You’re protected. Right? 

But there is a weight behind your thoughts, a heaviness that makes them sink. You are being watched. Whether you want to feel that way or not. 

The silence has deepened. The tea is long forgotten, the book closed on your chest. You’re not really reading, not really resting. You’re just aware. Of everything.

Your phone buzzes.

Hotch: Are you still awake? 

You pause before answering. You almost don’t answer, he knows you’re not asleep. 

You: Didn’t realize sleep was an option.

Hotch: Unfortunately, not a new phenomenon for either of us.

You smirk. Dry humor from Hotch lands differently, like it costs him something, so when it happens, you take note. Though it seems to be happening a lot over the past day. 

You: It’s quieter than I expected. Feels like waiting for something to happen.

Hotch: That’s when they usually make their move. When you start letting your guard down.

You: That supposed to be comforting?

Hotch: Not remotely. Just honest.

A pause. You shift your position, curling your legs tighter beneath the blanket. You tap out another message.

You: Do you ever get used to it? The feeling of being watched?

Hotch: No. But you learn to stop letting it take things from you.

There’s something reassuring about that—calm, not patronizing. You don’t respond for a while. You just stare at the screen, thumb tapping mindlessly trying to think of what to say in response.

You: Thanks for checking in.

Hotch: Of Course.

The “ Of course” makes you smile softly to yourself. It’s professional, sure, but there’s an air to it that says something a bit deeper. Your thumb hovers, then types before you can second-guess it.

You: You don’t strike me as the “2 a.m. check-in” type. 

Hotch: I’m not.

You: So why tonight?

The dots appear. Then vanish. Then appear again.

Hotch: Let’s just say you’re not the average case file.

You freeze for a second. Not sure what to do with that. Not sure you want to unpack it. Still… you reply.

You: Dangerous territory, Agent Hotchner.

Hotch: Noted.

You place the phone on the couch beside you. No more messages come.

But you find yourself staring at the screen anyway—waiting. Thinking.

Not about fear.

About him.

You must’ve fallen asleep somewhere between thoughts you didn’t want to have and words you didn’t send. The phone rests near your hand, the screen dark, untouched since that last message.

The apartment is still. Quiet.

You’re sitting across from Hotch. The Precinct is empty, lights dimmed, the world outside blurred and distant. You’re both sipping coffee, saying nothing.

But the silence is warm. Safe. You’re at ease for the first time in a week. It’s clear that the case is finished, because he has his go bag with him, ready for his flight back to Washington. It's a goodbye. 

He reaches for your hand—not a bold move, not romantic, just… steady. Anchoring.

You look down. Your fingers are dusted with ash.

When you look up, he’s gone.

The precinct fades. A soft clicking sound starts—like a camera shutter.

FLASH. FLASH. FLASH.

The next images of the dream come in camera shots.

Your House.

The hallway.

Your bedroom.

Your face, mid-sleep.

Your hand, inches from your gun but too late.

You wake with a start. The room is gray-blue with early light. It couldn’t be any later than 6am. You had only slept for a few hours. Your heart’s racing, and your neck is damp with sweat.

You sit up and instantly something’s wrong. You can’t put your finger on it, but your gut feels like solid stone. 

The blanket is still on you. The door’s still locked. The window is closed.

But the air feels… off. Touched.

You move cautiously into the dining area, every step slow, your breath tightening.

Then you see them.

Photos.

Laid out like evidence on your table. Perfectly spaced. Crisp edges. No smudges.

You.

Hotch.

Together.

Not intimate—but close. Too close. A shot of the two of you at the last crime scene, shoulders brushing. Another couple from the restaurant from yesterday. One from last night, through your apartment window, the glow of your phone screen lighting your face… and his name visible on the text thread. 

All written on in what seems like red marker. Betrayer. Unfaithful. Traitor. Cheater. 

You blink. Your stomach turns cold.

There’s one final photo, dead center.

A candid shot of you, asleep on the couch.

A time stamp written in the same red, taken less than an hour ago.

Your gun is still on the coffee table.

Untouched.

You back away from the table, reach for your phone with shaking fingers. This house, your supposed sanctuary - is no longer yours.

You: He was here.

Delivered.

Seconds pass. Then your phone rings—Hotch.

You answer before the first full ring.

“Don’t move. The team and I are on the way.”

You don’t say anything.

You’re already looking toward the shadows at the edges of the room.

Already reaching for your gun.

“I want to know. Breakfast?” 

“Yeah, oatmeal.” 

He grins. “Me too.” 

Nobody would ever believe that this is your boyfriend when he’s commanding a room during a profile, or apprehending an UnSub with his impassive, furrowed brow. You assumed it was the honeymoon phase at first. It’s not like his affection makes much sense, but if he’s not stressed, it just means he loves you, which is nice. You hold the back of your hand to his cheek, laughing in a shock when he turns his face and traps it between his cheek and his shoulder. 

“No more late mornings,” he says decisively. 

“I wasn’t technically late. I wasn’t early enough to come up to see you, is all. Are you upset I didn’t bring you your coffee?” 

“Is that what you think?” he asks, smiling as he kisses your wrist, before straightening. You let your hand fall and he catches it on the way down. 

“I don’t know. You’re much too touchy. I’m trying to deduce why, but…” 

“Profile me,” Aaron says. He gives your hand a squeeze. “You know how to do it, honey. Figure out my motive from my past behaviours.” 

Aaron’s only ever this sweet on you when you’re in his bed. Well, ‘only ever’ is harsh, but he’s never not sweet on you in the afterglow. And that’s because intimacy is a constant reminder of how close you really are to one another, why he loves you, and why you love him. So perhaps he’s being sweet on you because you’ve reminded him how loved he is? But it doesn’t make much sense. You forgot his coffee.

Your stomach goes warm. “Oh. Oh,” you say, “I called you last night.” 

“You did.” 

“I was tired.” 

“But you were beautiful,” he says, and what does that mean? It’s not as though he could see your face. “I can’t remember the last time you were like that. Not since we were in Helena.”

You can’t remember it clearly. Threads of what you’d said come back to you slowly. Love you, my sweetheart, my Aaron. Can you come over? I know it’s late, I need to see you. You were too tired to function, let alone call someone, and yet. 

Your face is on fire. 

“Sorry I couldn’t come over, honey,” he says, chucking you under the chin with a curled finger. “I would’ve, I promise, but I had Jack until we swapped this morning.”

You go hot all over. “No, I know. It’s fine, I shouldn’t have called you–”

“Who says you can’t call me?” 

“Nobody, but I shouldn’t have.”

“You can call me anytime you want.” He tips your chin up. “Quick, Spencer’ll have finished what I asked him to do soon. Can I kiss you?” 

“I forgot it was your day for Jack–”

He takes your face into his hand. “Doesn’t matter, honey. Kiss?” 

You liked being manhandled. Liked a little choking – nothing too wild, just enough to feel it. Worst things have happened. Honestly, it wasn't even that big a deal.

Until you looked up... and saw Aaron’s eyes on you.

You swallowed, looking back down at the card again just as a breathless little laugh slipped out.

Name a turn-on your partner doesn’t know about but should.

“Pretty sure we’ve already had this one,” you said, maybe a little too brightly, as you tucked the card neatly under the deck like it was nothing. “Next!”

You barely brushed the edge of a new card before Aaron’s hand closed over the stack, pulling it right out of reach.

“Oh, are we done playing?” you asked innocently, sitting up a little straighter as your hands slid to your thighs. “Good idea.” You were on your feet now. “Pretty sure there’s a pile of laundry upstairs with my name on it –”

“Sit.”

Your hands hovered for a second before landing on your hips, a half-formed protest catching in your throat, but you obeyed, lowering yourself back down onto the couch, trying to act unbothered. Trying to ignore the way your heart had picked up speed.

“We haven’t been playing this game long enough to get the same card twice,” he said calmly, a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Really? Huh. Could’ve sworn we already had that one.”

He arched a brow. “What was it?”

“Aaron come on,” you deflected, waving a hand like it didn’t matter. “It was something silly.”

He didn’t say anything, just flipped the deck over in his hand, eyes scanning the top card.

“Name a turn-on your partner doesn’t know about but should,” he read aloud. “Hm. Definitely don’t recall hearing your answer to this.”

“You don’t?” you said weakly.

“Just because you keep repeating everything I say doesn’t mean you’re going to get out of answering.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“You begged to play this game,” he continued calmly. “And now you’re skipping cards?” He gave you a dry look. “That hardly seems fair.”

You let out a quiet huff and leaned back into the couch, suddenly very interested in the ceiling. Your heart was beating faster than it should’ve been. Not because you didn’t trust him – you did. Completely. You knew he’d never shame you or make you feel small for wanting something.

But he’d also seen the worst of humanity. He’d spent his career staring into the darkest corners of people’s minds. You weren’t sure how he’d feel knowing his girlfriend got turned on by things like rough hands. The feeling of being pinned down and utterly helpless, even when she wasn’t.

It sounded a lot messier out loud than it did in your head.

“I just…” You hesitated. “It’s not a big deal. It’s probably not even your thing.”

“Well, if you’re unhappy in that department, I’d absolutely like to know what it is.”

“Oh my God – no, no. Not at all. I’m not – unhappy.” Your voice pitched as high as your hands flew up in protest, and now you were spiralling. “I’m very happy. I’m, like, obscenely happy. I think your ability to give me more orgasms in one night than I’ve had in my entire life before meeting you should be studied. Or patented. Or possibly banned in several states –”

He blinked once. Then bit back a smile.

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I do, unfortunately,” you muttered into your palms.

“Then tell me,” he said, voice dipping just a little. “Or am I going to have to profile it out of you?”

You peeked out from between your fingers. “You wouldn’t.”

He gave a mild shrug. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Your heart thudded.

“You get flustered when you lose control of the conversation. Especially with me. You fidget more. You avoid eye contact like you’re doing right now.”

You shifted almost immediately.

“You like routine and structure. You’re organised to a fault, but the second I step into your space and do something unexpected, you melt.” He tilted his head. “You act like it annoys you, but I’ve watched you for long enough to know it doesn’t. When I back you against the counter. When I pull your hair back mid-sentence just to kiss your neck. When I don’t ask and take instead. You don’t stop me, you lean into it.”

Your mouth went dry.

“You like being told what to do,” he said simply. Like it was a fact. Like it was always obvious. “In little ways. Safe ways. And when you’re overwhelmed, your instinct isn’t to push back, it’s to submit.”

He watched as your throat worked around a hard swallow.

“You like it when I’m in control.”

Your legs pressed together tight. Too late to pretend it hadn’t happened.

He smiled. “You throw around sarcasm, roll yours eyes, push back, pretend to fuss when I get bossy. But the second I tell you what to do – really tell you – you listen.”

You stared at him, cheeks flushed, lips parted.

“And the truth is, you don’t want to say it out loud because you think it’ll sound messed up. But it doesn’t.” He paused for a second. “I understand you and I’m not judging you. I want to give you what you need.”

Another moment of silence passed before he added, “But if you keep pressing your thighs together like that, I’m going to start thinking we’re done playing this game.”

You let a breath out before speaking. “I…I think we’re done playing,” you managed, voice hoarse.

“Yeah? You sure?”

You nodded before your brain could catch up. “Yes.”

“Then get upstairs.”

You rose on shaky legs and turned towards the stairs, amazed you didn’t trip over yourself on the way up. You could hear him following behind unhurried, while your vision nearly swam from what he’d managed to do to you with just words.

Inside the bedroom, you stopped at the foot of the bed, unsure whether to turn around or stay still. But you didn’t have to ask.

“Turn around.”

You obeyed immediately.

He stepped in close, the heat of him pressing into you just as his hand gripped a firm handful of your hair giving it a tug.

“I can feel you shaking,” he murmured, his mouth brushing against your neck. “You’ve been so worked up since downstairs.” His lips trailed along your jaw slowly, down the curve of your neck, before you felt him bite down gently, his tongue smoothing over the sting.

“Clothes off, sweetheart.” He took a step back, giving you space.

You reached for the hem of your shirt and peeled it up over your head, letting it fall to the floor. His eyes tracked every inch of newly exposed skin, like he was cataloguing every place he intended to touch.

You pushed your pants down next, shimmied them over your hips, then stepped out, standing there in just your bra and panties, chest rising and falling.

“All of it.”

Your fingers trembled as you reached behind and undid your bra, letting it slide off your shoulders. Then finally, you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear and slid them down your legs, stepping out of them and standing bare in front of him.

He nodded toward the bed.

You turned and sat on the edge first, heart racing, then eased yourself down, your back meeting the cool sheets as you settled into place beneath his gaze.

It didn’t take long before he was hovering over you, one hand spreading your thighs as he settled between them, the other coming up to rest lightly – so lightly – around your throat.

You whimpered.

“There it is,” he whispered, kissing just beneath your ear. “That little sound you make when you’re starting to let go.”

Then his fingers found your clit, and you arched off the bed with a gasp, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure landed exactly where you needed it

“I can’t possibly imagine why you’d think this isn’t ‘my thing.’” His fingers kept working you. “Feel what you’ve done to me.”

Your hand moved down between you, palming him through his jeans – and Christ, was he hard. Straining against the fabric, so much so that it almost felt painful.

He groaned at the contact, his hips instinctively pressing into your touch.

“See?” he murmured, slipping a finger inside you without warning, drawing a moan from deep in your chest. “This is exactly my thing. And you—” he kissed the corner of your mouth, “you like this is my thing.”

You gasped, your back arching again, but his other hand was already moving, finding your neck again, pressing down just enough to hold you in place.

He leaned in close, brushing his nose along your cheek, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear as he added a second finger. “You don’t even realize how pretty you are when you’re desperate, do you?” he whispered. “The way you shake. The way you clench around me when I take my time.”

“Aaron…”

He smiled against your skin. “I could keep you like this all night.”

“Please –” was all you managed, the word falling out in a half-broken whimper.

His hand at your throat tightened just enough to make your breath hitch, the same time he curled his fingers inside you. You clenched around him so hard you thought your body might unravel right then and there.

“Fuck – I – I –”

“What is it? Tell me exactly what you need.”

You bucked against him, unable to stop it, hands flying to his forearms – not to push him away, but to hold on. He didn’t move, didn’t ease up either of his hands.

“Or… do you want me to decide for you, hm?”

You couldn’t answer, not in words. Your mind was a haze of heat and ache, your breath catching somewhere between a sob and a moan. Your nails dug into his forearms, desperate for some sort of release.

“Too overwhelmed to answer?”

And then he stilled.

Fingers deep inside you, his body caging yours, hand still resting at your throat but no movement. No friction. No relief. You whined, your hips shifting in an attempt to chase more.

“I’ll decide, then,” he said softly, like he was offering kindness. “You want release? Earn it.”

He withdrew his fingers slowly, achingly slow, and the loss had you nearly sobbing. But before you could even begin to beg, he brought his slick fingers up between you and pressed them to your lips.

“Taste it,” he murmured. “Taste how worked up you are. Taste what you do to me.”

Your lips parted without thought, wrapping around his fingers. You moaned as your tongue slid over them, tasting yourself on his skin. He pressed a little deeper, a little further down your throat, and you hollowed your cheeks, sucking greedily.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice rough now. “So fucking good for me.”

He began making his way down your body, peppering kisses over your chest, you stomach, your hips. You could feel him everywhere, his breath fanning against your skin, his hands sliding down your thighs, spreading you open again.

He lowered himself between your thighs, and when his mouth finally met you again, it was everything.

His tongue lapped at you, circling your clit before dragging lower to taste all of you. He groaned into you, the sound deep, pushing you that much closer to the edge.

You couldn’t stop yourself from moving – hips bucking, thighs twitching, grinding against his face, desperate for more. But he only gripped your hips harder, strong arms pinning you down like it was nothing. Like your squirming didn’t even faze him. Like it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

You whimpered, barely coherent and all you could think about was how badly you wanted those bruises. You wanted to see the outline of his fingers tomorrow. You wanted to remember exactly how they got there.

The pressure built low in your stomach, your thighs beginning to tremble, clenching around his face.

“S’okay baby,” he mumbled against you, voice muffled by your skin. “I’ve got you.”

And that was all it took.

Your thighs clamped around his head, your hips jolting up off the bed, and you cried out, high and breathless, one hand flying to your mouth, the other tangled in the sheets. You writhed beneath him, overstimulated and soaked, gasping through the aftershocks. Your whole body was twitching, lips parted, chest heaving.

He finally pulled back, mouth and chin glistening. “You should see yourself. You don’t even know how beautiful you look when you come.”

You were still catching your breath when you heard the sound of his zipper, the clink of his belt hitting the floor. You reached up to brush a strand of hair off your damp forehead, but your hand dropped the second you felt him between your thighs again, tip dragging slowly along your soaked slit.

Your entire body went still, mouth falling open and he hadn’t even pushed inside you yet.

“You okay?” he asked, pausing just long enough to check in.

“Yes,” you breathed, eyes wide. “More than okay. So okay.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Now you want to talk?”

“I’m just –” you started, breath catching every time the head of his cock slid through your folds. “I’m just saying, I didn’t know it could feel like this, and I – God, Aaron –”

And then he thrusted into you.

One deep stroke that filled you completely, stealing the rest of the sentence right out of your mouth. Your eyes flew open, a strangled gasp caught in your throat as your head tipped back against the pillow, hands flying to his shoulders to hold on.

“Yeah,” he gritted out, his voice hot against your ear. “I thought that might shut you up.”

You could only whimper in response, nails digging into his skin as he stayed there, buried to the hilt, giving you no room to think.

“You feel that?” he murmured, rocking into you once, slow and deep. “You take me so fucking well.”

You nodded, mouth open, breathless. “I wasn’t done talking,” you managed to whisper.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to drag the tip out to your entrance and paused. “Go ahead,” he encouraged. “Try.”

“Fuck y–”

He slammed back in, cutting you off mid-word with a thrust somehow deeper than the last.

“Fuck you?” he echoed smugly. “Yeah. I think I will.”

And he did – hips rocking into yours, each thrust pushing you further into the mattress. Then his hand came up, wrapping around your throat again and you clenched around him, a moan escaping your lips. He let out a low tsk, like he’d caught you misbehaving.

He leaned in closer, his chest pressing against yours, his thrusts slowing. They were deeper now, rougher, grinding into you with so much intensity you weren’t even sure where your body ended and his began.

“This,” he murmured, squeezing just a little tighter, “this is what you were so scared to ask for?”

You opened your mouth to answer, to give him something, anything, but he slammed into you before the words could form, another deep, brutal thrust that knocked the breath out of you.

“I—Aaron, I—” you tried again, voice thin.

Another thrust. Harder.

You gasped, your back arching off the bed. “You’re not even letting me –”

He did it again, cut you off with a stroke that had your vision going white at the edges.

“Fuck—you’re doing this on purpose,” you whimpered, dazed and desperate.

“I sure am.” His hand tightened just a little more at your throat. “You want to know what my turn-on is?” he muttered, not waiting for an answer. “Seeing you fucked senseless.”

Another thrust hit that perfect spot, making your entire body jerk beneath him. You tried to speak, to respond, but he snapped his hips again and you mewled out whatever nonsense your uncooperative tongue could muster.

“You want to come?”

You nodded frantically, words useless now, tears brimming from the sheer overload.

“Good. Then do it.”

He reached down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, setting a pace in perfect sync with his thrusts. Your hips began to stutter as you screwed your eyes shut, the pressure building too fast to stop.

It took mere seconds before your body seized around him.

“Jesus – fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. “You’re so fucking tight when you come –”

His rhythm faltered, stammered and then he was slamming into you one last time, your name falling from his lips as he came.

He loosened his grip on your throat, both hands sliding to your ribcage, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

Neither of you spoke. Both of you were too focused on catching your breath, sharing the same shallow air like it might not be enough.

Finally, after a minute, he leaned in, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. “Think we should play card games more often.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic