you my fine furry friends are welcome.

You hopped up from the couch, blanket trailing behind you like a cape, and marched to him in the kitchen.

“You have to see this,” you said, thrusting your phone at him, making it sound like you were about to show him something terrible you read in the news.

He took it with a skeptical glance, but watched the short clip of a woman sprinting across a park, her cop husband counting to five before taking off and scooping her up in mereseconds.

The comments were full of heart emojis and ‘this is goals,’ and ‘congrats 🥲’

Hotch handed the phone back to you without a word, trying his hardest not to indulge you too much—because he knew where this would eventually go—but you caught the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.

“It’s cute, right? Harmless fun. They’re calling it the Foot Pursuit Challenge.”

He sipped his coffee, peeking at you over the rim of his mug, and raised both eyebrows. “It’s definitely… something.”

You leaned against the counter, grinning. “We should do it!”

“No.”

Just like that. Flat, immediate, classic Hotchner move from work.

But you weren’t deterred. He was forgetting that you weren’t one of his agents, that you weren’t so easily discouraged by having your ideas shot down as his subordinates.

You’d been married to Hotch long enough to know that “no” was rarely the final answer when it came to your ideas—especially if said ideas were something that made you or Jack happy in the long run.

Phase one of Operation Convince Aaron to do the video kicked off the very next morning, right in the heart of breakfast-making and getting ready for school and work.

Jack was standing on a chair at the counter, carefully pouring his favorite sugary cereal into a bowl—how you and Hotch kept falling for his puppy dog eyes in the cereal aisle was still a mystery to both of you—his tongue poking out in concentration as a few pieces inevitably spilled onto the countertop.

Hotch sat at the dining table, unfolded newspaper spread wide in front of him—actual newsprint, crinkling with every turn of the page. You would’ve just read the news on your phone if it were you. But he was stubbornly old-school that way, insisting on the feel of real paper despite everyone else scrolling on their devices.

You carried two bowls of oatmeal to the table and slid one right in front of him. As you did, you leaned in just a touch closer than necessary and murmured, low enough that Jack might not catch every word but loud enough to plant the seed, "Imagine how fast you'd catch me if we did that. The video would absolutely break the internet."

Hotch didn't even glance up from the finance section. His voice was once again flat and resolute. "Not happening."

Jack's head snapped up from his cereal pour, milk sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his bowl. His eyes lit up with pure, unfiltered eight-year-old curiosity. "Catch you? Like tag? Can I play too?"

You seized the moment, turning to Jack with an enthusiastic grin while drizzling a little bit of honey over your oatmeal. "Oh, it's this super fun game, Daddy and I could play. I'd run away from him in a large field, maybe even the soccer field where you practice, and Daddy would chase me down. Kind of like cops and robbers, but way more exciting because it's for grown-ups."

Jack's eyes went comically wide—cartoon comically wide—his spoon frozen halfway to his mouth. He bounced a little in his chair, cereal forgotten. "Whoa! Dad, you're really fast! Like superhero fast! You'd totally win in, like, two seconds."

Hotch finally looked up from the newspaper just enough for his eyes to meet yours. It was that look—the one you'd seen a hundred times before. The narrowed eyes, the slight tightening of his jaw, the silent message screaming: You're playing dirty, pitting my own son against me, and you know it.

You met his glare with the picture of wide-eyed innocence, batting your lashes as you slid the honey bottle across the table toward him, knowing he was boring and would eat his oatmeal plain—yuck.

"What? Just hypothetically speaking," you said sweetly, before turning back to your breakfast with a barely suppressed smirk. Phase one was officially underway.

Phase two of Operation Convince Aaron to do the video unfolded over the next several days like a carefully orchestrated siege, every moment thoughtfully planned out and designed to wear down his defenses without ever looking like an outright attack.

It started small. While prepping dinner one evening, you left your phone propped against the fruit bowl on the kitchen island, volume turned just high enough to carry into the living room.

A compilation of the challenge played on loop—clip after clip of women sprinting across backyards, beaches, and parks, giggling breathlessly as their husbands closed the gap in seconds, scooping them up into triumphant, spinning hugs.

Hotch walked in from the garage, wiping his hands on an old, oily rag, and paused mid-step when he heard the unmistakable sound of a woman shrieking with laughter as she was caught.

He glanced at the screen, then at you innocently chopping vegetables, and shook his head before disappearing down the hall.

You caught the way his eyes lingered for half a second longer than necessary—Maybe mulling the idea over for once.

The next night, during Jack’s bedtime routine, you pulled up “the funniest ones” on your tablet—carefully curated, of course.

You sat on the edge of Jack’s bed, the two of you huddled together under his dinosaur blanket, howling at a woman who dramatically dove into a pile of leaves to escape, only to be gently tackled and rolled around in her husband’s arms.

Jack’s giggles echoed down the hallway, impossible to ignore. And Hotch lingered just outside the door, pretending to check emails on his phone—because you were supposed to be reading bedtime stories, and not watching videos—but you saw his mouth twitch into the faintest smile when Jack declared, “That guy is so strong! Just like you, Dad!”

The real precision strike came on Wednesday. You waited until you knew he’d be alone in his office, eating a sandwich at his desk between meetings, while scribbling away at backed-up paperwork.

You sent him a single video—no text, just the clip. It was one of the sweeter ones making the rounds on the app: a man dressed in full uniform in a park giving his wife a full twenty-second head start. She bolted across the grass in a sundress—not the smartest choice for top speed, you thought—hair flying, laughing before he even started moving.

He took off at an easy lope, closed the distance effortlessly and quickly, and when he caught her around the waist, he didn’t stop. Instead, he spun her in slow circles like they were slow dancing to music in their kitchen, both of them breathless and beaming.

You watched the “delivered” turn to “read” and waited.

His reply came five minutes later: Stop it.

You took the time it took to reply as a win, because he couldn’t be as against it as he implied, because then he would’ve replied the second he read the message.

You sent back nothing but a red heart and winking emoji… followed immediately by another video.

Phase three—full weaponization of Jack—began in earnest by day four.

Jack—bless his enthusiastic little heart—became the most effective catalyst imaginable. It started at breakfast: “Dad, when are we gonna play that running game (Y/N) told me about?”

By lunchtime, it had escalated to, “Dad, can I hold the phone and film it? I promise I’ll be super steady!”

And by dinner, full-on pleading: “Daaaad, pleeease? She said you’d be the coolest dad on all of TikTok. Like, the coolest ever.”

Hotch held out for exactly one more day under the combined assault of his wife and son.

He was grumbling more, deflecting with increasing desperation, but you could see the cracks forming—every time Jack asked, Hotch’s refusal came a little softer, a little slower, and a little more undetermined.

Friday night sealed it.

You’d gone all out for dinner. Perfectly seared ribeyes, roasted potatoes, and those garlicky green beans that he pretended weren’t his favorite but always finished first.

Jack had come home from school clutching a piece of construction paper folded in half like a sacred relic.

During quiet time, he’d drawn the three of you in a sunny field.  Stick-figure Hotch with spiky hair and a huge grin, enormous arms outstretched as he caught stick-figure you mid-run—complete with little motion lines and hearts—while tiny stick-figure Jack stood off to the side holding what was clearly meant to be a phone—definitely looking more like a flat screen TV size-wise—filming the whole thing. He’d even written in careful block letters across the top: “BEST DAD CATCHES (Y/N)!!!”

When Hotch got home late from a case the team was working in D.C, tired and rumpled, he found the drawing taped proudly to his closed office door at Jack-eye-level.

He stood there for a moment, just looking at it.

Then he came into the living room, where you and Jack were curled up on the couch under a blanket together, watching yet another challenge video—this one featuring a husband who let his wife almost get to the tree line before sprinting and catching her just in time.

Jack was narrating the whole thing excitedly. “See? He gave her a super long head start and still got her!”

Hotch leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, tie loosened, suit jacket off, watching the two of you laugh together.

Finally, he let out a deep, long-suffering sigh. One of those ones that started in his chest and carried the weight of total surrender during the exhale.

“Fine.”

You and Jack both froze mid-laugh.

You turned slowly, afraid to breathe. “Wait… really?”

Hotch pointed a finger at you, expression stern but eyes betraying him with that familiar spark of reluctant amusement. “One take. No Jack in the video—we blur him or crop him or whatever you have to do if he ends up being slightly in frame. We film it somewhere away from the house. And if you post the video and even a tiny bit of the neighbourhood we live in shows, I swear I’m deleting TikTok from every phone, tablet, and laptop in this house. And blocking access to it on the WI-FI. Permanently.”

Jack launched off the couch like a rocket, barreling into Hotch’s legs and wrapping his arms around them in the fiercest hug his small body could manage—not even caring that he basically was banned to only being the cameraman. “Yes! Thank you, Dad! You’re the best!”

You rose more slowly, heart thudding with victory, and walked over to him. Sliding your arms around his neck, you pressed close, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease the moment you touched him.

“You’re the best husband ever,” you murmured against his ear. “You know that, right?”

He made a low grumbling sound—something about being a complete pushover and how the two of you had him wrapped around your fingers—but his arms came around your waist immediately, strong and warm, pulling you in until there was no space left between you.

“You love it,” you whispered, brushing a soft kiss just below his jaw.

He didn’t argue. Just held you a little tighter, the faintest smile curving against your temple as he whispered. “Maybe I do, or maybe I know of other ways you can make it up to me.”

Meanwhile, Jack continued to cheer triumphantly at hip height.

Saturday morning came, and for one, the BAU hadn’t been called away on a case—yet.

Jack was vibrating in his booster seat the entire drive out to the soccer field near your house. He was clutching your phone like it was the most important job in the world. And kept practicing his “director voice” in the backseat, complete with dramatic pauses. “And… action! Take one… rolling… quiet on the set!” You had no idea where he had learned those things, but his excitement was contagious; even Hotch couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he drove.

When he pulled into the empty gravel lot and cut the engine, he turned in his seat to face both of you, expression serious, almost as if he was about to send two agents into a known ambush. “Ground rules,” he began firmly. “Ten-second head start. I count out loud, slowly. No running toward the street, no trees, no uneven ground—nothing dangerous. And when I catch you,” his eyes locked on yours, “no dramatic flailing or twisting that could actually get you hurt. I mean it.”

You brought two fingers to your forehead in an exaggerated salute, trying your hardest not to burst into laughter. “Yes dad, sir, Unit Chief Hotchner, sir.”

He rolled his eyes so hard you swore you could hear them turning in their sockets, but the smile finally broke through. He couldn’t hide it anymore.

You all climbed out. Jack immediately claimed his spot on the sideline, like a seasoned cinematographer, phone held steady in both hands.

He even adjusted the angle twice, muttering to himself about “getting the whole field on camera.”

You bounced lightly on your toes at the ‘starting line’ you’d mentally drawn, pretending to warm up for your sprint.

Hotch looked unfairly good in dark jeans that fit just right, and a quarter-zip that stretched across his shoulders and chest in all the best ways, sleeves pushed up to his forearms—he absolutely knew what he had been doing as he got dressed, knowing this exact look would distract you enough for the chase to be over quickly.

The morning light caught the subtle strands of silver at his temples, and the relaxed set of his jaw made him look younger, lighter.

Casual Hotch—away from the weight of the world—was always your absolute favorite look on him.

Jack lifted the phone. “Ready? Okay… three, two, one... ACTION!”

Hotch’s voice rang out clear and steady across the empty field. “One.”

You bolted.

Arms pumping wildly, legs flying, you leaned into the comedy of it from the very first stride. Hair already whipping loose from its elastic, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably.

The grass felt alive under your sneakers, air rushing into your lungs.

“Two… three…”

You risked a quick glance back. Hotch hadn’t moved yet—just stood there with his hands casually in his pockets, watching you with that fond, indulgent half-smile that turned your insides to liquid even from ten yards away.

“Four… five… six…”

You pushed harder, aiming for the distant white goalpost like it was the finish line of the Olympics.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, joy more than exertion at this point.

“Seven… eight… nine…”

A dramatic gasp for effect. “You’re not even trying yet!” You yelled back, well aware that the phone wouldn’t catch it, but he would.

He rolled his eyes. “Ten.”

And then he moved.

It was unreal—like a switch flipped—no wind-up, no playful jog, just pure, efficient, predatory speed. Long, powerful strides that ate up the distance with terrifying speed. The gap between you shrank faster than physics should even allow.

You let out a shriek that echoed across the field. “No fair! You’re too fast! This is an abuse of federal training and resources!”

Desperate for a few more seconds of glory, you zigzagged sharply, then threw in the most ridiculous spin move you’d copied from a viral clip—arms out, one leg kicked high, nearly losing your balance in the process as you stumbled in the opposite direction.

It bought you exactly two extra seconds.

Strong arms banded around your waist from behind, lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing and weren’t struggling.

You kicked your legs in mock outrage, laughing so hard you could barely breathe, while he executed one smooth, gentle twirl—full circle, your back to his chest—the world spinning in a blur of blue sky and green grass. Then he lowered you both carefully, twisting at the last moment so he took every bit of impact on his back, you landing safely straddling his lap, hands braced on his chest.

Your hair had come completely undone around your face. You were breathless more from laughter than the run, cheeks flushed, heart racing.

“Got you,” he murmured, voice low, the sound rumbling through his chest under your palms. One large hand came up slowly, fingers brushing the messy strands from your eyes before tucking them gently behind your ear.

“That was barely twenty seconds total!” you protested weakly, poking his chest. “You made me look ridiculous out there.”

He smirked—actually smirked—eyes crinkling at the corners. “You managed that all on your own.”

Jack came barreling over, phone held high like a trophy. “I GOT IT ALL! The spin was SO COOL! Did you see the spin, Dad? It was awesome!”

The three of you collapsed together right there in the middle of the field—Jack diving into the dogpile with zero regard for aim, all of you tangled in a heap of limbs and laughter until your sides ached and tears streamed from the corners of your eyes.

When you finally caught your breath, you migrated to the big oak at the edge of the field. Jack launched into a frame-by-frame narration of his directorial choices, gesturing wildly.

You watched the footage together four times in a row—pausing at your comically dramatic start, rewinding Hotch’s impossibly smooth sprint, slow-motioning the mid-air spin, zooming in on the gentle landing. Every replay sent Jack into fresh fits of laughter.

“It’s perfect,” you declared finally, leaning into Hotch’s side, head resting on his shoulder. He had one arm draped comfortably around you, the other wrapped around Jack, who was nestled against his dad’s chest like it was the safest place in the world—which it was.

Hotch’s lips brushed your temple, voice soft against your skin. “Post it if you really want to.” He smiled. Although he was ‘giving you permission’ to post it, you knew he was just as pleased with the result as you were.

“Already planned,” you assured him, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “Just us and laughter. Text overlay: ‘How long till my FBI husband catches me?” You spread your hands out in the air, as if framing a headline.

Jack yawned, snuggling deeper into Hotch’s side. “Can we do it again next weekend? I wanna be the runner this time.”

Hotch groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against the tree trunk. “We’ll… negotiate. But no filming this time.”

You grinned, knowing full well that was code for yes.

Later that evening, after Jack was tucked in with stories and kisses and one more replay of “the best video ever,” the house finally fell quiet.

You sat cross-legged on the couch in the soft glow of your phone, editing the video, adding a gentle blur to Jack’s excited dash at the end, layering music that swelled just right at the catch.

You added the text overlay in a simple white font, then hit upload before you could second-guess it.

By morning, it had exploded in the challenge hashtag. Notifications poured in as you sipped your coffee. “The SPIN took me OUT 😭😂,” “FBI husbands are built different fr,” “This is the sweetest one yet!! my heart,” “Tell me you feel safe without telling me you feel safe.” “OMG look at the way he’s looking at her when they’re on the ground.”

Hotch wandered in still half-asleep, hair adorably tousled. He came up behind you without a word, arms sliding around your waist, chest warm against your back, chin resting atop your head as he peered at the screen.

“Regretting your life choices yet?” you asked, tilting your head back to smile up at him.

He hummed thoughtfully, voice still gravelly with sleep. “Ask me again after the unlimited chocolate chip cookies you now owe me for the rest of our lives.”

You laughed softly, turning fully in his arms to loop yours around his neck. “Deal,” you whispered, before kissing him.

When you finally pulled back, he was smiling a smile that made every single day of scheming, every sneaky video, every pleading child, and perfectly timed snack worth it.

Absolutely and undeniably worth it.

He drags his thumb across your bottom lip, slowly, watching the way your mouth parts for him on instinct. “Still can’t take me all the way, can you?” he murmurs, pressing just the tip of his thumb inside, letting you taste him. “We’ve been over this. You get eager, you get sloppy, and then you start crying when it’s too much. Remember last time?”

Your cheeks burn. You do remember gagging, mascara streaked down your cheeks, his hand fisted gently in your hair while he told you to breathe through your nose like you were a rookie learning the basics.

He pulls his thumb out only to replace it with two thick fingers, sliding them along your tongue until you moan around them. “There we go,” he says, almost gently. “Open up for me. Let’s try again.”

You do. God, you do. You let him fuck your mouth slowly—way too slowly—with his fingers first, teaching you the rhythm he wants, scolding you every time you try to rush it.

“Uh-uh. Slow. You don’t get my cock until you prove you can be patient.”

It’s torture.

Every time you hollow your cheeks or swirl your tongue the way he likes, he hums approvingly but still doesn’t give you what you want.

Your brain is already slipping, thoughts getting sticky and honey slow, words shrinking down to please and more and Aaron.

When he finally pulls his fingers free, they’re slick with spit, connected to your bottom lip by a thin string that breaks when he wipes them on your cheek.

“On your knees,” he says.

You scramble down between his thighs so fast you almost trip and hit your head. He steadies you with a hand on your elbow as you position yourself on the floor.

Hotch spreads his legs wider to make room, unbuckling his belt with one hand while the other strokes through your hair.

“Look at you,” he says, freeing himself, he's heavy and flushed in his hand. “Already so stupid for it. You’re drooling, baby.” He coos at you.

You are.

There’s spit on your chin, and your eyes are glassy and you can’t even be embarrassed because all you can think about is how badly you need him in your throat.

He taps the head of his cock against your lips, once, twice, painting them glossy with his pre-cum. “Open,” he orders, and when you do, he slides in just a little bit, letting you feel every inch. “That’s it. Relax. You’re gonna take it this time. No tears until I say so.”

You try. You really try to be good, to breathe through your nose like he taught you last time, but he’s so thick and hot, and delicious, and the way he’s looking down at you—one brow raised, lips curled in that tiny smug almost-smile—makes your brain leak out of your ears, and you want more, need more.

Halfway in and your eyes are already watering. He doesn’t thrust, just holds himself there, letting you adjust, letting you feel how full your mouth is.

“Still think you’re ready for all of me?” he asks, voice on the brink of sounding cruel. “Because you’re shaking, sweetheart. And we’ve barely started.”

You whimper around him, the sound muffled and wet, and try to push forward on your own. He tightens his grip in your hair immediately.

“No," he tsks at you. "You stay right there until I move. Understand?”

You nod as much as you can with your mouth stuffed full of him, tears spilling over, mascara probably halfway down your cheeks already.

You don’t care. You just want him to use you.

He must see it, the way you’ve gone soft and pliant and desperate, because his expression shifts—still in control, still a little mean, but warmer around the edges.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, finally feeding you another inch. “Knew you could be good when you’re too cockdumb to argue.”

You moan a loud and broken sound around him, and he starts to move. Slow, steady thrusts that push deeper each time, training your throat to take him, to open up and let him in until your nose brushes the trim hair at the base and you’re crying openly but not pulling away.

“Fuck, look at that,” he breathes, voice rougher now. “Took every inch. My pretty little mess.”

You can’t answer, can only gargle out a wrecked sound that in you speak means please don’t stop, please keep going, please ruin me.

He does.

He holds you there, buried to the hilt, until your throat flutters around him and your hands scrabble at his thighs.

Only then does he pull back, letting you gasp and cough and drool all over yourself before he slides right back in.

By the time he’s close, you’re gone—hollow-headed, whiny, humping the air because you’re so empty everywhere else and all you know is the weight of him on your tongue.

He comes with a low groan, hips stuttering, flooding your mouth while he pets your hair like you’re something precious even while he’s wrecking you.

When he pulls out, you chase him instinctively, lips parted, tongue out, begging without words.

Hotch cups your wet face, thumbs wiping at the tears and spit like he’s cleaning you up.

“Still not satisfied?” he asks softly, condescending as ever. “Don’t worry, baby. We’re just getting started. Open up again.”

He doesn’t give you time to catch your breath.

You’re still kneeling, chest heaving, spit and cum shining on your chin, when Hotch drags the slick head of his cock across your swollen bottom lip again. Your tongue darts out on pure instinct, chasing the taste of him, and he chuckles.

“Jesus, look at you,” he mutters, voice rough. “Can’t even close your mouth anymore. Just a drooling little hole waiting for me to fill it again.”

You try to answer.

Something that might’ve been his name once comes out as a garbled, wet “A-A’wn—” before dissolving into a whimper.

Your brain is soup.

Actual soup.

Words are gone. All that’s left is heat and want and the heavy pulse between your legs you can’t do anything about because your hands are fisted in his slacks like that’s the only thing keeping you upright.

He gently caresses your cheek with his knuckles. “That’s it. Nothing up there anymore, is there?” He moves his hand and taps your temple lightly. “Just cock and cum and please, please, please.”

You nod frantically, eyes glassy, tears still leaking because you can’t stop them. Another pathetic noise bubbles up.

Hotch groans at the sound, stroking himself slowly right in front of your face. He’s still half-hard, flushed dark, and the sight makes you whine louder, leaning forward without permission until he tightens his grip in your hair and yanks you back, yet again.

“Stay,” he orders, sharp. “Remember what I told you not even five minutes ago.”

You freeze, trembling, lips parted. A thin string of spit drips from your tongue onto your thigh. You don’t even notice.

He jerks himself faster now, breath hitching, eyes locked on your face. “Gonna paint you, baby,” he says, voice tight. “Gonna make you even messier. You want that? Want me to mark up this pretty face so you remember who you belong to?”

You can’t form words. You just sob out a desperate, “M-mhm—p’ease—” and stick your tongue out further like an offering.

The first rope hits high on your cheek and you flinch, a tiny startled jerk, eyes fluttering. Not scared—never scared of him—just overwhelmed, like every drop is a surprise your fried little brain can’t quite process.

Another across the bridge of your nose. You twitch again, a soft, hiccuping “ah—” escaping as your lashes get sticky.

Third stripe lands over your parted lips and tongue. You jolt, whimpering, but immediately try to lick it up, chasing the taste even while more keeps coming.

Fourth, fifth—he’s groaning your name now, hips jerking as he milks himself dry—splattering your forehead, your other cheek, one last spurt dripping down your chin to join the disaster already there.

You’re a painting. A ruined, trembling, cockdrunk cum painting.

Hotch breathes hard for a second, thumb brushing through the mess on your cheek just to spread it further. You blink up at him, slow and dazed, cum sliding over your lashes, and let out the tiniest, happiest sigh like you’ve never been more content in your life.

He crouches, still holding your hair, and presses a single gentle kiss to your sticky forehead.

“Such a good little mess,” he whispers against your skin. “Can’t even talk anymore, can you?”

You shake your head, clumsy and slow. A broken, “Uh-uh,” is all you manage, followed by a dreamy, “Y’rs.”

"Yeah, you're mine." He chuckles and wipes a thumb through the cum on your lips just to push it back into your mouth. You suck it clean without hesitation, eyes fluttering shut.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “We’re gonna keep you, just... like this all night.”

Without ever mentioning his name, you knew immediately he was talking about Aaron Hotchner. Your partner when the two of you worked for the BAU under Rossi and Gideon, your best friend, and quite possibly (even after eight years) the love of your life. And above all else, the sole reason you left the BAU without so much as a goodbye. You immediately recalled the newspaper headline you saw this morning on the train; ‘Wife of high ranking FBI agent becomes final victim of the Boston Reaper’. Usually, reading news articles about violent crimes wasn’t something you engaged in. Working on the cases you do, news stories about such crimes never felt just. They were spun to be engaging, to be read like storybooks, not to consider the people involved as real people. But you’d heard whispers around the bureau months ago when the Reaper had escaped jail, heard his name, heard Hayley’s name and you knew immediately who that article was about. 

‘David, he cannot possibly need me. We haven’t spoken in almost nine years.’ You tried to reason with him, rubbing your temple in an attempt to stave off the headache you felt building between your eyes. 

‘Look, I don’t know what happened on that case, but whatever it is cannot be so tragic that you cannot come and check in on him.’

That case. You had done everything in your power to forget about that case. About how the only way to lure out the unsub was to go undercover as a married couple at a high end restaurant you could only have dreamed of being taken to one day; walking into the restaurant hand in hand with Aaron and letting yourself imagine for just a fraction of a heartbeat that this was real. That the looks you shared late at night across the bullpen, or the way he remembered your coffee order by heart, actually meant something. That the wedding ring on his left hand wasn't put there by another woman, years before you had the misfortune of meeting him too late, that there was ever a chance of you being something more than partners. Something more than his best friend. Something more than his work wife. You’d tried to wipe your memory of how, when the unsub came walking towards you with a suspicious look on his face, you had turned to Aaron, panic in your eyes, thinking your cover had been blown. Until he cornered you against the wall, and with nothing but a broken - heart-broken - look in his eyes and a muttered ‘Sorry,’ had kissed you. Most of all, you’d spent the best part of the last decade trying to tell yourself that despite everything your senses had told you, despite the way he held your face like you meant everything to him, that kiss meant nothing. 

You were snapped back into the present moment by David’s voice cutting through the phone line once more.

‘You know he is good at a great many things, Aaron, but handling his emotions, being heartbroken, grieving? He needs someone to help him and you're the only person I could think to call,’ he added in a low, defeated voice. You were certain he knew why you left. Even though the security footage had cut out midway through your mission, there was no way the best profiler you’d ever met didn’t notice the way you looked at Aaron. Or the way you looked at Hayley. Never with any resentment or hatred, but with a quiet kind of heartbreak. The soft, gentle kind of jealousy that contained nowhere near enough anger to be anything other than heart-wrenching. Before you even had time to reason, he had hung up the phone, leaving you with a shattered box of memories you had kept under lock and key for the last decade and a gnawing feeling in the centre of your chest that you couldn’t ignore.

Less than three hours later, you were sat on a plane headed to Quantico, Virginia. As the plane took off, the chatter of the couple sat next to you faded into white noise and those fractured memories began to take form once more in your mind. 

He’d kissed you. He’d actually kissed you. It was all you could think about as you sat on the edge of your hotel bed. It meant something - to you at least - but you knew deep down there was something there. Perhaps he wasn’t aware of it, and most likely nothing would ever grow from it but the seed was there. It was in the way he rolled his chair around the corner of your desk after Gideon went home and sat at your side to finish files. It was in the way he stopped asking what you wanted when he ordered lunch for the team because he knew what you wanted. Every time. It was in the way he looked at you just before he’d kissed you. Entirely heartbroken, guilty of course, but more than anything? Relief. Closure. Love? As if he finally had an excuse to give himself what he wanted this whole time; undercover as a different man, one without a wife at home that he spoke to less and less with each longer case and weekend spent working overtime, he finally had the fresh air to take in a deep breathe and realise what he wanted. Or, perhaps, he was just good at undercover work. Standing up and crossing the room to the mini bar under the desk, you pulled out a bottle of cheap wine, leaving the room and knocking on Aaron’s door. When he opened the door moments later, you were stopped short when you saw him dressed not in his usual expensive suit, but in a soft t-shirt and flannel trousers. You’d seen him like this before, being partners (and the two youngest agents on the team) you’d shared hotel rooms before on cases. But now, after today, there was something oddly intimate about seeing him so casual, so vulnerable. 

‘Ah, would you look at that?’ he said quietly with a barely there smile, ‘I found my academy hoodie!’

Pausing in surprise, you looked down at the oversized jumper you were wearing over your matching pajamas. 

‘Oh, right, yeah, um-’ you began.

‘I’m kidding, I knew you had it this whole time,’ he cut in, rolling his eyes softly, ‘you okay?’

You thought for a moment, were you okay? After everything that happened today? 

‘Yep! Just thought we could celebrate my amazing arrest today,’ you said cheerfully, holding up the bottle of wine to punctuate the point. 

‘Your arrest?’

‘Ugh get over yourself, Hotchner, do you want the alcohol or not?’ you replied with a teasing smile, pushing past him to sit on the edge of his bed. With a fond roll of his eyes, he pushed off the doorframe, closed the door and crossed the room to sit down next to you. 

He took the bottle out of your hand and unscrewed the top, bringing it to his lips and drinking it straight from the bottle. He pulled it away with a disgusted grimace on his face and handed it to you.

‘Christ, that’s awful, where did you get this?’ he asked. 

Putting the bottle down with a matching disgusted expression you looked up at him, ‘It was in the mini bar,’ you shrugged. 

‘The mini bar doesn’t have wine?’. You continued passing the bottle back and forth until it was almost empty, and you were most certainly not thinking entirely straight anymore. And, though he hid it far better than you, you could tell the wine was going straight to Aaron’s head as well. 

‘Ahh, then whoever stayed in the room before me left us a gift!’ you added with a wide smile. He returned it with a face somehow even more disgusted than before. ‘They must’ve known I’d have an incredible arrest to celebrate tonight.’

‘Okay, you seem to have completely forgotten that this was our arrest.’

‘Nuh uh, c’mon you know that was all me, the only useful thing you actually did today was kiss me.’

The room went silent. It wasn’t until now that you’d realised how close you’d gotten to each other, so close you could hear his breathing, practically feel his chest rising and falling with each tense exhale beside your own. And then, just as you found the nerve to look into his eyes, they shifted downwards towards your lips. Without even thinking, you found yourself leaning in towards him, your actions mirrored by him for a split second before he froze and his gaze fell to the floral motel bedsheets beneath you. To his hand resting next to yours, but not quite touching. To his wedding ring.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, ‘I’m so sorry, you know I can’t do this. You know why.’

With a shaky breath, you stood and walked towards the door without another word, pulling the door open and keeping your gaze down, intent on not letting him see you cry. With your hand still on the door handle, you paused and muttered, still loud enough to reach his ears, ‘I love you, Aaron.’

And you waited, for one, two, three heartbeats that seemed to span hours, hoping to exist in the one reality where the two of you ended up together. Where he would say those three words back.

Then you left in silence. 

Getting off the plane in a haze, you hailed a cab and made your way to Quantico. After that night, you’d spent a week at home ‘sick’, though you knew Aaron knew exactly why you’d been away from work. A week was long enough to accept the job offer you’d been given weeks before to the Organized Crimes division in LA and send your notice to Agent Rossi. Your resignation letter was the closest anyone in the BAU got to a goodbye from you. Stepping out of the taxi and into the bureau, you flashed your badge to security and tried not to think too hard about the fact that you hadn’t walked through those doors and hit the button on the elevator to the sixth floor in over eight years.

Walking through the glass doors to the BAU, you ignored the agents in the bullpen who you knew to be the new BAU team - none of the agents you’d worked with, save for Aaron and David, anywhere to be seen - and moved slowly up the stairs to his office door. As you raised your hand to knock, you caught Rossi’s eye through his window. He offered you a reassuring nod, and a comforting smile you’d come to miss working on the West Coast. Your knock was answered with a familiar voice; a low, monotone ‘Come in,’ and you stepped through the door, closing it softly behind you. Walking into the room, you saw him sitting behind the desk that had once belonged to Gideon, his head still down and pen scratching away at a casefile. 

‘Hey, Hotchner,’ you said softly.

At the sound of your voice, his head shot up, eyebrows raised and eyes open in shock. He paused for a moment, as if considering whether you were actually here or whether he had imagined your face in a sleep deprived haze. Then, without hesitation, he rounded the desk and came to stand in front of you, an expression of confusion replacing his previous shock. 

‘Hey, what, uh, what are you doing here?’ he asked. Now that you were this close, you could see the dark circles under his eyes, and the few grey hairs dotting his head. You could see his grief written across his face, plain as day. 

‘How are you doing?’ you asked, ignoring his own question. As the words left your mouth, you could see the tension fall from his shoulders, and his brows fall into a solemn expression. 

‘I’m fine, I-’, he cut himself off and turned to look away from you in a futile attempt to hide his glassy eyes, and you decided to take matters into your own hands, reaching up and wrapping your arms around him in a hug. He hesitated for a moment, eight years worth of tension keeping his hands tied before finally snapping like an old rope as his arms wrapped around your waist, engulfing you in a hug. 

‘I’m sorry,’ you whispered against his shoulder, ‘I’m sorry about Hayley, I’m sorry for not being there. Aaron, I’m so sorry I didn’t say goodbye.’ 

He let out a shaky sigh and held you even tighter.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered back, not breaking the gentleness of the moment, ‘for coming back.’

You stayed like that for a moment, just existing in each other’s presence, before he broke the silence once more.

‘I’m sorry, too,’ he muttered, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t say it back.’

You’re halfway down the aisle, duffel slung over your shoulder, already calculating how many minutes until face-off, when Hotch stops you at the front of the cabin. He has his coat folded over one arm and something small and white pinched between the fingers of his other hand.

“Got a second?” he asks, voice pitched low so only you hear it over the shuffle of the team gathering their tablets and go-bags.

You pause, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Always for you, handsome.”

The corner of his mouth does that almost-smile thing he saves just for you when no one else is looking, but keeps it hidden for the sake of being on the jet. He steps aside so the others can pass, then tilts his head toward the small table at the two-seater booth in the front.

You follow, curiosity sparking. Hotch doesn’t do dramatic pauses unless paperwork or serial killers are involved... and sometimes both.

He sets his coat down, then holds up the two glossy rectangles so you can see them clearly.

Washington Capitals. Tonight. Capital One Arena. Lower level, center ice. Front row.

Your duffel slips off your shoulder and hits the floor with a soft thud.

“No, you did not,” you breathe, suppressing a squeal.

“I did.” He looks unfairly pleased with himself, the way he does when a profile clicks three days early. “Game starts at seven-thirty. We can be there by six-forty-five if traffic is nice to us.”

You reach out, half-convinced they’re a hallucination, and take one ticket between your fingers. Glass seats. You fail to suppress it any longer, and actually squeal, an honest-to-God squeak that would mortify you if anyone else were close enough to hear.

Then your brain catches up. You look up at him, eyes narrowing playfully. “You know this isn’t my team, right?”

Aaron’s eyebrows lift a fraction, and he gets that infuriating smirk when he acts a little playfully superior. “I’m aware.”

“I mean, I will literally be surrounded by people who hate my team with the fire of a thousand suns.”

“Also aware.”

You bite your lip, fighting a grin that’s rapidly winning. “I’m going to have to be on my best behavior. No chirping. No sarcastic slow-clap when they score. I might actually combust.”

He gives a small huff that’s almost a laugh. “I weighed the odds. Your team’s next home game is three games out. We could get called to Oregon tomorrow. Or Alaska. Or—” He shrugs, the gesture finishing the sentence, or anywhere but where they are. “D.C. is forty-five minutes away. I took the surer bet.”

You stare at him, something warm and dizzying blooming behind your ribs. Your lovely, lovely man, Aaron Hotchner, Mr. plan-fifteen-moves-ahead, man who once worked thirty-six hours straight without complaint, has spent part of his afternoon quietly strong-arming someone in arena operations—because there’s no way these were available to normal humans last-minute—just so you won’t have to miss another game.

He’s listened, really listened, every time you grumbled about spotty hotel Wi-Fi or waking up at 3 a.m. to stream west-coast games on your phone with your headphones on so you wouldn’t wake Jack.

You step closer. “You’re ridiculous, Aaron.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m serious. This is—” You tap the ticket gently against his chest, right over his tie. “This is one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.”

His eyes flick down to the ticket, then back to you, something soft and unguarded moving behind the steady brown of his eyes. “You light up when you watch,” he says simply, but his eyes do that thing they do when he’s reading a person without trying. “I want to see it in person for once. Not on a phone screen at two in the morning while you pretend you’re reviewing case files.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. He isn’t completely wrong; you’ve been caught more than once with the game minimized behind a report.

You exhale a shaky little laugh. “Okay. Fair warning! I will be stress-eating nachos. I will narrate every missed pass. I might cry if Ovechkin scores. You have been warned.”

“I have noise-canceling headphones in the car if it gets too painful,” he deadpans.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling so wide it hurts. “Just for that, you’re buying the overpriced beer.”

“Deal.” He picks up his coat, then pauses, brushing his knuckles lightly down your arm. “Let’s get out of here before Strauss decides we need debrief slides.”

You tug your duffel back onto your shoulder and follow him down the steps of the jet into the cool evening, heart racing faster than it has any right to for a weeknight hockey game that isn’t even your team.

But tonight, you decide, it doesn’t matter whose logo is on the ice.

Because you’ll be sitting next to the man who moved heaven and earth—or at least the Caps ticket office—to make sure you get at least one in-person game in the books this season.

The second you step through the glass doors of Capital One Arena, the noise slams into you like a clean open-ice hit: twenty thousand voices, the goal horn being tested, that perfect cold bite of rink air mixed with beer and slightly burnt pretzels.

You suck in a breath like you’ve been holding it for a week.

Hotch's hand settles at the small of your back, guiding you through the river of red. He leans in close. “Team shop. House rules.”

You arch a brow. “House rules?”

“No one I’m dating shows up to a hockey game without team colors,” he says, dead serious. “I have standards.”

You laugh so hard you nearly trip over a kid in an Ovi sweater three sizes too big for him. “Yes, sir, Mr. Unit Chief.”

Five minutes later, you’re in the shop. Hotch disappears and comes back with a plain red authentic jersey, no name and no number—because you wouldn't be caught dead in a Caps jersey if he hadn't brought you to the game—and a simple scarf for himself.

He holds the jersey up like it's evidence.

“Blank one,” he says. “Compromise. You don’t have to rep anyone tonight, but you’re still properly integrated in the crowd.”

You take it from him, already knowing it’s a size larger than yours, so it'll fit over your hoodie, because Hotch is annoyingly perfect like that. “You’re lucky I love you.”

He just smiles that small smile you love so much and heads to the register.

You duck into the restroom to pull it on. When you come out with your jersey hanging loose over your pants and sleeves covering half your hands, Hotch's eyes go soft and a little stunned, the same way they did the first night you stayed over and he realized you weren’t leaving.

“Stop looking at me like that, or we’re missing warm-ups,” you warn with a wink.

He loops the scarf once around his neck, knot perfect because of course it is, and murmurs, “Not happening.”

You sit down in your seats just as the boys come out for warm-ups. You press both palms to Hotch's thigh, occasionally patting his leg excitedly to grab his attention while watching the pucks ping off the crossbar, the goalies stretch, or the forwards do their little spin-o-rama laps.

Hotch sits beside you, calm and curious. You can’t help yourself.

“Okay, quick rundown,” you say, eyes still on the ice. “Over there is number 8—”

“Ovechkin,” Hotch finishes. “I did my homework on the jet.”

You turn, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “You studied the roster?”

“I like to be prepared.”

You reward him with a quick kiss that tastes like the mint he had in the car on your way here.

At Puck drop, you’re vibrating.

Every rush up ice, every cycle in the o-zone, every heavy forecheck has you half out of your seat. When Ovechkin loads up from his office on the left dot and roofs one top-shelf, the horn blares and you launch straight up, arms overhead, screaming with the entire lower bowl. Hotch's smile is so wide it cracks his whole face open. He doesn’t even pretend to watch the jumbotron replay; he just watches you.

You drop back down, grab his face, and kiss him right on the mouth in front of twenty thousand people. He makes that quiet, surprised oof sound you love.

First period ends 2-0 Caps.

Between periods, you’re explaining the rules like he’s never seen the sport before, even though you know he’s watched parts of games over your shoulders at 2 a.m.

“So if the puck crosses the goal line after the red line and it’s not touched, that’s icing, unless the team’s shorthanded, then it’s automatic. But delayed penalty—”

Hotch kisses you to shut you up, one hand at the nape of your neck. When he pulls back, he says, voice low, “Quiz me after.”

Second period, the visitors tie it on a seeing-eye wrister five-hole. You groan like someone who actually cares for the results of a Capitals game. Hotch's arm slides across your shoulders, thumb tracing small circles at the base of your neck.

Forty-three seconds later, one of the left wingers bangs home a rebound off a point shot, and you’re up again, jersey flapping, doing the ugliest little victory dance known to man. Hotch laughs, actually throws his head back and laughs, and you kiss him again, longer this time, tasting beer on his lips and a bit of pure joy.

The third period is cardiac-arrest-inducing hockey. Caps cling to a one-goal lead. Every save has you squeezing Hotch's thigh hard enough to definitely leave fingerprints. When the final buzzer sounds, 4-3 score, the building detonates in cheers, and you throw yourself at him, arms around his neck, half in his lap because personal space is right about canceled tonight.

He catches you like it’s the easiest thing in the world, arms tight around your waist, face pressed to the hollow of your shoulder under the jersey.

You feel his smile against your skin.

You pull back just enough to rest your forehead against his. “Thank you,” you whisper, suddenly serious. “This was perfect.”

He brushes his nose against yours. “Worth every favor I now owe the arena manager.”

“You collect favors like Pokémon cards.” You grin, knowing he would catch the reference since Jack has been obsessed with Pokémon lately.

“Gotta catch ’em all,” he deadpans, and you lose it, laughing into another kiss.

Outside, the air bites hard, but you’re still warm from the game and from him. You hook your arm through his, tugging him close as you head for the car.

“Next time,” you say, “my building. My colors. Full conversion.”

Hotch kisses your temple, breath fogging in the cold. “Looking forward to it, sweetheart.”

And you know he means it.

You drop your hands into your lap like a guilty child.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, making a turn onto the main road. 

“You think I’m biting my nails because I’m hungry?”

“No. I know you only bite your nails when you’re overthinking. And I know you’re more inclined to talk when you’re not running on an empty stomach.”

You glance out the passenger window, taking notice of the rain that has thickened since you bolted to the car. The prison is already a smear in the rear-view mirror, tucked so far into nowhere it feels less like an institution and more like a secret earth is ashamed of. You imagine its architects deciding it should be placed where even guilt would have trouble finding it. 

“There’s a diner about half an hour up the road,” he tries again. “Good coffee. Bad pie.”

You consider it, and on any other night you’d say yes without thinking, like you’ve done countless times before. But you remember that tonight, you’re not heading home. You’re heading back to the hotel room you’re sharing with your boss. The same four beige walls that felt far too small last night.

You hadn’t realised that sharing a bed would also mean sharing melatonin. Though clearly Hotch got the better end of the deal, sleeping like a man immune to proximity-induced panic while you lay still, every muscle tense, your heart hammering as if trying to pound thoughts into words you had no business thinking.

“Can’t we make the drive back home tonight?” you ask, shifting to look at him. “I can drive most of the way if you want to doze off.”

“I think given the weather and your driving skills, that wouldn’t be a wise choice.”

“What’s wrong with my driving skills?”

“You once reversed into a mailbox.”

You scoff. “You weren’t even in the car when that happened.”

“No,” he says, unbothered, “but I did have to file the vehicle incident report explaining why the Bureau SUV suddenly had a dent in the rear bumper.”

You glance out again and he’s right. Sheets of rain blur the road, the wipers swiping furiously just to keep a sliver of the world in view. You’d sooner chew down a mouthful of nails than attempt to drive in this, and considering Hotch handled the entire drive here and carried most of the interview, it hardly seems fair to pester him to slog through another four hours just so you can sleep in your own bed. 

“You did well,” he offers obligingly, and you know he’s trying to patch up your bruised ego.

You hadn’t imagined your last few days with the BAU would involve revisiting what was meant to be a closed case. But new evidence had surfaced, linking back to one of your consults which, after this week, wouldn’t even be yours anymore. It would probably be passed on to JJ or Morgan, but you’d insisted on coming, unwilling to leave loose ends behind. 

That insistence had landed you on a two-day trip with Hotch accompanied by a night in a cheap, overbooked hotel, one bed, a sleepless night yesterday, and the creeping dread of repeating it again tonight.

“You’re lying. I barely got him to talk.” 

“You did more than you realise. We managed to get a name.”

We. You turn your head and catch the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “You managed to get a name,” you correct. 

His shoulders lift in a slight shrug, eyes still on the road. “It was a team effort.”

“Well, I suppose it's not really going to be my problem anymore after this week.” You exhale, resting your temple against the cold glass.

“Do you need me to stop anywhere before the hotel?”

“Yes, actually.” You turn towards him with a half-smile, because if you’re going to be forced to share the covers with Hotch again, you’re not doing it sober. “Pretty sure there’s a gas station off the next exit, if you wouldn’t mind?”

He nods, and you go back to overthinking the bane of your existence until Hotch finally pulls into the saddest-looking gas station you’ve ever seen.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, unclipping your seatbelt and letting it snap back harder than necessary, purely because you know it irritates him.

His jaw tics. “You can take it off without assaulting the mechanism, you know.”

“So nothing, then?”

“Coffee. If they have it.”

“Sure.” You pause, then grin at him. “I’ll get you a drink.” 

You’re out of the car before he can clarify that he meant just coffee. The cold air immediately slides under your coat, no matter how tightly you pull it around yourself. The rain’s turned into that annoying misty kind—so light it shouldn’t count, but somehow it still sticks to your hair and makes you feel damp and miserable. You jog the last few steps to the door.

Inside, it smells vaguely of lemon cleaning wipes, which is funny, because absolutely nothing in here looks like it’s been cleaned. You don’t bother searching for the coffee machine since technically, you’re not taking orders from your Unit Chief anymore.

You make a beeline for the back fridges instead.

Rows of cheap wine stare back at you—the kind that would give Rossi a heart attack. You pick the worst looking bottle out of pure spite, already planning on texting him a picture just to ruin his evening. Then, for insurance, you grab a few miniature bottles of whiskey. On your way to the till, you snatch a bag of popcorn. The sweet kind.

Once you’ve paid, you head back to the car. Hotch reaches across to push the door open for you, and you slide in. The bag clinks in your hands, immediately giving away your intentions—something he’s clearly clocked, judging by the look he gives you.

“Sorry. The coffee machine was broken, so I got wine instead. Or whisky. Whatever floats your boat on this fine night.”

“Please tell me there's at least water in there.”

You reach into the bag and pull out a bottle, dropping it into the cup holder between you. “Have a little faith.”

He shakes his head in that disappointed-dad way he’s perfected over the years and shifts the car back into drive. The wipers groan across the windshield, and you take the moment to pull the questionable wine out of the bag to send a picture to Rossi. 

You get a reply just as Hotch is turning into the hotel’s car park.

Rossi: Is this a cry for help? Tell me that’s not going in your body. 💀🍷

You leave him on read, taking your clinking bottles with you as you follow Hotch out of the car and into the building. The two of you are quiet as you watch him fumble with the key to your room. Yes—key, not card, because it’s that ancient. Yet, for a man who can dismantle a Glock blindfolded, he still manages to miss the hole twice.

“Any time today would be nice.”

He exhales through his nose, slotting the key in on the third try. “You could always help.”

“Sure. Usually you just line it up and get it in the hole. Works for me most of the time.”

He goes still for half a second. Then, without looking at you, “You know there are moments I genuinely regret encouraging you to speak.”

The lock finally clicks and he pushes the door open for you. 

“Would you look at that,” you say as you brush past him, “you can find the spot.”

The room is exactly as small as you remember, and somehow the freshly made bed almost makes it look worse. Hotch had made it this morning while you were brushing your teeth, tighter and straighter than housekeeping ever could. Pillows fluffed and aligned, corners tucked. True military craftsmanship from a meticulous dork. 

A meticulous dork who is now taking off his jacket and folding it neatly over his go-bag and suddenly—though not suprisignlty—your eyes are glued to the way his white shirt pulls across his shoulders.

You rip your gaze away and begin unpacking your haul. 

“You want the shower first?” he asks, and you glance at him, pretending it’s the first time you’ve looked at him since walking in.

“Nope. I want alcohol.”

He shakes his head, grabs his toiletry bag, and disappears into the tiny bathroom.

You’re about to enjoy the way this glorified paint thinner will probably strip your taste buds, when you realise there’s a slight problem. It’s a corked bottle and not a twist-off. You try using your nails to get it open, and then your sheer willpower. 

Unfortunately it does not respond to either. 

You give it one more useless tug before raising your voice. 

“Hotch?”

Water is running. He does not answer. 

You try again, louder. “Hotch!”

“What?” he calls through the door, voice muffled.

“Are you decent?”

There’s the faintest pause—long enough for you to smile to yourself because you can’t help but imagine him…not decent. 

“Yes,” he says cautiously. “Why?”

“I need help.”

“With what?”

“Alcohol-related emergency.”

You hear him sigh, followed by the water shutting off. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opens and he steps out, with only his belt missing. Interesting. He’s a belt off first kind of guy. 

He looks at the bottle, then at you. “You bought wine without a corkscrew.”

You hold it out to him. “Let me take this as a moment to remind you that I never handed paperwork in late, never took a sick day, never complained about overtime. I was, arguably, the model team member. This is the least you can do to show appreciation.”

He doesn’t argue. Just takes the bottle from your hands and sits on the edge of the bed with it.

Legs spread. Grey slacks pulling just slightly at the seams. Broad thighs taking up most of the mattress. He settles the bottle between them, and you do your absolute best to focus on the glass instead of the fabric creasing over muscle and the very distracting proximity of…everything else. 

He braces the bottle with one hand around the base and you forget how to form actual sentences. With his other hand, he uses his thumb to push the cork down into the bottle, veins flexing with each movement. 

The cork gives a soft, breathy sound as it starts to sink into the neck of the bottle, and you’re just standing there—useless, wine thirsty, and uncomfortably aware of the fact that this should not be as attractive as it is. 

He pulls his hand back as soon as the cork pops and sinks into the bottle, wiping his thumb absently against his thigh and you’re pretty much drooling at the sight, while he looks up at you, unfazed. 

“Happy now?”

“Mhm. Ecstatic. Guess you’ve got just as much trouble pulling out as you do finding the hole.”

“You know I can request to have you transferred earlier than Friday.”

“Go ahead,” you say, scanning the room for glasses. “Knock yourself out.” There are none. No glasses. No mugs. Not even a questionable plastic cup.

“You want to take your wine so I can go shower?” he asks flatly.

“You’re not joining me?” 

His eyes shift between you and the bottle. “How much was this?”

“Four ninety-nine.” You scrunch your nose as he brings it to his face and smells it. “Come on, you have to toast me. Rossi denied me a leaving party because apparently switching departments doesn't count as officially leaving.”

He lets out a slow breath. “You want a toast?”

“Yes.” You nod. “Or you could list your top five things about working with me. Or both. I have time.”

“Fine,” he resigns, moving along the edge of the bed to make space for you. “One toast.”

You grin as you drop down beside him, your knees touching. You watch as he brings the bottle closer to his lips and mulls over what to say. 

“To the fact you never did anything halfway,” he says earnestly and it catches you off guard. You were fully expecting something sarcastic like to the number of sex jokes you made on federal payroll. “Cases, paperwork, people,” he continues. “You were all in. Always.”

And then he tilts the bottle back. You shouldn’t stare, but you do. The way his mouth wraps around the glass, the slow swallow, the faint scrunch of his brows as the taste hits. He pulls it away with a barely-supressed grimace. 

“That’s awful,” he scoffs, handing it to you.

Your fingers brush when you take it, and you can’t help but wonder if his thumb still tastes like wine. You lift the bottle, deliberately pressing your mouth to the exact spot his lips just were, and you catch the way his eyes flick down to follow the movement before meeting yours again.

You take a swig, more than you should because it burns. “God—that’s fucking vile.”

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Told you.”

“Now you have to help me finish it. Otherwise I’ll die, and you’ll have to do the paperwork.”

“That’s manipulative.”

You shrug. “Is it? Thought extra paperwork would be your kind of foreplay.”

His lips twitch, and you almost catch the smile he’s trying so hard to suppress it’s making him look constipated. “You have a foul mouth,” he mutters, taking the bottle back and bringing it to his lips. 

“Is that the first of the five things you like about me?”

He pauses mid-sip, lowers the bottle just enough to give you that painfully patient stare. “We are not making a list.”

“So that’s a yes?”

He takes another swig, getting him out of answering. When he hands the bottle back, you notice his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, despite you having a firm hold on it. 

“Fine. No list. I’ll just assume it’s implied.”

“It isn’t.”

“It is.”

“It really isn’t.”

You roll your eyes, taking two big gulps that almost make your eyes water. 

The back and forth continues until the bottle is completely empty, along with the mini bottles of whiskey you picked up. The popcorn is gone too, aside from the sad trail of it now crushed into the hotel carpet from your failed attempt to open the bag like a normal person.

At some point, sitting upright stopped being doable. Your backs protested, your vision began to blur at the edges, and now the two of you were lying on top of the covers, side by side, legs still hanging off the edge of the bed.

“Are you still beating yourself up about earlier?” he asks, voice softer than it was before the cheap alcohol.

“A little,” you admit with a sigh. “I wanted to do one last thing before leaving. Not hand it back to you unfinished.”

“You softened him up. Made him think he was in control. It might not seem like much, but it helped.”

You huff and push yourself up onto your elbow, turning to face him. His eyes are a little glassy, and for once he looks relaxed. “Bet you’re going to miss using me as bait.”

He shifts his head to glance at you. “You’re only moving two floors down.”

“And what if my new boss doesn’t like to share?”

“You were always mine first,” he says it so casually, you’re not entirely sure he’s processed his own wording.

“Yours?” you let out a laugh, eyebrows lifting. 

“Ours,” he corrects, a vague flick of his hand. “The BAUs”

You’re fairly certain you like the sound of mine more. You look at him again, the alcohol throwing all discreetness out your system. He smiles back up at you in a way you don’t see often. His hair is all mussed, a thin layer of sweat making his skin glow. 

“What are you thinking?” he asks, pushing up onto his elbow to mirror you. 

You grin at him and he immediately regrets asking because he knows that look. He sighs and drops back onto the bed. “Never mind.”

“I think you need a shower.” You spare him your real thoughts.

“Thanks,” he mutters. “I don’t think I could even get my tie off right now.”

“Do you need a hand?”

He laughs quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I might.”

Sitting up takes more effort than it should. The room tilts a little when you move, but you manage to get onto your knees, wobbling and swaying, before Hotch reaches out and catches your wrist, stopping you from diving face first into his chest. 

“What’re you doing?” he asks, just as you swing a knee over his hips and ungracefully settle in his lap.

“Helping you get your tie off because you need to shower.”

He goes rigid beneath you, hands hovering near your waist like he’s unsure if he has permission to rest them on you. “You’re on top of me.”

“We can do this standing if you prefer?”

His eyes close for half a second, like he’s silently begging for patience. “No. Just—”

You catch the speed of that no and can’t help but smile, settling yourself against him. “Okay,” you breathe, leaning in. “Hold still.”

You’ve never actually taken a tie off someone before. Definitely not while tipsy. Which is probably why it’s going so badly. You yank at the knot once… twice… and somehow make it worse. “Why is this thing so tight? Are you into autoerotic asphyxiation or something?”

His hands finally come to rest on your waist. “Please don’t ever say that sentence again.”

“Have we just unlocked a secret turn-on category? It’s fine, I’m very accepting.”

He lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It’s called a Windsor knot.”

“Well no wonder you’re so grumpy all the time—this Windsor knot is cutting off circulation to your brain.”

“You’re making it tighter,” he points out, voice sounding strained. He shifts, probably a poor attempt at comfort because all his movement does is press you directly against his groin.

Your fingers fumble with the fabric, because you’re too busy fighting the urge to move. To roll your hips. To test just how good the friction would feel. “Because you’re moving.”

“You’re on top of me.”

You tug at the fabric again. “I gave you the option to do this standing, didn’t I?”

His eyes shift to your lips, then slowly, he removes one hand from your waist. “Slide the narrow end through the loop,” he says, showing you. 

Fuck. He’s talking you through it. And you’re pretty sure you could get off on his voice alone, but you will yourself to focus. 

 “No—other side.”

You follow his direction, fingers brushing his throat. 

“Now loosen it,” he murmurs. His thumb presses lightly at the knot, guiding your hand. “Pull there.”

You do as you’re told, giving a gentle tug and the knot slides loosely apart. “Would you look at that! You’re tie-free.” 

You give it another tug, slipping it from his collar so you can inspect it. What you thought was just a diamond print now, up close, looks suspiciously like two Gs. You gasp. “Oh my god. You really spent two hundred dollars on a Gucci tie just to choke yourself?”

His hands are back on your waist again. “It was on sale.”

“You could’ve asked me,” you say, looping it clumsily around your neck. “I would’ve done it for free.”

“You’re wearing it backwards.”

“Well,” you breathe, setting your hands on his chest, the warmth of him not doing you any favours, “you’re the expert in expensive silk strangulation. Fix it for me.”

He looks at you intently. His pupils are blown wide, dark as ink, and you can feel exactly how hard he is beneath you. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are. Probably not—not through those overpriced, perfectly tailored slacks clearly designed to prevent situations like this from becoming obvious.

He reaches for the tie, fingers brushing your ribs as he takes each end. The back of his knuckles grazes the thin fabric of your blouse as he lifts the silk to straighten it. 

“You want it to lie like this,” he says softly. “Otherwise it twists.”

You don’t breathe. “Mhm.”

“Now it goes over and under…” His hands do exactly that, looping the fabric while all you can feel is the insistent throb between your thighs. The silk slides against you, his hands settling the knot at the top of your sternum, right between your breasts. 

“You can pull the longer end through here,” he murmurs and takes a hold of your hands, guiding them with his. His thumb presses to the knot to adjust it, dragging it higher. “See? Not that hard.”

You tilt your hips forward. “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” you whisper, fingers moving to the top button of his shirt, undoing it. You watch his Adam's apple bob around a swallow. “Do you want to know what I was really thinking about earlier?” you ask, working the second button loose, his white undershirt peeking through.

You glance up at him, and his eyes are fixed on the point where you’re straddling the hard line of his cock. “You’re going to tell me either way, aren’t you?”

“Mm,” you hum, dragging your thumb down the column of his throat, just to feel the way he swallows again. “I don’t have to.”

“But you want to.” His hands are back on your hips, fingertips pressing into your skin through your blouse.

You shrug, wetting your bottom lip. “I was thinking…whether you’ve ever actually thought about sleeping with me.” 

He stills briefly, like he remembers all the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing any of this, but also realises the two of you crossed that line half a bottle of wine ago. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

“Tonight doesn’t count. I mean before this. Have you thought about it?” There’s no shame in your voice, just curiosity.

His thumb slips beneath your blouse, making you roll your hips into him again. “Yes,” he grunts out.

“That’s it?”

“You asked a yes or no question.”

Your hand drifts lower, undoing another button on his shirt. “You could elaborate.”

“You really want me to do that right now?”

“Absolutely.” Your fingers pause, leaving his shirt half-open, and slide to the buttons of your own shirt. You toy with one absentmindedly. “Would it help if I took this off?”

His jaw flexes. He looks at your blouse. Then your mouth. Then your blouse again. “That’s not—” He cuts himself off, exhaling through his nose. 

“How about this,” you offer with a smile, “every time you tell me when you’ve thought about it, I take off a piece of clothing. Seems fair, don’t you think?”

“And if I don’t want to partake in this game?”

“Then I get off your lap, put on my most conservative pyjamas, go to sleep, you shower, and we never speak of this again.” You really, really hope that’s not the option he picks. “The choice is yours. You tell me what you want to do.”

He goes quiet, thinking—though with how hard his cock is pressing against you, practically straining in those slacks, you’re not convinced he’s capable of coherent thought. You’re hardly better. You’re fucking soaked, and technically the two of you haven’t even done anything remotely obscene. But apparently sitting on your boss’s lap counts as the world’s most effective form of foreplay.

“Rossi’s birthday last year,” he reveals. 

“I remember,” you nod and begin working your buttons down. “We stayed behind to help him clean up.”

“And you insisted on putting away the wine glasses—” He stops when your bra comes into view and swallows thickly before dragging his eyes to your face. “You climbed up onto the counter, almost fell and nearly shattered every glass in your hands.”

You laugh, shrugging your blouse off and tossing it on the floor so it can make friends with the popcorn crumbs. “I recall you having a pretty good view of my ass in the process.”

His eyes drop to the breasts spilling out your bra. “Not as good as the view I have now.”

“That’s one.” You toy with the strap of your bra. “Next.”

“The jet.”

You light up instantly.  “This’ll be good.” 

“We were coming back from Georgia and shared the sofa. You were lying on one end, I was sitting on the other.” 

“Do continue.”

“You move a lot in your sleep,” he goes on, eyes fixed on your face, though you can feel the tension in his hands at your hips. “Kept shifting… sighing… dragging the blanket up and then kicking it off again. And with every move, your skirt rode a little higher. I stopped looking when I realised I wasn’t just making sure you were covered. I was… staring.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” you coo sweetly, before attempting to climb off his lap without falling off the bed. His brows pull together as he watches you stand at the edge of the mattress, propped up on his elbows.

There’s a dark patch on his groin, and you don’t know if it’s from you, or him, or both, but it makes your stomach twist, makes you want to end this game so you could finally feel him inside you. 

But apparently you enjoy suffering—or making him suffer—especially when he’s looking up at you with his legs completely spread, those wide, helpless eyes and a face tinged pink. So you only smile, fingers sliding to the zipper of your trousers as you prompt innocently, “Did you like the tights I wore?”

“With the seam at the back,” he confirms just as you push the slacks down your thighs.

You hadn’t planned on playing strip—or confessional—poker with your Unit Chief, which is exactly why your underwear is nothing special. Plain grey cotton and embarrassingly damp. You freeze for only a second, then lift your chin like you meant for it to be this way.

“I don’t think I can keep going,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“You can’t last two more rounds?” you tease, kicking out of the fabric pooling at your ankles. “I won’t count the tie as clothing.”

His eyes drag over you like he’s in pain. “I mean if you keep this up for any longer, I’m going to finish in my pants like a teenager.”

You try very hard not to preen. “I’ll do you a deal,” you say, taking a slow step forward until you’re standing between his legs. “Make this one really good…” You lean in slightly, just enough for the tips of your fingers to brush his knee. “…and I’ll take everything off.”

He swallows.

“The last Christmas party.” His words come easily, like this specific memory had been on the edge of his mind for a while.

You nod. “You were my ride.”

“You had on that black dress with the slit up your thigh. You went upstairs to fix your lipstick and asked me to show you the bathroom.” He sits up, his hands coming to rest on the backs of your thighs. “And then your zipper conveniently decided to undo itself halfway down your spine.”

“That zip was very flimsy.”

“I put my hand on your back and you arched into it. Maybe you didn’t even realise you did it. But I did.” His thumb strokes idly against your skin, eyes half-lidded. “All I could think about was how easy it would’ve been to push that dress the rest of the way down… bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror.”

Heat pools low in your stomach. “And you didn’t.”

“You were tipsy and said you’d had too much champagne. So I zipped it back up and walked you downstairs.”

“Such a gentleman.” Your hands are already moving. You reach behind you, fingers brushing the clasp of your bra. “Well…a deal's a deal.” You take your time—partly on purpose, partly because your fingers are shaking the tiniest bit. The clasp gives, and you roll the straps lazily off your shoulders before letting fabric fall.

Hotch has gone completely still, the hands on your thighs frozen like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. The only thing moving are his eyes, dragging over your body so slowly it makes your skin burn. “You okay?”

His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip before he answers. “You know I’m not.”

“Will it make you feel better to do the honours?” Your hands cover his, guiding them up from your thighs to the waistband of your panties. 

He looks up at you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this. Wrecked and glassy-eyed. He looks like someone who’d do anything you told him to. If they handed out awards for driving tightly wound, hyper-controlled men right to the edge of composure, you’re certain you’d win.

“Go on,” you whisper softly. “You’ve earned it.”

His fingers slip beneath the waistband and his touch is gentle as he starts easing the fabric down your hips. You glance down as he drags them lower, the inside of your underwear looking far worse than the outside. When you look back up, Hotch is already watching you, mouth curved into a crooked, boyish grin, validated that he’s not the only one soaking his undergarments. 

You step out of them the moment they hit the floor.

Hotch’s hands are on you right away, sliding up the backs of your thighs until they settle at the curve of your ass, pulling you closer.  He presses a wet kiss followed by a bite to your hip, your hands finding his shoulders to steady yourself.

“I want you on my tongue.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, laying back down and the room is tilting again. Whether from the cheap wine or the intoxication of him, you’re not sure. All you can do is follow, crawling up his body until your knees bracket his head. You don’t lower yourself down just yet.

He doesn’t touch you right away. Just…looks. 

“You need instructions?” you tease, threading your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. 

The bastard only laughs, the warm puff of air against your inner thigh making your breath catch. Then he’s lifting his head, and all you can do is watch—lips parted, hand still tangled in his hair—as his tongue finally makes contact with your pussy, dragging a slow stripe up your centre that makes your hips twitch. 

He pulls back with obscene patience, and you know exactly why, because a thin, pearly string of your wetness stretches from his mouth to you, and he has the audacity to look proud of it. 

He watches the strand break and you barely have time to process what’s happening before he’s hauling you down until you’re sitting on his face. His mouth opens wider to taste more of you, his tongue flattening and dragging through you, like he’s been dying for this. He absolutely has.

“Fuck!” you choke out, yanking at his hair, only for him to groan in response. Your hips stumble forward and for a second, you fear for the man’s airway with the way you’re practically smothering him between your thighs, but you realise he’s the one that’s pulling you down against him.

“So sweet for me,” he thrums, voice buried. You feel more than hear it, a vibration of sound right where you’re most sensitive. Your thighs tremble around his ears as he licks a messy path up you, then dips lower, tongue slipping inside, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly.

A whimper spills out before you can bite it back. You rock into him without meaning to, pulse skittering like it’s trying to outrun your body, that familiar feeling already building too fast.

And that’s when he slows. Doesn’t completely stop, just changes the pace in a way that has you letting out a strangled noise. 

“Really?” you pant, trying to catch your breath. “Is this your first time?” You lift yourself enough to look down at him. 

“Ask me nicely.”

“What?”

His chin glistens and he looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. “You’re used to demanding things.” His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs. “I think it’s time you learnt to be polite.”

Asshole. 

You let out a sharp breath, giving his hair a tug. “Please,” you bite out.

He smiles smugly, and then he’s lifting his head to suck your clit into his mouth. A whole parade of curses spill out of you—creative ones too, the kind you don’t even usually say out loud—tripping over each other so fast you barely recognise your own voice. 

And then he pulls back. Again. 

“Please what?” 

Correction: he’s a vindictive asshole.

You see exactly what he’s doing. You recognise his pettiness exactly for what it is. You tormented him first, made him spell it out for you, and now he’s returning the favour. He’s a desperate, competitive perfectionist who insists on winning everything, even the art of sexual torture. 

“Sadist,” you hiss. 

“Mm.” He turns his head and sinks his teeth gently into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Now be specific.”

You give him a dry humourless smile. “Please make me come. First with your mouth and then with your cock.” You drag a thumb along his jaw tauntingly. “Is that specific enough for you?”

His mouth is back on you again in seconds. No easing in this time. 

“Jesus—” you gasp, hands bracing on the mattress above his head for balance. The sheets bunch beneath your fingers, the material scratching against your palms. 

You feel his tongue circle and suck, like he’s trying to gauge every possible sound out of you, catalogue every single nerve you possess. Your thighs tighten around his temples, the drag of his stubble scraping lightly against your skin. 

He pulls you even lower, thumbs digging into your hips, like he wants to disappear into you entirely. The movement forces you down onto his tongue, and the wet, needy sounds he’s making against your cunt are so lewd, you swear you feel them echo behind your ribs. 

“Hotch—fuck!”

He hums at the sound, and then his hands shift, big palms sliding up your back, adjusting your angle to give him better access. 

“Okay—okay—slow down—” you whimper, even though your hips are doing the exact opposite.

“You asked nicely,” he mumbles into you.

Your laugh comes out breathless and shaky, your whole body tensing under the intensity of his tongue. “I didn’t think—ah—nicely would get me this.”

He answers without words, drawing a slow circle around your clit, and another moan tumbles out of you. You’re close. You can feel it in every part of you, in your thighs trembling around his ears, in the tight pull at the base of your spine. 

You gasp, head tipping back. “I—I’m—”

“You can come,” he says headily, tugging you closer. “Go on.”

You tense and wither against him. “Say it,” you pant. “Say you want me to.”

“I want you to.”

Your body caves forward, thighs clamping his head as your orgasm pulls you under so fast you forget to breathe, forget to think, forget everything except the feeling of coming apart on his mouth, wishing you could bottle it forever. 

It takes you a few minutes to come back to Earth. Earth being a cheap hotel room in the middle of nowhere. 

The first thing you register is the way Hotch’s thumb strokes your hip, then the press of his mouth to the inside of your thigh, another kiss, then another. You manage to lift yourself, and he immediately helps you, guiding your waist tenderly, letting you settle over him in your dazed state. 

“Hi,” you croak. 

He raises a brow, amused. “Hi.”

“Your face is shiny.”

A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “That would be your fault.”

“I can help with that,” you murmur, leaning down and running your tongue along the line of his jaw, tasting yourself on his skin. Your mouth then grazes the corner of his lips, and that’s when you realise—this man has had his tongue inside you, yet…you don’t know what he tastes like. The two of you haven't actually kissed. 

He must sense something is wrong, because his brows lift slightly, like he’s puzzled by the sudden stillness in your body. “What is it?”

You huff a tiny laugh, breath ghosting his cheek. “We haven’t even kissed.” You pull back, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping across his chin to clean the shine you left there. 

“You want to?” he asks like it’s a reasonable question, like he didn’t just have his mouth on the most intimate part of your body minutes ago.

“Aaron, you just had me sitting on your face. What do you think?”

“Aaron,” he repeats.

“That’s your name isn’t it?”

“Mm.” His hands tighten at your waist. “Say it again.”

“Are you going to kiss me, Aaron?”

For a second, he just stares up at you, like you’ve asked him something sacrilegious, something he's wanted for so long he’s almost afraid it's not real. His hands slide up your bare waist, settling at your ribs, giving them a gentle squeeze.

“Come here.” 

You meet him halfway.

His lips brush yours delicately, soft enough to make your stomach lurch in anticipation.

You pull back a fraction, just to see his face, and then you’re kissing him again, deeper, tasting something you’ve both been orbiting for years. His tongue slides against yours, the kiss swallowing the moan that slips out of you. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you breathe against his mouth, the words almost a whine.

“Which ones are bothering you?”

“All of them,” you answer, fingers blindly racing to undo the rest of his shirt. “Sit up.”

He obeys with little afterthought, pushing up on his elbows so you can shove the fabric off his shoulders. You don’t bother folding it neatly, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and you catch the tiny wince he tries (and fails) to hide.

“Arms up.” You grab the hem of his undershirt, tugging, and he sits up properly this time—bringing your bare, aching centre directly against the hard line of his cock.

The sound he lets out is a half-breath, half-groan at the contact. You don’t get the chance to tease him for it. You’re too busy hauling the undershirt over his head, and he has no choice but to help you strip it off. When it joins the rest of the discarded clothes, you press your hands to his shoulders, giving him a gentle push. He falls back without resistance, molten under your touch. 

You lean down, placing a kiss under his jaw, then another just below it, relishing in the way his breath stutters each time your mouth lands on new skin. His chest is warm under your lips, rising and falling in a rhythm that’s embarrassingly close to a pant. 

“Christ,” he mutters, and you grin against him, continuing to kiss your way down.

You press another kiss just above the waistband of his trousers, moving down to nudge the bulge beneath the fabric with the bridge of your nose. His reaction is instant. His hips twitch, hands shooting to your hair.

“Want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, glancing up at him through your lashes.

He shakes his head far too quickly. “Keep going.”

So you do. You kiss along the outline of him through the slacks, the damp patch dragging faintly across your lips with each pass. His thighs flex beneath your hands, his breathing falling out in tight, rigid bursts, the fabric getting warmer and wetter under your mouth. You drag your lips along the length of him once more, slow enough to be cruel, and his whole body jolts. 

That’s when you take pity. 

Your fingers finally move to his zipper, and you feel Hotch’s eyes on you as you ease it down. He lifts his hips immediately, allowing you to roll the slacks off him. The second they hit the floor, you’re already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips again—quicker and needier—as you drag the last piece of clothing down his thighs. 

And then he’s bare beneath you.

You sit back for a second, just to drink him in, mouth salivating at the flushed skin of his stomach, the tense lines of his abdomen, the way his cock rests hard and heavy on his stomach, precum sliding down the curve of him. You reach out without thinking, placing both hands on his thighs for balance as you crawl back up his body. Hovering over him, you lower your hips, feeling the head of his length nudge your inner thigh. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like the words slip from him before he can decide whether he’s allowed to say them. His hands trace up your sides, thumbs brushing under your breasts.

That sentence almost makes you coy. Almost. But your body apparently didn’t get the memo, because your hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and Hotch hisses through his teeth. He’s painfully hard in your palm, every throb pulsing against your grip. 

You press him back against his stomach and grind down on him.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice shaking when the slick tip knocks directly against your clit. His hands grab your hips, fingers digging in. “I’m close, and I want to feel you. All of you. I don’t think I’ll be able to last if you keep doing that.”

You roll your hips again, a trembling little slide that makes your breath catch. “You will,” you whimper, leaning forward until your lips brush his. “For me.”

His jaw goes disastrously tight, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before they find yours again, throat constricting around a swallow—and you can’t help the grin that curls up in response. You almost regret leaving the unit, because Monday’s briefing would’ve been something, watching him give orders with a straight face while knowing he couldn’t even wait until he was inside you to come.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he rasps. His hand leaves your hip, slides up your spine, and gathers a fistful of your hair. He tugs it, just enough to pull a gasp from your mouth, and then lifts his head to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against your jaw. 

You laugh, his exhale scorching against your skin. Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping around his length again, and you pull away from his mouth as you shift upright. You rise onto your knees, finally guiding his head of his cock to your entrance, his precum coating your pussy, your thighs, his own stomach. 

“I think you’re enjoying this far more than I am,” you murmur—right before you sink down on him, only a fraction, enough to make you both tense at the contact. 

“Slow—” he manages, voice breaking around it. “Go slow.”

You pause there, barely taking the head of him, but it's enough for heat and pressure to spark low in your belly. “Slow?” you echo, tilting your head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know… you weren’t exactly slow with me.”

His hands clamp down on your hips. “That was different.”

You give a faint roll of your hips, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are, how easy it would be to slide all the way down. His breath stumbles out of him, all of his authority stripped. 

“Different how?” you tease, tracing a finger down his chest, stopping right where his stomach flexes under your touch. 

His eyes flutter shut and when they open again, his pupils are blown, jaw clenching like he’s fighting the urge to thrust into you. “Different,” he repeats, “because I’ve been wanting this a long time.”

“How long?” you probe, sinking down onto him further, the stretch of him intoxicating. His head thunks back against the mattress, a groan lurching out of him. 

“Two—years,” he gets out, voice splintering as you take more of him. 

You still for a second. “Two years?”

“You’re surprised?”

“I mean… yeah? You don’t exactly flirt. You scowl. And file paperwork. And tell me I have a foul mouth.” You lower yourself another inch, slow enough to make him choke on a sound he’d absolutely murder himself for making in any other circumstance. You feel the stretch deep in your belly.

“Aaron,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Look at me.”

He does instantly. 

“You’ve been wanting this for two years?” 

He nods, and you sink down onto him, all the way, until the dark curls at the base of him brush your clit. He’s deep—too deep—in a way you’ve never felt before, his cock throbbing inside you as you bite down on a moan. 

“Don’t move yet. Just…give me a second,” he whispers, hands kneading the flesh of your ass.

Your fingers splay across his torso as you adjust to him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or do anything about it?”

“Because I was your superior. Still am. For another thirty-six hours.”

“You’re telling me you waited two years because of HR?”

“Because it was the right thing to do.”

You shake your head, lift your hips, and take him again. He fills you up completely, the tip nudging deep enough to pull a choked sound from your throat. You’d imagined him like this—God, probably longer than two years—but it still doesn’t compare. 

“You feel so fucking perfect,” he pants, his right hand guiding your roll against him. “So, so perfect,” he mutters, voice fraying as you rise off him and then sink back down. 

His spare hand comes up to palm your breast, this thumb brushing the underside before his fingers catch your nipple and pinch. Your head tips back immediately, a moan spilling from you as the pleasure arcs up your spine. 

“That’s it,” he grits. “Just like that.”

Every time you sink back down, he stretches you just a little more, hits that spot just a little harder. Your thighs start to tremble with the effort. His right hand only tightens at your hip, guiding your pace, manipulating your angle because of course he knows what feels better. But it’s his other hand, the one that’s still on your chest, that begins to slide lower, drifting over your ribs, over your stomach, the curve of your pelvis.

You don’t even realise what he’s reaching for until his thumb finds your clit.

A helpless cry breaks out of you.

“There she is…” he coaxes, thumb moving in a circle motion. “So pretty and vocal for me.”

You pick up the pace at the praise naturally. His breath falters, hips stuttering every time you grind down and meet his thumb at the same time. 

“Aaron—” 

His head tips back, a vein standing out at his neck, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps beneath his skin. His thumb slips against your clit with every shake of his body, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses harder, circles tighter, chasing you towards the edge even as he’s sliding towards his own.

“Sweetheart, slow—slow down—”

You don’t. You do the opposite, rocking into him, burying him inside of you. You feel yourself clench around him.

“Fuck!” he groans, your name following. His hands fly back to your hips, trying to hold you still, but your body squeezes around him and his own hips jerk helplessly. The sound he makes next is loud enough you’re almost certain the entire floor hears it. Every muscle in his stomach goes taut as he throbs inside you, warmth spilling in hot waves as he comes harder than you’ve ever heard him breathe. 

One of his hands drags back down to your clit, despite the fact that his whole body seems to shake and twitch. He tries to keep his eyes open—tries to keep watching you on top of him—but his lashes flutter shut as you ride out the aftershocks pulsing through him. 

You feel the warmth of his release seep out of you, ropes catching your inner thigh, clinging around the base of his still-sensitive cock. He finally forces his eyes open, his thumb still on your clit.

“Are you close?” he rasps. 

You nod, legs shaking around him, barely able to hold yourself upright.

“Okay, baby… okay.” His breath stumbles, his whole body jolting each time you move, but his thumb keeps working you. 

“Aaron—” Your voice cracks, head falling forward as a wave of heat curls deep in your stomach.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Come on.”

You grind down again, chasing the high, and he groans at the contact, but pulls you flush against his hips so you can keep moving. Your hands slide across his chest, clutching his shoulders, needing something to hold as the pressure tightens like a fist around your spine. 

Your thighs clamp around his hips, your body clenching so fiercely around him that his head falls back with a quiet whimper. He tries to thrust instinctively, but he’s too sensitive. He trembles through the shock of it anyway, jaw flexing, teeth gritted as he tries to stay still for you. 

“Sweetheart—” he gasps, “I need—you have to—please—”

And that does it. The please. Hearing him say it. 

Your release slams into you like a freight train. 

Your whole body seizes around him, your nails dragging down his chest as your vision whites out, a sharp sob catching in your throat. The orgasm tears through you in violent waves, blinding and completely overwhelming. 

Your body finally goes limp, folding over him, your hands bracing on either side of his head as you lean forward. A thin string of drool slips past your lips as you gasp for air, your pussy still pulsing around his cock in tight, involuntary aftershocks.

Hotch’s arms come up your back immediately, palms splayed, rubbing slow strokes along your spine. 

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Easy…I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

You manage a shuddering inhale against his throat, your forehead pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder. You can hear and feel his heartbeat beneath you, syncing with your own like your bodies haven’t quite figured out how to separate yet. 

His hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “There you go,” he whispers. “That’s it.”

Your lips brush the base of his throat when you exhale. “Don’t pull out just yet,” you mumble against him, wanting to keep him inside as long as you possibly can, unsure when—if—you’ll ever get this close to him again.

“I’m not going anywhere. You can have as long as you want.” 

You both go quiet for a moment, appreciating the soft ache of being filled and held at the same time. His chest rises beneath you with each slow breath, your body melting deeper into the lines of his. 

You lift your head up after a while, meeting his eyes. “Two years, huh?” 

He lets out a soft laugh. “Two years.”

“What’s the right thing to do now?” you ask, brushing the back of your knuckles along his jaw. 

“You need to go pee so I can get you cleaned up.”

You groan into his neck. “Gee, way to ruin a moment.”

“And then,” he adds, kissing your temple, “when your transfer is official… I can take you out to dinner…If you’d like that?”

“A date?” you ask quietly.

“If you want it to be.”

You pull back to look at him properly. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” he says with a smile, voice warm. “That’s what I was hoping.”

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The German Shepherd’s shoulders rolled under his tactical vest, every muscle tuned to the invisible thread of scent faintly drifting from the third row of warehouses.

You weren’t BAU. You were an FBI K9, itinerant, loaned out like a bloodhound to whatever team needed a nose sharper than their own.

Hotch had made it clear from the moment you’d arrived: You follow my command structure. You’d nodded, smiled, and meant exactly none of it.

“Apollo’s got something,” you said into your radio, voice low. “Southeast, and from his body language, scent is moving away, fast.”

Hotch’s reply crackled back instantly. “Negative. Hold position. SWAT’s two minutes out.”

Two minutes! In two minutes, a man who’d already burned three women alive could be three blocks gone, swallowed by the labyrinth of loading docks and rusted rail spurs.

Apollo whined, a sharp and urgent sound, and pawed the cracked asphalt. You glanced at the BAU agents fanned out behind their SUVs: Morgan’s jaw tight, Prentiss scanning rooftops, Reid muttering probabilities under his breath.

Hotch stood at the center, arms crossed, brows furrowed, eyes locked on the darkness ahead, as if he could will the unsub back into custody.

You unclipped Apollo’s lead. “Søg,” you whispered. Search.

He launched forward, a black-and-tan bolt, claws scrabbling for purchase against the asphalt. You were two steps behind, boots pounding, flashlight slicing through the dark.

Hotch’s voice exploded in your ear. “Agent! Stand down—”

You clicked the comm off.

The warehouse Apollo led you to was a gutted shell, its roll-up door hanging crooked on one hinge. Inside, the air was thick and chemically, gasoline most likely, scorched wood, and something sweeter that you couldn't quite pinpoint.

Apollo’s nose dropped to the concrete, then snapped up, tracking a zigzag path between overturned crates. You followed, heart hammering against your ribs, the weight of your Glock steady in your hand, having a feeling you might need to use it for once.

There.

A section of plywood, hastily nailed over a crawlspace. Apollo circled it twice, then sat, ears flat, eyes locked on the dark beneath, and with one loud bark, he signalled that this was the place.

You knelt, pried the board up with the muzzle of your flashlight, revealing a tunnel. Narrow, seemingly hand-dug, the earth was damp from where the unsub’s had frantically scrambled through, overturning the dirt.

Apollo’s tail thumped once, impatient.

You keyed your mic back on. “Tunnel entrance, warehouse 17-B. Suspect’s underground. I’m pursuing.”

Hotch’s voice was ice. “You will not—”

“Too late.” You had already signalled Apollo to drop in before dropping into the hole yourself, knees bending to absorb the impact. The tunnel swallowed you fast in its darkness; the only light was your flashlight’s thin beam.

Apollo's nails scraped against the dirt ahead, and along with his barks, those were the only signs of life.

The passage twisted, narrowed, then opened into a storm drain junction, concrete walls slick with runoff, the stench of mold thick enough to taste.

Apollo’s bark echoed ahead. You rounded the corner at a sprint.

The unsub was halfway up a maintenance ladder, a canister of accelerant slung over his shoulder, lighter glinting in his hand.

He saw you, saw the dog, saw the gun, and lunged for the rungs. And although he was fast, Apollo was faster, locking his teeth around the man’s calf, dragging him down in a tangle of limbs, fur, and curses.

The canister clattered away, rolling into the dark. You were on him in seconds, knee in his back, cuffs ratcheting tight around wrists already slick with blood.

“FBI! Stay down!” Your voice cracked like a whip. Apollo released on command, circling to block the tunnel’s mouth, lips peeled back in a silent snarl.

Bootsteps thundered behind you—SWAT, finally, breaching the drain.

Once you, Apollo, SWAT, and the unsub had cleared the tunnel and were back on the surface, you were met by Hotch. He took in the scene, the cuffed unsub, the evidence bagged accelerant, Apollo sitting proud beside you, tail dusting against the concrete.

You brushed grit from your vest, and met Hotch’s stare. “You’re welcome, sir.”

His jaw flexed, the muscle ticking. “We’ll discuss your insubordination later.”

You stepped forward, boots crunching on a few loose stones, Apollo’s ears swiveling toward the rising heat in your voice. “Insubordination?” The word cracked out of you, sharp enough to make the nearest SWAT officer glance over. You didn't know what had gotten over you, whether it was Hotch or the situation getting on your nerves. “You’re not my unit chief, Agent Hotchner. I’m a K9 liaison, not BAU. My chain of command starts in Alexandria and ends with whoever signs Apollo’s vet bills.”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed to slits. “When you’re on my scene, you follow my protocol.”

“Your protocol just lost us forty-three minutes and almost let a serial arsonist vanish into the sewer system.” You jabbed a finger toward the tunnel mouth. “Apollo had the scent. I had probable cause. You had a perimeter that looked pretty on paper and useless in practice.”

Morgan took one deliberate step back, hands raised in surrender. Prentiss leaned against a crate, arms folded, clearly settling in for the show. Reid’s gaze ping-ponged between you like he was timing the argument with a stopwatch.

Hotch’s voice dropped to that lethal register that usually made rookies flinch. “You breached a tactical line without clearance. You put yourself and that dog in a structurally compromised tunnel with an armed suspect.”

“And I put cuffs on him before your SWAT stack even finished their countdown.” You matched his volume, refusing to cede ground. “You want to write me up? Fine. Send it to Captain Delgado. He’ll frame it next to the commendation we got in Pittsburgh when your profile missed the secondary egress and Apollo dragged a kidnapped kid out of a grain silo.”

Hotch took one step closer; the floodlights carved harsh shadows across his face. “This isn’t about commendations. It’s about discipline. One rogue agent compromises the entire op.”

“Then maybe stop treating borrowed assets like chess pieces you’re afraid to move.” Your pulse hammered in your ears, but you didn’t blink. “I’m not your agent, Hotch. I’m the idiot who just handed you a closed case. A thank you wouldn’t kill you.”

For a heartbeat, the only sound was Apollo’s tail thumping against your calf and the distant crackle of radios. "And next time, remember who it was that called me in for help." Hotch’s nostrils flared as you spoke; you could practically see him counting to ten.

“Quantico,” he said finally, each syllable clipped. “08:00. My office. Bring your after-action report... and your captain’s contact information.”

You gave him the same two-finger salute, slower this time, deliberate. “I'll do you one better, I'll bring the whole man. Looking forward to watching you explain to Delgado why you needed a dog to do your job.”

Hotch pivoted, barking coordinates to SWAT, but the set of his shoulders was rigid enough to snap. You turned on your heel, signalling for Apollo to follow. He trotted at your side, and neither of you looked back at the seething unit chief.

Hotch’s silhouette disappeared into the command trailer. You vanished around the far side of warehouse 17-B, Apollo’s tags jingling like a warning bell.

Thirty yards away, behind the mobile command van, the BAU clustered like kids at recess.

Morgan pulled a crumpled twenty from his pocket. “Three weeks. Max. They’re gonna combust in that office.”

Prentiss smirked, digging for her wallet. “Two. I’m telling you, the second the door closes, paperwork’s hitting the floor.”

Reid adjusted his glasses. “Statistically, workplace proximity plus elevated adrenaline increases the likelihood of a precipitating event by thirty-seven percent. I say ten days, but only if Garcia livestreams the security feed.”

JJ, arriving with crime-scene tape, caught the tail end. “Y'all betting on when they'll finally snap?”

“Pretty much. We call it the Hostile sexual tension bet,” Morgan smiled.

Garcia’s voice piped over the comms, tinny but gleeful. “Put me down for eight days and a utility closet somewhere at the academy. I’ve got popcorn money riding on this.”

Quantico, Monday morning, 07:58.

The bullpen was still half-asleep, agents shuffling with coffee, printers humming like lazy bees. You stood outside Hotch’s office door, Apollo heeling at your left in a perfect sit, tongue lolling.

Your uniform was pressed, boots polished to a spit-shine, but the bags under your eyes said you’d spent the red-eye flight writing the after-action report Hotch had demanded. Captain Delgado leaned against the wall beside you, arms crossed, salt-and-pepper beard catching the fluorescent glare of the lamps above. He looked like a man who’d already won the argument and was just waiting for the room to catch up.

The door opened. Hotch filled the frame, tie knotted with military precision, expression carved from granite—Clearly, he hadn't calmed down since last night. “Agent. Captain.”

“SSA Hotchner.” Delgado’s voice was mild, but the way he said Hotch's title made it sound like Delgado was calling him a paper-pusher. He stepped inside first, claiming the chair angled toward Hotch’s desk without waiting for an invitation. You followed, Apollo’s nails scraping against the carpet. Hotch’s eyes flicked to the dog, lingering half a second on the shepherd’s calm focus, before settling on you.

“Close the door.”

You did. The click sounded final.

Hotch didn’t sit. He rounded the desk, planted both palms on the blotter, and leaned forward. “Let’s be clear. Forty-three minutes of containment, SWAT in stack, and you breached the line without—”

“Without what, Agent Hotchner?” Delgado cut in, voice smooth. “Without waiting for a suspect who’d already set three women on fire to light another match? My handler had critical circumstances, a trained K9 asset with a positive track record, and a tunnel that collapsed thirty seconds after SWAT cleared out. You want to lecture someone on timing, start with your own tactical brief.”

Hotch’s knuckles whitened. “Protocol exists for a reason, Captain.”

“Protocol didn’t smell the accelerant bleeding through cracked concrete.” Delgado pulled a tablet from his briefcase, flicked to a still frame from your body-cam: Apollo frozen mid-sit over the plywood cover, ears pinned, nose pointed like an arrow. “This is probable cause. This is actionable intelligence. Your perimeter map marked that sector ‘low probability.’ Apollo marked it ‘jackpot.’”

Hotch’s gaze slid to you. “Your comm went dark for ninety-two seconds.”

You met it, unflinching. “Because you were busy reciting the manual while a killer crawled away. It was like I experienced tinnitus for the first time. Ninety-two seconds bought you a cuffed unsub and zero extra body bags. You’re welcome.”

Delgado didn’t bother hiding his grin. “She’s not wrong.”

Hotch straightened, folding his arms. “K9 is an adjunct resource. Adjunct follows the primary team’s command.”

“Wrong again.” Delgado swiped to the next screen, which happened to be an organisational chart, BAU in one column, K9 Field Operations in another, both feeding straight to the Deputy Director. “We’re parallel assets. When lives are at stake, my handlers have discretionary latitude. It’s in the MoU you signed last year when we started this collaboration. Page seven, paragraph four. I can wait while you find it.”

The silence stretched, thick enough to chew. Apollo yawned, pink tongue curling.

Hotch’s jaw worked. “Discretionary latitude doesn’t mean solo cowboy stunts in a condemned drain.”

“It means trusting the asset you requested,” you said. “You called us in because your profile said the unsub would rabbit through ‘non-obvious exits.’ Apollo found the non-obvious. If I’d waited for your green light, we’d still be pulling charred bones out of basements right now.”

Delgado leaned back, chair creaking. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Aaron.” First-name basis. Delgado was trying to piss him off, you thought to yourself, trying your hardest not to show your amusement. “You’re going to accept that the collar did your work for you. You’re going to put K9 Apollo, handler Agent [Y/L/N] in the press release. And you’re going to stop pretending borrowed dogs come with leashes you control. Because next time you freeze my team out, I’ll pull them the second they clear the tarmac. Clear?”

Hotch’s eyes flicked to the photo on his desk, Jack, gap-toothed in a Little League uniform, then back to Delgado. Something shifted behind the stoic mask, a calculation you couldn’t read.

“Understood,” he said finally, each syllable scraped raw.

Delgado stood. “Good. Agent [Y/L/N] will forward the body-cam footage and logs. You’ll find they corroborate every decision she made.” He paused at the door, hand on the knob. “Oh, and Aaron? Next time you want to dress down one of my handlers, schedule it through me. Saves us both the paperwork.”

The door opened. Delgado strode out like he owned the hallway. You lingered for a second before standing, Apollo rising to follow.

Hotch’s voice stopped you. “Agent.”

You turned.

He was closer now, voice low enough so the slowly filling bullpen wouldn’t catch it. “Your captain’s not here to referee every scene.”

“No,” you said, meeting him stare for stare. “But the dog is. And he doesn’t file complaints. He bites, on command.” You narrowed your eyes and gritted your teeth at the last part

Apollo huffed, bumping Hotch’s knee with his snout "accidentally", the glint in his eyes told otherwise. Hotch’s hand twitched again, same as in the warehouse, but this time his fingers brushed the shepherd’s ear, a single, involuntary stroke.

You caught it. So did he.

Heat flashed across his cheekbones, gone as fast as it came. “Dismissed.”

You stepped into the bullpen. Behind you, the door shut with a definitive click.

Morgan was already waiting, leaning against Garcia’s desk with a twenty-dollar bill pinched between two fingers. “Pay up, Baby Girl. Captain just ate Hotch’s lunch and used the dog as a napkin.”

Garcia’s eyes went wide behind her cat-eye glasses. “Details. I need details.” You could hear her tapping away on her tablet, probably scrambling to get access to the security camera in Hotch's office.

You kept walking, Apollo’s tags jingling like victory bells, but you didn’t miss the way Hotch’s silhouette stayed framed in the window as the elevator doors closed around you and Apollo.

2. Denver

It was 4 am, forty-one hours since the Amber Alert first shrieked across every screen in the metro area.

The BAU had the unsub in cuffs twenty-four hours earlier. A twitchy thirty-year-old, picked up at a Greyhound depot with the missing girl’s backpack in his locker. But he lawyered up faster than the team had ever seen before, zipped his lips, and let the clock chew through the little girl’s life one merciless second at a time. No location. No ransom. Just the echo of a six-year-old’s name in every briefing room.

Hotch had pulled every string the Bureau owned: search grids, cadaver dogs, thermal drones, infrared helicopters. Nothing. The trail died where the unsub had ditched his van, under the I-25 overpass, where runoff from a busted sprinkler main turned the shoulder into a swamp.

That’s where the K9 unit rolled in.

Three handlers, four dogs. You and Apollo took the east quadrant. The other teams fanned west. You’d been on the ground six hours, boots soaked through, the wind knifing straight through your jacket.

Apollo’s nose never quit though, working the air in tight, methodical arcs, sifting through diesel fumes and wet concrete.

Then he froze.

One paw lifted, tail still. The classic alert. You dropped to a knee beside him. “Whatcha got, buddy?”

He shoved his muzzle under a tangle of kudzu and came up with a scrap of fabric clenched gently in his teeth. It was pale pink with cartoon dinosaurs, crusted with dried blood and grime. The missing girl’s blanket, you confirmed it by pulling up the photo that had been distributed to the search parties.

Hotch’s voice crackled over the comms channel. “K9’s got an article yet?”

“Apollo just found something,” you answered, already clipping a longer line to Apollo’s harness. “Blanket. We're preparing to track.”

“Hold for—”

“Negative.” You were moving before the sentence finished, Apollo lunging forward, pulling you down the embankment into the runoff ditch. “Trail’s degrading in the water. Clock’s ticking.”

The ditch became a culvert, became a concrete throat that swallowed light and sound. You flicked on your headlamp. The beam jittered across ankle-deep sludge, algae-slick walls, and the metallic reek of urban runoff. Apollo splashed ahead, ears flat, nose skimming the surface like a bloodhound in a bayou. Every few yards, he’d pause, circle, re-lock on the scent, then surge forward again.

Your radio squawked, Hotch, Morgan, and Prentiss, all talking over each other.

“Agent, report grid—”

“Tunnel’s unstable—”

“Backup ETA four minutes—”

You clicked the mic once—acknowledged—then clicked it off. Four minutes was an eternity when a kid was turning blue somewhere close by.

The tunnel narrowed. You had to turn sideways, sucking in your gut. Apollo whined, then bolted. You followed, boots slipping, one hand braced on the wall. The passage dumped you into a junction box the size of a subway car: rusted ladder, maintenance hatch overhead, and in the corner...

A tiny shape curled against the concrete.

Sophie Grant. Six years old. Lips purple, knees drawn to her chest. Barely shivering or breathing.

You dropped beside her, two fingers to her carotid. Pulse thready, but there. “Sophie, honey, I'm with the FBI. You’re safe.” Her eyes fluttered; they were glazed over and unfocused.

Hypothermic. Dehydrated. But alive.

Apollo nosed her cheek, licked once, then sat vigil.

You keyed the mic. “Child located. Junction box delta-seven. Need medics now! She’s conscious but in very critical condition.”

Static, then Hotch’s voice. “Copy. Medevac inbound. Do not move her until—”

“Negative. She’s crashing. I’m extracting.”

You scooped her up, she almost weighed nothing, and you wrapped her in your jacket and started back the way you came. Apollo led, pausing at every fork to be sure you followed. The tunnel seemed longer going out, the mud heavier, every breath burning cold in your lungs.

You emerged under the overpass into a carnival of red-blue strobes. Paramedics swarmed. You handed Sophie over, barking your observations.

Hands pulled you back. You let them. Your knees buckled; someone shoved an emergency blanket around your shoulders. You hadn't even realized how cold you'd gotten. Apollo pressed against your leg, whining.

Hotch was there suddenly, close enough that you smelled the coffee and gun oil on him. His eyes raked over you, raised a brow, then the tunnel mouth, then you again. “You went in alone?”

You were too cold to bristle. “Technically, no.” You patted Apollo’s head, he leaned against your thigh like a small furnace. “Had the best nose in the Bureau with me.”

His mouth twitched, the barest flicker, gone before it became a smile. “You should’ve waited for backup.”

You looked past him to the ambulance where Sophie was already hooked to warm IV fluids, oxygen mask fogging with every shallow breath. “Then she’d be dead.”

He followed your gaze. The fight leaked out of him in one slow exhale. “Medics said another twenty minutes and we’d have lost her.”

“Twenty minutes was four minutes ago.”

Silence stretched. Somewhere behind you, Morgan let out a low whistle. “Damn, Hotch. She just pulled a miracle out of a sewer pipe.”

Prentiss, arms folded, murmured to JJ, “Add ‘superhero complex’ to the profile.”

Reid, ever earnest, piped up. “Actually, the canine olfactory epithelium has roughly three hundred million receptors compared to our six million. Statistically—”

Hotch ignored them. His eyes stayed on you, dark and unreadable, but the muscle in his jaw wasn’t ticking anymore. “Debrief in thirty. Med tent.”

You nodded, too tired to argue. As the team dispersed, you caught the tail end of the betting pool restarting.

Morgan slapped a fresh twenty into Prentiss’s palm. “Reset the clock. Two weeks tops.”

JJ snorted. “You’re optimistic. I say one. That tunnel just became foreplay.”

Reid frowned. “Foreplay is a social construct—”

You pretended not to hear, but heat crawled up your neck anyway. Hotch was still watching you, hadn’t moved. You lifted your chin. “Something on my face, sir?”

He stepped closer, voice pitched low enough that only you could hear. “You’re hypothermic.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

You glanced down, yeah, okay, your hands were trembling around the blanket. Adrenaline crash. He noticed too much.

Without asking, he reached out and tucked the silver foil tighter around your shoulders. His knuckles brushed your collarbone, accidental, maybe. The contact burned hotter than the blanket.

“Med tent,” he repeated. Not an order this time.

Apollo chose that moment to shove his head between you, demanding attention. Hotch’s hand dropped to the shepherd’s ears automatically, fingers scratching the spot that made Apollo’s back leg thump. The dog groaned in bliss.

You smirked. “See? He trusts you.”

Hotch’s eyes flicked up, caught yours. “He’s a better judge of character than most.”

The moment stretched, fragile as frost. Then the paramedic called your name, time for vitals. You stepped back, breaking the spell.

“Debrief in thirty,” you echoed.

He nodded once, sharply, and turned away. But you saw it again, that almost-smile, ghosting at the corner of his mouth as he walked toward the command truck.

3. The Riverbank Strangler

The river was a black ribbon under a moonless sky, its banks choked with the ghosts of four dead women. The BAU had been chasing the unsub for nine days; Hotch’s profile was taped to every whiteboard from the field office to the mobile command trailer:  

Male, 30–40, local, blue-collar, ritual-driven.

Escalating but controlled; avoids revisiting dump sites to prevent pattern recognition.

The next body will be north of the city, new territory, higher risk.

You’d sat through the briefing, arms crossed, Apollo sprawled under the table with his head on your boot. When Hotch wrapped up with his usual clipped certainty, you’d raised a hand.

“Respectfully, sir, that’s wrong.”

Every head swiveled. Hotch’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

“Dogs don’t care about your geographic progression. Apollo’s hit the same scent cone at the first two sites. Same signature. If the unsub’s avoiding old sites, why’s the scent pooling heavier each time we grid the old ones?”

Hotch’s answer was immediate. “Transference. Wind off the water. You’re tracking residual, not active.”

You’d let it go. For twelve hours.

Now, at two in the morning, you were back at Site #1. The rest of the team was canvassing a factory district eight miles north, chasing Hotch’s “new territory.” You’d signed out with a vague “K9 re-grid” and a promise to check in. Apollo had refused to load into the SUV until you pointed him at the river. One whine, one paw on the door, and you were driving.

The shepherd hit the ground running.

He quartered the bank like he’d been born to it, nose skimming the mud, tail low and focused. You followed with a headlamp and a collapsible shovel, boots sinking into the soft earth. The air smelled of wet dogwood and rot. Forty yards downstream from the original recovery marker, Apollo froze, statue-still, one front paw raised. Then he dropped his chest to the dirt and began to dig, claws flinging clods of red clay.

You knelt, heart already sprinting. “Show me.”

He dug faster. You joined him, shovel biting earth. Six inches down, the blade struck something soft. Fabric? Denim! Then the unmistakable give of human tissue.

You sat back on your heels, breath fogging in the cold. “Son of a bitch.”

Apollo sat beside the hole, ears pricked, waiting for praise that stuck in your throat. You keyed your radio. “Command, K9-One. Site One-Alpha. I’ve got… a body. Fresh. Request the crime scene immediately.”

Hotch’s voice came back flat. “Repeat?”

“Victim five. Shallow grave, original dump site. Apollo’s on it.”

Silence. Then: “On my way.”

They arrived in a convoy of slamming doors and shouted orders. Floodlights turned toward the riverbank. Morgan vaulted the tape first, Prentiss on his heels. Reid skidded to a stop beside the grave, eyes wide behind fogged glasses.

Hotch was last. He didn’t speak. Just stood at the edge of the hole, hands on his hips, staring down at the partially exposed torso; female, mid-20s, ligature marks around the throat, wrists and ankles. The dirt around her was darker, richer, freshly turned. She'd been there for less than a few hours.

You stood opposite him, Apollo heeling at your side, mud streaked up to your elbows. The silence stretched until it felt like a held breath.

Finally, Hotch looked up. “You disobeyed a direct order to stand down on re-grids.”

“I logged a welfare check on residual scent.” You kept your voice level. “Apollo disagreed with your profile. Turns out he was right.”

Morgan coughed into his fist. Prentiss bit her lip. Reid started muttering about “canine olfactory memory” once again and “spatial revisit tendencies in ritual killers.”

Hotch’s eyes never left yours. “This changes everything.”

“Yeah,” you said. “It does.”

He opened his mouth, closed it. The vein in his forehead pulsed once, twice.

“Guess we’ll be rewriting that geo-profile, huh, Bossman?”

The nickname landed like a slap. Morgan actually choked. Prentiss turned it into a cough. Hotch’s jaw flexed so hard you heard the click.

“Agent,” he said, voice low enough only you could hear, “my office when we’re wheels-up.”

You smiled, sweet as poison. “Can’t wait, Bossman.”

The mobile command trailer smelled of burnt coffee and printer toner. The team huddled around the folding table while Reid scribbled furiously on the whiteboard, erasing Hotch’s neat arrows and replacing them with frantic spirals that looped back to Site #1 like a dog chasing its tail.

You leaned against the wall, Apollo curled at your feet, pretending to study the new map. Hotch stood at the head, sleeves rolled, tie loosened for once. Adding to the whiteboard, and every time his marker squeaked across the laminate, your eyes flicked to the tension in his forearms.

He caught you looking. Held it. The marker paused mid-stroke.

“Something to add, Agent?”

“Just wondering how many more bodies we’d have if I’d listened to you, Bossman.”

The marker snapped in his hand. Ink bled across his fingers like a bruise.

Morgan whistled low. “Damn. She’s got a death wish.”

Prentiss elbowed him. “Or a type.”

Hotch wiped his hand on a napkin, slow and deliberate. “The profile was based on behavioral patterns observed in—”

“Dead women,” you cut in. “Patterns that didn’t account for a dog who can smell guilt through six feet of clay. You built a box. Apollo just kicked it over. When are you gonna admit that my dog is better at your job than you are?”

Reid raised a finger. “Actually, olfactory detection of cadaverine and putrescine—”

“Not helping, Spence,” JJ muttered.

Hotch’s voice dropped to that dangerous register he usually only used during interrogations. “You want to lead the profile, be my guest. But until then, you follow my grid.”

“Funny,” you said, stepping forward until the table was the only thing between you. “I thought the grid followed the evidence. Evidence just barked and dug up your mistake.”

His eyes flashed. “You’re insubordinate.”

“And you’re arrogant.” You leaned in, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his irises. “The difference is, my arrogance saved lives tonight. Yours almost cost one.”

The trailer went tomb-silent. Apollo lifted his head, ears swiveling between you like he was watching a tennis match.

Hotch’s nostrils flared. “Briefing’s over. Everyone out.”

Chairs scraped. The team filed out like kids dismissed from the principal’s office. Garcia’s voice floated back through the open door: “New pool—first one to make the other snap gets the pot. I say Hotch cracks before we touch wheels in Quantico.”

The door shut. Just you, Hotch, and eighty pounds of shepherd who suddenly seemed very interested in the tension vibrating in the air.

Hotch rounded the table, slowly. “You don’t get to undermine me in front of my team.”

“Your team requested K9. You got us. That includes the part where we’re right and you’re wrong.” You didn’t back down. Besides, you couldn't tell if he was refusing to see the signs, or if he truly was blind and hadn't figured out you'd started riling him up on purpose. “Call it whatever you want: insubordination, attitude, truth. Apollo doesn’t profile. He finds. Maybe try listening to him sometime.”

He stopped a foot away. Close enough, you could see the faint scar through his left eyebrow from when he'd nearly been blown up. “You think this is a game?”

“I think you hate being wrong more than you hate me.”

His laugh was sharp, humorless. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Don’t worry, Bossman. I’m not.”

The nickname again. His hand twitched, like he wanted to grab something. Your arm. The table. His own sanity.

Apollo chose that moment to stand, wedging his bulk between your legs and Hotch’s, tail thumping once against the unit chief’s knee. A peace offering. Or a warning.

Hotch looked down at the dog, then back at you. Something shifted behind his eyes; frustration, yes, but something else. Respect, maybe. Or the realization that you weren’t going anywhere, or backing down for the matter.

He stepped back. One step. Enough to breathe.

“Next time,” he said, voice rough, “you find something, you call it in before you dig.”

“Next time,” you countered, “you write a profile that doesn’t ignore a dog’s nose, I’ll consider it.”

He stared at you for a long beat. Then, quietly: “Get some sleep. We’re back at the river at 06:00.”

You nodded with a salute. “Yes, sir.”

As you turned to leave, Apollo paused to bump his head against Hotch’s hand once, this time definitely deliberate. Hotch’s fingers curled, scratching behind the shepherd’s ear without thinking. The dog leaned into it, eyes half-closed in bliss.

You caught the whole thing in the reflection of the trailer window. Smiled despite yourself.

"Woman." Hotch sighed as you closed the door behind you and Apollo.

Outside, the team was waiting like vultures.

Morgan grinned. “So? Who won?”

You kept walking. “Ask Bossman.”

Behind you, the trailer door slammed. But not before you heard Hotch’s muffled voice, low and furious, and maybe a little awed.

“Dammit.”

4. Dallas

The warehouse district south of downtown was a graveyard under a sky the color of dried blood. The unsub had already leveled two strip malls and a daycare. His manifesto was a 47-page screed against “corporate complacency,” delivered via email to every news station in the metroplex.

The BAU had him cornered in a leased storage unit two hours ago, but he had swallowed a cyanide capsule before they could ask where the last device was planted.

Now the clock was a guillotine.

Bomb Squad had swept the warehouse three times, thermal, X-ray, the works. “Clear,” their lieutenant declared, peeling off his helmet. Hotch echoed it in the command huddle. “Package is neutralized. We’re standing down EOD, shifting to evidence collection.”

You stood at the perimeter with Apollo, watching the techs pack up. The shepherd’s ears were forward, tail still, nose working overtime. You knew that look.

“Apollo, søg.”

He moved before you finished the word, cutting across the taped-off bay like he’d been shot from a cannon. Straight to a row of dented storage lockers along the back wall.

He sat. Hard. Stared at the locker door like it had personally insulted his mother and all his brothers and sisters.

You keyed your radio. “K9 alert, Unit 17. Strong hit. Potential of explosives.”

Hotch’s voice came back instantly. “Bomb Squad cleared that row. Stand down.”

“Apollo says otherwise.”

“Stand. Down.”

You looked at the locker. Then, at the civilian tech still inside the bay. You looked at Apollo. His whine was low, urgent. There was definitely something important in there.

You unclipped his lead. He planted himself between the locker and the tech, hackles half-raised. You moved fast, three strides, hand on the photographer’s shoulder. “FBI. Out. Now.”

The tech startled, yanking out an earbud. “What—”

You didn’t explain. You grabbed his vest collar and hauled. He stumbled after you, camera clattering. Behind you, Apollo barked once.

You cleared the bay threshold at a dead run. Ten feet. Fifteen.

The world turned white.

The blast wave hit like a freight train, lifting you off your feet and slamming you into a stack of pallets. Sound vanished, replaced by a high, cottony ringing. Heat rolled over you, singeing the back of your neck. Debris rained: sheet metal, glass, a twisted locker door that embedded itself in the concrete where you’d been standing.

Then silence. Real silence, the kind that follows annihilation.

You rolled to your knees, coughing dust. Apollo was already there, limping, but whole, nosing your face with frantic whines. You ran your hands over him: no blood, no shrapnel. Just a very good boy.

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. The warehouse bay was a smoking crater, the locker row obliterated. The tech sat ten yards away, pale and shaking, staring at the hole where he’d been.

Bootsteps pounded. Hotch skidded to a stop in front of you, suit jacket gone, tie askew, face streaked with soot. His eyes raked over you, then flicked to Apollo, then back to you.

“You could’ve died.”

His voice was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that came before a storm.

You pushed to your feet, swaying once before locking your knees. “So could he.” You jerked your chin at the tech.

Hotch stepped closer. Close enough, you saw the pulse hammering in his throat. “I gave you a direct order.”

“And I gave you a live bomb.” You brushed grit from your vest, voice flat. “You’re welcome.”

His hands flexed at his sides. Like he wanted to strangle something. Or hold it together. “You breached the cordon. Again.”

“Apollo alerted. Civilian in the blast radius. Math was simple.”

“You didn’t know it was live.”

“I knew it was possible.” You met his stare, unflinching. “You wanted to risk a kid’s life on ‘cleared’?”

His jaw worked. No answer.

Behind him, the team fanned out. None of them looked at you. They didn’t need to. The tension was alive, coiled between you and Hotch like a third wheel.

He took another step. Now you were toe to toe, the heat of the blast still radiating off the concrete at your backs.

“You don’t get to keep doing this,” he said, voice low. “Running in blind. Risking—” He stopped. Swallowed. “Risking assets.”

Assets. The word hung there, clinical and wrong.

You laughed. “Apollo’s not an asset. He’s my partner. And I’m not yours to command, Bossman.”

The nickname again. His eyes flashed, but this time the anger was tempered by something else. Fear, maybe. Or the realization that you kept walking into fire, and he couldn’t stop you.

Apollo pressed against your leg, leaning hard. You dropped a hand to his head, grounding yourself in the warmth of his fur. Hotch’s gaze followed the motion, lingering on your trembling fingers.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

You glanced down. A shard of metal had sliced your forearm sometime in the chaos. You hadn’t felt it until now.

“Scratch,” you said.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded handkerchief. It was crisp white and monogrammed A.H. He pressed it to the cut without asking. His hand closed over yours, pinning the cloth in place. The contact was clinical, but his grip lingered.

You stared at his hand on yours. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” His thumb brushed the edge of the wound. “You’re shaking.”

“Adrenaline.”

“Bullshit and you know it!”

The words cracked between you, raw and unexpected. He didn’t swear. Ever. You looked up. His eyes were darker than the smoke still curling behind him, fixed on you with an intensity that felt like a physical weight on top of your already weak body.

“You could’ve died,” he repeated. Quieter. Rougher.

“So could he,” you said again, softer this time. “And you’d have lived with it. I wouldn’t.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t let go of your arm. The silence stretched. Somewhere in the distance, Morgan shouted for a medic, but it felt like another planet.

Apollo whined, nudging Hotch’s knee. The agent’s free hand dropped automatically, fingers finding the shepherd’s ears. Apollo leaned into it, eyes half-closed, tail thumping once against Hotch’s leg.

Hotch’s voice was barely a whisper. “I can’t keep watching you run into danger.”

“Then stop writing profiles that miss it.”

His mouth twitched up, not quite a smile, but close enough. “You’re impossible.”

“Takes one to know one, Bossman.”

He exhaled through his nose, a sound that might’ve been a laugh if he’d let it. Slowly, reluctantly, he released your arm. The handkerchief stayed pressed to the cut, now spotted with red.

“Med tent,” he said. “Now.”

You nodded. “Yes, sir.”

But as you turned, he caught your elbow. “And Agent?”

You looked back.

“Next time you ignore my order and save a life…” His voice cracked, just slightly. “Try not to make it a habit.”

You smiled. “No promises.”

He let go. You walked away, Apollo limping slightly at your heel.

In the med tent, 15 minutes later, the team had formed a loose perimeter around the folding table where a paramedic stitched your arm. Morgan leaned against a support pole, arms crossed, grinning like a kid who’d won the bet.

“Add ‘bomb whisperer’ to the resume,” he said.

Prentiss handed you a bottle of water. “You’re officially insane.”

Reid, peering at the shrapnel fragments in an evidence bag, murmured, “The blast radius suggests a minimum of eight pounds of C-4. Your timing was within a 4.7-second window of—”

“Reid,” JJ warned, “not. helping.”

Hotch stood just outside the tent flap, backlit by floodlights, pretending not to listen. But you caught the way his eyes flicked to you every few seconds, checking the stitches, the dog, the tremor in your hands that hadn’t quite stopped.

Morgan followed your gaze. “Man’s about to short-circuit.”

Prentiss smirked. “Pool’s at three hundred now. First one to admit they’re worried loses.”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks had nothing to do with the explosion.

Apollo flopped at your feet and let out a long, contented sigh. Hotch’s handkerchief, still damp with your blood, was tucked into your pocket.

You didn’t look at him again. But you felt his stare all the way to the bone.

The time Hotch saved Apollo

The rail yard was a maze of rust and shadowed freight cars. The unsub had derailed one Amtrak train and taken a second hostage earlier in the day.

By now, the BAU had him boxed in between two boxcars on Track 7, SWAT stacked on the far side, Hotch negotiating from the gravel berm.

You and Apollo held the blind corner, twenty yards of open track, no cover, just you, the dog, and the wind screaming through the couplings.

Hotch’s voice was steady over the megaphone. “Dale, put the weapon down. Let the kid go. We can still end this without anyone else getting hurt.”

The unsub's answer was a wild shout, half-coherent about “government trackers” and “surveillance in the rails.” The hostage whimpered through the duct tape over his mouth, wrists zip-tied behind his back.

You’d been watching Apollo. The shepherd’s hackles were up, ears flat, body vibrating with tension. He’d locked on something you couldn’t see.

Then it happened.

The ubsub broke cover, fast and panicked, rifle swinging wild. He shoved the kid ahead of him, using the boy as a shield, and bolted straight down the track toward the open yard.

Hotch’s voice cracked like a whip. “Hold fire! Hold—”

You were already moving. Running after Apollo who'd taken off in a sprint to catch the unsub. “Apollo plads!” Heel

The shepherd launched like a black-and-tan missile aimed at the unsub's gun arm. Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten.

He saw him. Eyes wide, manic. The unsub pivoted, rifle jerking down, not at you, not at the SWAT stack, but at Apollo. The barrel flashed orange.

You heard your own voice break. “APOLLO!”

Too far. You were too far.

A second shot, louder and sharper, from your left. Hotch’s Glock.

The bullet took the ubsub high in the right shoulder, spinning him like a top. The rifle flew from his hands, clattering across the rails. He dropped, screaming, blood blooming bright red against his jacket. The hostage stumbled free, falling to his knees.

Apollo skidded to a stop a foot from the unsub's boots, hackles still raised, but otherwise unharmed. He looked back at you confused, waiting for the next command.

You couldn’t move. Your lungs had forgotten how.

Bootsteps crunched gravel. Hotch was there faster than should’ve been possible, Glock still up, eyes scanning the yard for threats. Then he holstered, dropped to one knee beside Apollo without hesitation.

His hands moved over the shepherd with practiced efficiency, checking his flanks, chest, legs, and ears. Checking for blood, for shock, for the smallest flinch. Apollo leaned into him, tail giving one uncertain wag.

Hotch’s voice was low, steady. “Easy, boy. You’re okay.”

He looked up at you, really looked. You were still frozen mid-stride, Glock half-raised, breath sawing in and out like you’d run a marathon.

“You all right?” he asked.

You managed a nod. It felt like lying.

“Yeah.” Your voice cracked. “He’s okay?”

Hotch’s hand stilled on Apollo’s neck, thumb rubbing the spot behind the collar that made the dog’s eyes half-close. “Not a scratch.” His tone softened just a fraction, but enough. “I’d hate to lose our best agent.”

You couldn’t tell if he meant you or the dog.

It didn’t matter.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy, relief, terror, something raw. Snow started to fall, flakes catching in Hotch’s hair, on Apollo’s fur, on the blood pooling under the unsub's shoulder.

SWAT swarmed in, shouting and cuffing the ubsub before dragging him away. Morgan’s voice cut through the chaos: “Hotch! You good?”

Hotch didn’t answer. He was still crouched beside Apollo, one hand on the dog’s chest like he was counting heartbeats. The other reached out and closed over your wrist.

Your pulse was racing under his fingers.

“Breathe,” he said quietly.

You did. In. Out. The world narrowed to the heat of his hand, the solid weight of Apollo pressing against your shins, the snow melting on your lashes.

You swallowed. “You shot him.”

“He was going to kill your dog.”

The words were simple. Final. No apology, no justification. Just a fact.

Apollo whined, nudging Hotch’s knee, clearly not pleased that Hotch had stopped petting him. The agent scratched his ears again, and Apollo leaned hard, nearly knocking Hotch off balance. For a second, Hotch’s mask slipped as he steadied himself quickly.

You laughed. It came out shaky. “He likes you.”

Hotch’s mouth curved. “He’s got good taste.”

Morgan jogged up, Prentiss on his heels. “Hostage is secure. Medics inbound. Nice shot, boss.”

Hotch stood, hand lingering on Apollo’s head a second longer before dropping. “K9 saved the kid. I just kept the dog breathing.”

You met his eyes. “Thank you.”

He held your gaze. “Don’t mention it.”

But the way he said it said everything.

Thirty minutes later, Hotch was re-wrapping the gauze on your knuckles in the med tent, because you’d punched a boxcar in the chaos, apparently. His touch was careful, clinical, but his eyes kept flicking to Apollo like he was double-checking the dog was still breathing.

You cleared your throat. “You ever think about getting one?”

He paused. “A dog?”

“Yeah.”

He tied off the bandage. “Jack’s allergic.”

“Jack’s also eight. Kids grow out of that.”

Hotch’s mouth twitched. “You offering to dog-sit?”

Apollo thumped his tail at the word sit.

You smiled. “Maybe.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, then at the dog, then back at you. The silence wasn’t awkward anymore. It was almost normal.

The park smelled of wet leaves and woodsmoke, late-autumn sun slanting gold through the oaks. You were on day nine of medical leave. Your collarbone cracked in a warehouse raid in Baltimore, nothing BAU-related, just bad luck and a fleeing dealer with a crowbar. The sling chafed under your hoodie, but the air felt good in your lungs, and Apollo trotting off-leash beside you felt better.

He was healed faster than you, always was. The vet had cleared him after the rail-yard scare, and now he moved like liquid muscle, nose to the ground, tail flagging every new scent.

You rounded the bend by the duck pond, debating whether to risk a jog, when Apollo’s ears snapped forward. A low woof, then he was gone.

“Apollo!” The name cracked out of you, sharp with panic. You broke into a lurching run, sling bouncing against your ribs, and you winced in pain. “Come!”

You spotted them at the same moment.

Hotch stood with his hands in his pockets, watching Apollo skid to a stop at his feet. The shepherd sat instantly, tail sweeping leaves, staring up with pure adoration. Hotch’s face did something way too complicated for his usual growl: Surprise, then the faintest curve of a smile.

You caught up, breathing hard. “I swear he’s never done that before.” Knowing that that was a complete lie.

Hotch crouched, scratching Apollo behind the ears with the same ease he’d shown in the rail yard. “You should work on keeping your dog under control, Agent.”

The dry delivery, the Agent, the way his eyes flicked up to yours all of it hit like a match strike. The old banter flared to life.

You propped your good hand on your hip. “Says the man who shot a sniper to save him. Pretty sure that makes you his favorite.”

Apollo leaned into Hotch’s leg, nearly knocking him off balance. Hotch steadied himself with a palm on the dog’s head, the smile threatening again. “He’s biased.”

“Smart dog.”

Silence settled. A jogger passed, leaves crunching. Apollo flopped onto his side, offering his belly to Hotch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Hotch obliged, fingers ruffling fur. You watched the way his shoulders loosened, the way the park’s golden light caught the faint scar on his knuckle.

He cleared his throat. “How’s the collarbone?”

“Pinned and pissed off. Doctor says another three weeks before she'll clear me for desk duty.”

“You always follow the doctor’s orders?”

“Only when they involve pain meds.”

His mouth twitched. “Good to know.”

Apollo rolled upright, nudging Hotch’s hand for more. Hotch gave it. Then, quietly. “Jack’s with his aunt this weekend.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Okay…”

He stood, brushing leaves from his coat. The dog pressed against his shins like a chaperone. Hotch’s eyes met yours.

“Dinner?” He asked. “Tomorrow night. If you’re not busy breaking medical advice.”

The words hung there, simple and enormous between you.

You felt the grin start before you could stop it. “Thought you’d never ask, Bossman.”

He exhaled. “Aaron.”

“Aaron.” You tested it, liked the way it felt. “Apollo comes too, right? He’ll sulk if he’s not invited.”

Hotch glanced down at the shepherd, who thumped his tail in enthusiastic agreement. “He can have the steak. You get the wine.”

“Deal.”

He offered his hand. You took it. His grip was warm, calloused, steady. Apollo wedged his head between you, demanding inclusion. You both laughed.

Hotch didn’t let go right away.

“Seven o’clock,” he said. “I’ll pick the place. You pick the dog’s outfit.”

You squeezed once before releasing. “He has a bow tie. It’s ridiculous. I put it on him for Christmas and New Years!”

“I expect nothing less.”

Apollo barked, then trotted a circle around you both like he was herding you together.

You started walking, slowly, side by side, the dog weaving between your legs. The tension wasn’t gone. It had just changed shape at this point.

Behind you, you'd been added to the BAU group chat before a text buzzed from Garcia:

> Garcia: PARK sighting CONFIRMED. Hand-holding. Dog third wheel. PAY UP, LOSERS. I. WIN!!! 💍🐾

Neither of you noticed. You were too busy arguing over whether Apollo needed a tux for the date.

He definitely did.

You signed off on folded flags and Gold Star license plates and condolence letters that all started with the same lie: The Secretary of the Army has asked me to express his deep regret…

You came home with toner on your fingers instead of dust, with the smell of copier heat instead of diesel and burning plastic. The apartment didn’t know what to do with you anymore. It had learned your old rhythm: boots hitting the floor at 0300 when you come home from a mission, duffel bags half-packed by the door, placed neatly beside Hotch's go bag, and the constant low-grade readiness.

Now you were home no later than six every night, like a civilian, carrying nothing heavier than a stack of classified folders in a locked briefcase that was chained to your wrist until you could store it in the safe at its end destination.

The silence was worse than incoming fire had ever been. In the desert, you’d had the white noise of generators, of Black Hawks thumping overhead, of Marines laughing too loud because tomorrow wasn’t promised.

Here, there was only the refrigerator hum, the occasional muffled TV from the neighbors, whatever sounds Jack made when he was home from college, and the sound of your own pulse reminding you that you were still breathing when they weren’t.

Some nights, you stood in the kitchen in your Full Dress, medals still on, because you hadn’t earned the right to take them off, and stared at the bottle of Maker’s Mark Hotch kept on the top shelf for “special occasions”—already half gone from the last time you’d decided tonight qualified as a bad night—until he walked in and gently pried it out of your hand.

He never asked why you hadn’t changed out of uniform even though you’d been home for hours. He already knew what you were thinking, that if you took the uniform off, there was nothing left to prove you’d ever been anything except the woman who’d stood frozen in an alley while children burned to death.

So you came home from the base every day to an apartment that didn’t recognize you anymore, carrying ghosts in a briefcase instead of a ruck, and waited for Hotch to get back from chasing monsters so he could remind you that you hadn’t become one.

Tonight was a bad night.

Hotch came home twenty-three minutes later, you knew because you’d been counting the seconds between sips like they were heartbeats you weren’t sure you still deserved.

The lock turned with that same deliberate softness he’d adopted the first time you came home from deployment, with one slow twist, no metallic scrape.

The keys didn’t clink into the bowl, never dropped, always placed, because he knew loud noises made you flinch these days, even when you swore they didn’t. He’d started doing it after the night you’d dropped a coffee mug and spent ten minutes on the kitchen floor with your hands over your ears, waiting for the blast that never came.

He paused in the doorway, suit jacket already draped over his arm, and the sight of you in your uniform made something fracture behind his eyes. You saw it happen out of the corner of your eye. The way his shoulders squared like he was bracing for incoming fire, the way his jaw locked so tight you could almost hear the enamel grind.

He crossed the room in a measured stride, every step announcing "I’m here, I’m safe, I’m not a threat". When he reached the island, he didn’t speak right away, just looked at the half-empty bottle, at the single glass with your lipstick print bleeding into the bourbon, at the way your left hand kept flexing open and closed like you were still trying to hold on to something that had turned to ash a long time ago.

“You’re drinking the good stuff,” he said at last, not judging, voice pitched low, the same tone you knew he used when he talked unsubs off ledges.

You swallowed the rest in your glass and set it down too carefully.

“Figured I earned it.” The words scraped out like they’d been dragged over broken glass. “Sat through three hours of survivor-benefits briefings today. Told three different mothers their sons’ death gratuity would be one hundred thousand dollars. Like that makes the pieces come home bagged in a box any less permanent.”

His mouth did that thing, pressing into a line so thin it nearly disappeared, the one that meant he was swallowing every instinct to fix this, because he knew there was no fixing it, that you had to 'fix it yourself.'

He put his jacket on the barstool, loosened the knot of his tie with one tug, and rolled his sleeves with one smooth motion. Then he stepped in beside you, not touching, never touching until you gave permission. Just close enough that the heat of him bled through the wool of your uniform jacket, close enough that you could smell the terrible courthouse coffee and the faint cedar of the cologne Jack had picked out for him last Father’s Day.

Close enough that if you leaned two inches to the left, your shoulder would brush his chest and you could pretend, for one second, that you weren’t vibrating out of your own skin.

You hated how much you needed that space between you right now.  

You hated how much you needed him inside it right now too.

He let the silence sit for a bit longer, long enough that you almost believed he’d leave it alone tonight.

Then: “How were the mothers?”

The question was soft, almost casual. But you heard the profile in it: gentle entry, non-threatening, designed to open the door just wide enough for the truth to slip through. You knew the process all too well, having been trained in the same questioning techniques the BAU had developed.

You stared at the few amber drops left at the bottom of your glass. “Fine. Grateful. One of them hugged me and said, ‘Thank you for your service, ma’am.’ Like I did something noble by handing her a folder that told her how much her kid’s life was worth.”

Hotch's fingers flexed against the countertop. “You gave her answers.”

“I gave her a dollar amount.” Your voice cracked. “I gave her a form to sign so the Army can close the books on her nineteen-year-old son who got turned into red mist because some asshole hid an IED under a soccer ball in a youth center!”

He turned toward you fully now, elbows resting on the granite. “You’re doing survivor assistance because you asked to. You could’ve taken the full medical discharge and walked away.” The instant the words left his mouth, he knew he had messed up.

Your laugh came out uglier than he had ever heard before. “Walk away? That’s rich coming from you, Aaron. Tell me, how’s that working out for you? Still keeping Jack’s old room exactly the way he left it freshman year because if you move one goddamn Lego piece you’ll have to admit the house is too quiet without him?”

He didn't flinch, but you saw it, the hurt in his eyes. And although he knew that you were hurting ten times worse than your words, he couldn't help but think that this wasn't the you he knew.

You kept going, words spilling like venom because anger was easier than the other thing clawing its way up your throat.

“You want to know how my day was, Aaron? I sat across from a woman whose son had the same birthday as the boy I watched cook from the inside out. She showed me pictures, same crooked smile, same gap in the front teeth. And I smiled back like a person and told her the Army was sorry for her loss. Then I came home and tried to scrub the smell of that alley off my skin for the thousandth time, and it’s still there. It’s always fucking there.”

Your chest was heaving now, voice getting more and more choked by the second. You hadn’t realized you’d started shouting.

“So yeah, I’m drinking the good stuff. Because the cheap stuff doesn’t burn hot enough to cauterize the holes they left in me.”

He didn’t look away. Didn’t raise his voice. Just waited until the echo of your rage settled into the corners of the kitchen like dust.

When he finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “I’m not the enemy here.”

For three weeks, it went like that.

You moved through the days, ready to cut anyone who got too close. Loud voices on the subway made your vision tunnel. A car backfiring outside the base gate sent you diving for cover behind a concrete planter while cadets stared like you’d lost your mind.

You snapped at a captain who dared ask if you were “doing okay, ma’am,” told him to worry about his own troop-to-task ratio, and leave the dead to you. You slammed drawers so hard the handles left bruises on your palms.

You stopped answering Rossi’s texts about coming to his next dinner party, stopped letting Garcia hug you hello in the corridors when you were called to the academy for a consult, because touch felt like sandpaper on burned skin.

Anger was the only thing that still felt clean. Guilt, grief, terror... those were acid burning you hollow.

Rage was armor. You wore it like the Kevlar you no longer needed, because the war had followed you home and set up camp inside your skull.

At night, you paced the apartment until the floorboards knew the soles of your boots better than the Afghan deserts ever had. You cleaned your firearm twice a day, even though it hadn’t been fired since the day before you were sent back home.

You stood under scalding water until your skin blistered, trying to boil the smell of burned hair and plastic explosive out of your pores.

When Hotch reached for you in bed, you pretended to be asleep, because if he held you, you would shatter, and you weren’t ready to bleed on him yet.

Then came the night the dam finally broke.

You’d spent the afternoon on a house call because the casualty assistance officer was down with the flu, and you were the only one “qualified enough” to deliver the bad news.

A staff sergeant, thirty-two years old, married twelve years to his high school sweetheart, with three kids under ten. You sat on their floral couch, undoubtedly an heirloom, that still smelled like birthday cake from the weekend, and told his wife her husband wasn’t coming home from the patrol you’d once led.

The oldest boy asked if his daddy was a hero. You just said yes while the youngest clung to your leg with sticky fingers and asked when Daddy was coming out of time-out.

By the time you got back home, your uniform was wrinkled. You couldn’t face the bedroom yet, too still, feeling too much like a mausoleum, so you collapsed on the couch, medals digging into your ribs, waiting for Hotch to come home from his case in Milwaukee.

He'd texted you earlier that they were wrapping up and that he'd be home soon.

The television flickered with some mute cooking show you didn’t care to watch.

Exhaustion finally dragged you under somewhere around 0200.

The dream started gently at first.

You were back at the youth center outside Bagram, handing out shrink-wrapped MRE crackers and juice boxes to a swarm of kids who called you “Miss Colonel” in their careful and broken English.

The sun was low and gold, the air thick with dust.

A boy with a gap-toothed grin and a battered United jersey three sizes too big begged you to play goalie. You laughed, actually laughed despite the terrible state of the war zone, and let him drag you toward the makeshift soccer field.

The ball rolled lazily across the dirt.

You heard it then: the unmistakable metallic click of the pressure plate under the scuffed leather ball.

Time slowed, syrupy slow.

You screamed for them to get back and get down, but the children only stared, confused in that way children do when adults suddenly turn into monsters and act crazy.

The boy with the gap-toothed grin drew his leg back to kick.

You lunged.

The world flashed white.

The blast picked you up like a toy and threw you backward. You felt your vest rip open, felt the heat kiss your face, felt the wet slap of something that used to be a little kid hit your cheek before you hit the ground.

When the ringing stopped and the smoke cleared, there was no field. Just red mist settling like fog and pieces too small to ever put back together again.

You jolted awake with a scream, the same sound you’d made when the medic’s gloved hands tried to drag you backward through the burning dust. Your hands clawed for the M4 that lived only in muscle memory now, for the PRC-152 radio that would never answer a nine-line again.

The room spun red, black, red. Blood in your eyes, whose blood, whose blood, and the air tasted of scorched plastic and burning flesh.

Strong arms locked around you; they felt familiar, safe, but your body couldn't feel the difference yet.

“Hey, hey, sweetheart, you’re home. Quantico. You’re home. You’re safe.”

Hotch's voice was low and slightly cracked around the edges from sheer exhaustion after the case. But somehow it was the only frequency that could still cut through the static in your brain. You thrashed, once, twice, elbows and knees hunting for a threat that wasn’t there, until the scent of him slammed into you like a needle full of midazolam.

You collapsed, every bone suddenly glass.

“I can’t—” The words shredded themselves in your throat. “I can’t get them out. They’re in me, Aaron. I still feel the heat of them sliding down my neck like wet paper. I still taste their hair burning. I keep washing, and washing, and the water just turns red, and it never—”

Your legs quit. You would have hit the floor if he hadn’t dropped with you, knees cracking against hardwood, dragging you into his lap.

The sobs that came weren’t human. They were the sounds dying things made when they realized the light was gone. You clawed at his shirt, at your own arms, trying to dig the memory out from under your skin.

“I see them every time I breathe,” you choked, voice unrecognizable. “The little girl in purple... she reached for me. Her mouth was open like she was trying to say my name, and the blast took her face off. I caught what was left of her skull. I caught it, Aaron. I dropped her brother’s arm, and I caught her skull, and it was still warm.”

His entire body locked around you, pressing your head against his chest, his body tremored in a way he couldn’t hide, but his voice stayed soft, lethally soft. “You didn’t leave them.”

“I didn’t save a single one.” The confession felt like a blade turned inward. “I was thirty feet away. Thirty. I should’ve been closer. I should’ve been the one—”

“Stop.” The word cracked like a gunshot. He shifted, cupped your face in both hands, gently forcing you to look up at him. His thumbs pressed under your eyes, trying to hold the flood back as he wiped your tears away. “Look at me. Look at me, Colonel. You do not get to rewrite that day with your body in their place. I won’t survive losing you to these ghosts.”

You couldn’t look, trying to avert your gaze to anywhere but him. You were sobbing so hard your vision blurred, but he held your head steady.

“I’m supposed to be the strong one,” you whispered, the words tasting like failure in your mouth.

“You were,” he rasped. “You were strong enough to come home; that's the first step. Now let me be strong enough for both of us.”

The tears wouldn’t stop. You were hollowed out, a burned-out casing still trying to hold a charge.

He pressed his forehead to yours, breath hitching, thumbs still moving in slow, useless circles across your cheekbones.

“Step two is you let me carry the rest.” He drew back just enough to see your face, thumbs sweeping the tears and snot and shame from your cheeks with a tenderness that broke something else open inside you. “We’re getting you real help, not the Army’s ‘rub some dirt in it and give you a pat on the back’ garbage. Therapy, meds, anything and everything that you need! And when the nights try to kill you, you wake me up. You don’t fight this war alone anymore. Promise me.”

Your answer was a broken nod against his palms and another sob that felt like it took a piece of your soul with it.

He gathered the pieces anyway.

Later, when the storm had wrung you dry and left you shaking and empty, he carried you to bed. Curled around you like armor made of bone and stubborn love. His voice was raw from holding back his own grief over the situation, but still found your ear in the dark.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, over and over. “We’re getting you help. Real help. Whatever it takes. However long it takes. I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. You don’t have to come back alone. I’ll crawl through every circle of that hell with you if I have to. Just… stay with me. Stay.”

You clung to the promise like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

And for the first time since you returned home, the dark didn’t win.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. The longing had been a constant ache, buried under layers of cases, briefings, and the relentless pace of the BAU. But in quiet moments like this, it clawed its way to the surface. Letters and the occasional video call when you had service had been lifelines, but they couldn't replace the feel of your hand in his, the way your voice softened when it was just the two of you, or the rare, unguarded smile that melted the iron facade you wore like armor while reprimanding a lower rank officer.

You'd been deployed to a classified location, something about strategic operations in the Middle East, and while you couldn't share details, he'd heard the exhaustion in your voice during those pixelated conversations.

"I'm fine, Aaron," you'd say, your tone clipped, that drill sergeant edge never fully dulled, even when you were talking to him.

But he knew better. He always did.

The team had noticed his distraction, of course. Rossi had pulled him aside more than once, offering a knowing nod and a glass of scotch in his office after hours. "She's tough as nails, Hotch. She'll be back before you know it."

But the nights stretched long without you, the bed too empty, the house too quiet. Jack asked about you constantly, his questions a mix of innocence and quiet worry.

"When's Mom coming home? Does she miss us?" Hotch would reassure him, but the truth was, the separation gnawed at him too. He still remembered the morning Jack had asked if he could call you mom over breakfast, the shock on your face that had quickly turned into pure joy. You’d swallowed hard, eyes glistening in a way Hotch had rarely seen at the time. Then you’d pulled Jack into a hug, pressing your face into his hair to hide the tremor in your breath. “Yeah, buddy,” you’d whispered. “You can call me Mom.”

A soft creak from the front door jolted him from his thoughts. He glanced at the clock: 2:17 AM. Earlier than expected. His heart rate spiked as he stood, moving silently through the darkened hallway. There you were, silhouetted in the entryway, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, your uniform rumpled from the long flight but still impeccably straight-backed.

You looked weary, the lines around your eyes deeper than he remembered, but your gaze found his immediately, sharp and assessing, like always.

"Aaron," you breathed, your voice a mix of relief and something rawer, more vulnerable. You dropped the bag with a thud, and in two strides, he closed the distance, pulling you into his arms. The embrace was fierce, your body rigid at first, a habit from the field, where softness was a luxury you couldn't afford, but then you melted against him, your hands clutching the back of his shirt as if anchoring yourself to him.

"I missed you," he murmured into your hair. "God, I missed you so much."

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes glistening under the faint hall light. "I know," you said. "It was… harder this time. The ops were endless, the team solely under my command, they looked to me for everything, and I couldn't let them see the cracks." You swallowed hard, the colonel in you warring with the wife who just wanted to break in her husband's arms after everything you'd seen. "But every night, I'd think about you and Jack. Wonder if you were safe, if the cases were pulling you under. I hated being away, Aaron. Hated it."

He cupped your face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the tear that escaped despite your usual control. "You're home now," he said softly, his own voice steady but his eyes betraying the depth of his relief. "And we're okay. Jack's been counting the days; he made a chain out of paper links, one for each day until you got back, and he crossed the days out on the calendar in my office."

A small, genuine laugh escaped you, breaking the tension like a crack. "My little trooper." You leaned your forehead against his, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the faint trace of coffee from his late-night paperwork. But the anguish lingered in your posture, the way your shoulders tensed as memories flickered behind your eyes. "There were moments… close calls. I lost a few good people. I had to make calls that…" Your voice cracked, and you straightened, pulling away slightly as if to regain composure. "I don't want to bring that here, but I have some things to think about." You sighed, knowing that sooner rather than later, you'd have to consider your future with the military.

Hotch shook his head, drawing you back in. "We don't have to talk about it now." He guided you to the couch, where you sank down together, your head resting on his shoulder. For a long while, you sat in silence, his arm around you, your fingers intertwined with his.

Eventually, you shifted, your military facade softening further as you traced the lines of his hand, slowly winding down and getting used to being home again. "Tell me about home. About Jack's soccer games, the team's latest antics. Rossi still hosting those dinners, right?"

He smiled faintly, recounting the mundane details that had kept him grounded: Jack's goal in the last game, Garcia's latest tech mishap, the way the team had rallied around him during a tough case. You listened intently, your eyes warming with each story, the weight of deployment lifting inch by inch.

As dawn began to filter through the curtains, Jack's footsteps pattered down the stairs, the dinosaur nestled under his arm. He rubbed his eyes sleepily, then froze at the sight of you. "Mom?"

You stood, opening your arms. "Hey, soldier."

He barreled into you, hugging your legs. "You're back! For real?"

"For real," you confirmed, kneeling to his level and pulling him close. Your voice was gentle now, the command stripped away, replaced by pure maternal warmth. Hotch watched, his heart full, the angst of separation giving way to his family, finally whole again.

The sky outside was still the color of wet ash when Hotch’s phone buzzed on the kitchen table. The caller ID read Garcia. He answered on the second buzz. “Hotchner.”

“Boss-man! Just checking in. You’re not on the board yet, and there’s a consult from Atlanta P.D. waiting. Should I…”

“I’m out today.” His voice was low, rough from disuse and the weight of eight months without you. “Family emergency.”

Garcia’s fingers stilled over her keyboard; he could hear it. “Is Jack…?”

“Jack’s fine. Everyone’s fine.” A beat. “She’s home.”

The line went quiet, then exploded in a squeak that could only be described as glass shattering. “OH MY GOD, THE COLONEL IS BACK! I mean… ma’am… sir… Hotch! Do you need lasagna? I have three in the freezer. I could bring balloons. Jack likes the ones shaped like dinosaurs right…”

“Garcia.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “No balloons. No lasagna. Just… hold the fort till I come back on Monday.”

“Roger that, Unit Chief Domestic Bliss. I’ll tell the others you’ve been abducted by a five-foot-something force of nature in combat boots.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell her we missed her. And that Morgan still flinches when someone says ‘drop and give me twenty.’”

He exhaled something close to a laugh. “Will do.”

He hung up before she could launch into a speech about welcome-home playlists. The phone buzzed again almost immediately, Rossi this time.

“Kid, you decent?” Rossi’s baritone was warm, amused. “Strauss is already circling like a shark because your inbox is untouched.”

“Tell her I’m dead,” Hotch said.

“Already did. She didn’t buy it.” A pause. “Take the day, Aaron. Take two. The unsubs will still be assholes tomorrow.”

Hotch glanced toward the hallway where your duffel still sat, unzipped, your dog tags glinting on top. “Thanks, Dave.”

“Bring her by when she’s ready to scare the rookies again. We’ll open the good scotch.”

He ended the call, set the phone face down, and padded barefoot to the kitchen. Jack was already at the table, legs swinging, recounting to you, in exhaustive detail, how he’d scored the winning goal in last week’s game. You listened like it was a tactical briefing, nodding at all the right moments, your hand absently smoothing his hair.

Later, as Jack chattered about ice cream plans, you caught Hotch's eye over the boy's head. "Thank you," you mouthed, and he nodded, understanding.

The world outside your base and his bullpen could wait.

For now, this was enough.

You set the coffee on a nearby table before coming closer to the two-way mirror. Rossi glances at you, his hands hidden in his pockets. Even in the darkness of the room, he can see the way you’re nervously chewing the inside of your cheek. With a small sigh, his gaze returns to the scene inside the interrogation room: Hotch confronting the man responsible for ten deaths.

“How’s it going?” you ask, quietly.

“Slow and painful,” Rossi answers. A tone of defeat rings in his voice. “At least for us. He seems to be having fun.”

“Hotch seems frustrated.”

The older man glances at you again. Hotchner is facing the criminal sitting opposite him, so you can’t see his face. Even so, through the way his body stiffens, you can easily tell his mood. ‘To be loved is to be known,’ as some would say.

“Who wouldn’t?” Rossi’s eyes focus on the scruffy men handcuffed to the table. His hands clench into fists inside his pockets when he recalls the macabre fate of the victims.

Hotch suddenly yells accusations at the man in front of him, hands slamming the table separating them. The murderer, however, continues to be still. Completely unaffected, except for a small, sly smile appearing on his lips. He looks insidious.

“Maybe that’s the point?” you think aloud. “He’s enjoying the fact that we’re banging our heads against the wall.”

“Well, if we stop banging, we will never know what happened to Jane Roberts.”

A nervous silence falls between the two of you. Anxiety and helplessness crawl up your spine, eating at your every coherent thought. Your fingers fidget, desperately looking for a way to relieve the unbearable, growing tension.

Hotch continues his aggressive, yet largely ineffective, interrogation. It’s been two hours and he’s no closer than he was before making the arrest. Your frustrated mind begins searching for new ideas: there has to be a better way to get him to talk. This can’t be it. No, the word ‘impasse’ doesn’t exist in your vocabulary. You’ve always made sure of that.

“You know, back at the Academy, I roomed with a girl who worked park-time as a call girl,” you begin, remembering something that might yet be of help. “Not the paid sex kind, it was more of a paid girlfriend experience.”

Rossi furrows eyebrows in confusion. He may have a less-than-ideal relationship history but he’s never sunk that low. “Guys would pay her to go on a date with them?”

An airy chuckle leaves your lips upon seeing his reaction. Truth be told, you were just as surprised when you learnt about that.

“As crazy as it sounds, the money was really good,” you say. “She’d always pick up the check when we went out. Sometimes I asked her for dating advice but she always said that she’s an expert at making men think they’re dating her, not actually dating them.”

Hotch yells again, making the scruffy man in front of him laugh.

“Any wise words that might help us here?”

Lonely businessmen might not have a lot in common with serial killers but they’re all men - there must be something connecting them at a basic level.

“She told me once that most men are identical, deep down,” you recall. “They all want to feel powerful, admired and accomplished. Their sense of power lies either in violence or sexual prowess, although most of the time, those are enmeshed. A vulnerable woman plays into their needs and fantasies, whether they know it or not. The difference is some will help her change the tyre, while others will kill her with a tyre iron.”

“But at the end of the day, it all comes down to the same need,” Rossi sums up, clearly pondering your words.

“It doesn’t always work, obviously.” You shake your head slightly. “Spencer would probably do neither and start talking about manufacturing tyres or the dangers of having the wrong pressure inside them.”

Rossi chuckles in agreement. If there is one person who can be used as an exception to a rule, it’s the boy wonder currently looking at maps of the local area.

“What do you make of these two?” Rossi asks, vaguely pointing at the tense scene playing out behind the pane.

“Normally, I’d say that Hotch is the type to change the tyre but right now?” You rub your hands together in slight discomfort. This is the first time you’ve ever seen Aaron acting like this. How much of it is an act, how much truth? “He looks like he’s about to kill someone with a tyre iron.”

“The problem is our unsub has more experience in that.”

Rossi’s defeated comment gives you an idea. Not a great one, definitely not an exciting one, but an idea that might yet be a checkmate. If the mountain doesn’t come to Muhammed, Muhammed must go to the mountain. Or, in this case, if the head stops banging against the wall, maybe the wall will come to the head.

“If he’s comfortable being the killing kind and not the helpful kind, we should probably use that,” you state. “Force his guard down. With Hotch descending on him, he’s focused on keeping his cards close. Maybe we’ll get him talking if he thinks we don’t know he’s holding that tyre iron.”

Rossi shakes his head. “It’s too late for that. He knows we’re unto him.”

“No, he knows you’re onto him,” you point out, making Rossi stare at you with squinted eyes. Reading between the lines. “You and Hotch. He hasn’t seen me yet.”

Intrigued as he is concerned, Rossi turns to rest his shoulder against the pane. Not watching Hotch’s futile attempts, his attention is now focused solely on you.

“Be straight with me, kid,” he orders.

The realisation dawns on you at that moment. Should he agree to your proposal, you will have to go through with it. Sit in front of a man who eats girls like you for breakfast. Even if Rossi dismissed your suggestion, you can’t take your words back. He will know how far you’re willing to go to succeed. For now, you’re unsure whether that’s good or bad.

“I’m gonna go in there, pretending to have no knowledge of his crimes or his victims,” you say. If he can see through your false confidence, he doesn’t let on. “I’ll play right into his little power fantasy and when he lets his guard down, I’ll nudge him into giving up Jane’s whereabouts.”

Rossi stares at you in silence. The longer he goes without saying a word, the more you’re convinced he’s in agreement. He’s probably gauging Hotchner’s reaction or his own thoughts about the possible consequences: will he be able to live with himself if you do go inside and things go sideways?

Finally, Rossi opens the door to the interrogation room. Hotch looks at him with a confused expression, but follows the man anyway. David wouldn’t barge in without a good reason.

Hotch stares between you and Rossi. Although he appears collected, there’s a sense of impatience in the way his eyes flicker. He doesn’t want to waste what little time you have.

“She wants to do it,” Rossi says, painting at you.

Hotch gives you a suspicious look before turning his attention back to the other man. “Do what?”

“Tell him, kid. It’s your idea.”

Rossi walks away from the conversation. He reaches for the now lukewarm coffee and stares at the unsub on the other side of the two-way mirror.

“I know we’re all doing our best here,” you begin, slowly crumbling under Aaron’s watchful gaze, “but this is getting nowhere. Clearly, that twisted cockroach of a person is having fun, while we’re ripping our hair out. Instead of putting up a fight, I think we should coerce him. Play into his fantasy.”

An almost imperceptible twitch of his facial muscles tells you everything you need to know - he’s already got a pretty good guess what you’re about to say. Still, he wants to hear you put it into words. Maybe there’s even a semblance of naive hope inside him, that you turn out to be more reasonable than he assumes.

“What are you suggesting?” he asks.

“I’ll go in there,” you state. The darkness of the room makes you almost miss the way his expression hardens. Defiance. “If he thinks I’m all pliant and vulnerable, he will put his guard down. Treat me like one of his victims. Then, when he doesn’t know he’s being played, I’ll get him to talk.”

Hotch doesn’t answer right away. Just like Rossi did, he’s pondering the consequences. In Aaron’s case, the situation might be even more complicated. How can he send the woman he loves into a room with a man who knows no fear or morality? After always making sure you’re safe, risking his own life to save yours, he’s being asked to leave you unprotected. Exposed.

In a way that defies all logic and natural laws, he nods quietly.

“I don’t like this,” he says after a while.

“None of us do,” Rossi chimes in. “But she’s right. We’re getting nowhere. For all we know, Jane Roberts might already be dead.”

Aaron clenches his jaw tightly. Two aspects of his life clash, leaving chaos and indecisiveness in their wake. Perhaps love and logic exist on one spectrum, always tugging and pulling in their own directions. The closer he steps to one of the ends, the more enticing its opposite seems.

Hotch exhales loudly, signalling a choice has been made.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks. What may sound like the stern voice of a leader hides a heartfelt tremble between words. Whether he’s putting up a front for you or himself, no one can really know.

“I’m sure we’re out of options and Jane is running out of time,” you answer.

Aaron’s gaze meets yours in a silent confrontation. A wordless probing, an attempt at seeing beyond what he’s shown. The look in his brown eyes softens, appearing somewhat sad, if not apologetic.

“He’s handcuffed to the table, he can’t hurt you,” he reassures. You think the words are more of a reminder for himself, rather than for you. It’s Aaron who needs to justify this decision to his own conscience.

Aaron Hotchner, however, isn’t the only person capable of reading between the lines, hearing conversations in silent rooms. In the confines of his home, you’ve learnt to see what lies behind the mask of an FBI Unit Chief.

“Even if he could, I know you’d stop him in time,” you answer, pertaining to all the things he’s too afraid to say outside the comfort of his bedroom.

It’s a split second but it happens nonetheless - a flicker of a smile appears on his face. Yes, to be loved is to be known. Right now, Aaron Hotchner is eternally grateful that the woman in front of him knows him almost better than he knows himself. Anybody else might crumble underneath the plight he carries within but not you. No, you treat old bruises and unhealed wounds like stars aligned in a yet unknown constellation. Only for you do they make sense and dear God, is it beautiful.

“You can end this whenever you want,” he continues. “Even if he doesn’t tell us the location of the body, I won’t be angry with you.”

“I know.” The tone of your voice sounds a bit too casual for the task awaiting you. “You like me too much to be angry.”

His lips stretch into a small, hel-back smile. “I will be here all the time.”

“Hey, Rossi!” You call out to the other man, who until now has been pretending to not hear a sliver of your conversation with Aaron. “Make sure Agent Hotchner doesn’t lose it, alright?”

“I’ll see what I can do but no promises,” he answers with apparent amusement. “I still have a few things I want to do in life.”

“Watch and learn, honey,” you whisper to Aaron before entering the interrogation room.

The door closes behind you with a fateful click. Like a ringing bell in a theatre, the curtains open and you must convince the audience that your act is genuine. Hopefully, your middle school drama teacher was right and you do have a talent for dramatics.

The man sitting at the table watches you like a predator. His eyes notice every small detail - the flow of your hair, the creases in your clothes, the slight glimmer of jewellery. Even the adorable way you nervously bite the inside of your cheek. He waits for you to sit down before he speaks:

“Well, hello there, little lady.”

In any other circumstance, you would bite back with a positively ‘unladylike’ response. Feeling Aaron’s stare on the back of your head, you give the murderer in front of you a coy smile.

“Good morning, mister Beckett,” you greet him. 

“I ain’t no mister, love.” The confident tone assures you that you’re neither the first nor last woman he’s spoken to this way. “Just Neil.”

“Of course, Neil.”

The man leans back in his chair. Lips turn into a sinister grin.

“Say it again,” he demands in a low voice.

“Neil,” you repeat, pretending that you don’t know why he’d ask you to do so.

Beckett’s sly smirk only widens, a wild look shines in his eyes. He makes you think of a nature documentary you’ve seen a long time ago. In there, a slowed-down footage showed a tiger at the zoo, attempting to pounce on one of the visitors when they turned their back to the animal. The only thing that saved them was a thick pane of plexiglass. Whether a beast is caged or not doesn’t change the fact that it remains a beast. No matter what we tell ourselves.

Hotch lets out a long exhale. If the breathing exercise is meant to help, it’s doing a poor job. Rossi tells him a reassuring ‘she’s okay’ but it does little to curb Aaron’s anger. He knows all too well what Neil Beckett felt the moment you said his name. Hotch feels that same primitive want and possessiveness every night, when your desperate gasps of pleasure fill what little space is left between your bodies. No other man should ever hear those sweet sounds. They wouldn’t know how to care for such a gift.

“What can I do for you, love?” asks Neil. He’s eyeing your silhouette with little, if any, reluctance. You take that as a good sign. After all, you are putting on a show just for him.

“Actually, I should be the one asking you this,” you answer, still as innocent as he wants you to be. “The FBI agents had to leave for a while. I’m here to make sure you’re comfortable and cared for.”

Neil Beckett leans forward. The low-hanging lamp is directly above his head, covering half of his face in a shadow. Whoever said that the devil has horns and hooves was deeply mistaken. Instead of looking like a goat, he resembles an average man living in the country: hay-coloured fine hair, a torn plaid shirt, sunburnt neck. A smell of motor oil and freshly cut wood surrounds him like an ominous miasma.

“So it’s just the two of us?” he asks, thrill peeking out from between his words.

“Yes, mis-...” you hang your voice, offering a smile. “Neil,” you correct yourself. “There’s just you and me, Neil.”

The answer seems to satisfy him. Restless, he begins to bounce his leg. His eyes flicker down your blouse, then at the two-way mirror behind you. Little does he know that Aaron meets his gaze. Hotch recognises the sexual, sadistic frenzy in Neil’s eyes. Aaron forcefully unclenches his hands, feeling how the tight grip is shooting pain through his joints.

“Turns out her friend was right,” Rossi says without looking at Hotch. “Some men can’t tell between lust and violence.”

“Maybe someone should teach him,” Hotch answers under his breath.

Rossi gives him an amused look that quickly turns into a sign of concern. Nothing about Hotchner’s stern expression suggests the comment is a joke. In fact, it seems like a promise or a resolution.

“He’ll get some good teaching in prison,” David says. Considering the ages of the victims and what Beckett has done to them, the lesson learnt behind bars will be fatal.

The thought of Neil dying after the first prison beating doesn’t satisfy Hotch. If anything, it fuels his anger. Still, Aaron tells himself that he’s not a sadist. Exercising justice is much, much different from vengeance or pleasure from violence.

Neil Beckett sharply tugs at his handcuffs. The table loudly drags against the floor. Your heart skips a beat, adrenaline tickles the tips of your fingers but you do your best to keep a coy, warm expression. Men bigger than Neil couldn’t free themselves; there’s nothing to worry about. Even if he did, Aaron is a few meters away.

There’s nothing to worry about.

Facing a definite defeat, Neil leans even closer to you. His face is no more than a hand’s length away from yours. As a last-resort defence, you could, of course, spit on him. Not that it would do much.

“I could make us both more comfortable and cared for,” he drones through clenched teeth, “if you took off these handcuffs.”

As befits this type of killer, his resolve is almost non-existent. Whatever he wants, he must get immediately. Growing frustration is the key to making him talk about Jane Roberts but not yet. First, you must make him believe that he has you all pliant and coerced.

You give him a sad, almost pitiful, smile. “I’m afraid Agent Hotchner left with the key.”

Now both of his legs are bouncing erratically. Is this what the tiger felt before pouncing on the tourist behind the plexiglass?

“No need to be afraid, doll,” he says. His tailored appearance is steadily slipping, revealing another piece of the true horrors churning inside him. It won’t be long before you see exactly what Jane Roberts did. “It’s just you and me… You and me,” he repeats, more to himself than to you.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Neil?” you ask.

It’s for the better that Aaron can’t see your face. If he did, he’d see the same big eyes you give him in the mornings, begging for just another five minutes before starting the day. So far, he has yielded each time. Had Hotchner seen the way you’re looking at Neil Beckett, his iron resolve would crumble immediately. Those pleading, glistening eyes are only for him. Other men might find them too inviting.

“We could talk,” Neil answers. “The other guy only knows how to yell. He better not be yellin’ at you, doll. I’d have to sort him out.”

When you giggle at the thinly veiled threat, Aaron clenches his hands into fists again. He knows you don’t mean it - nothing about Neil’s thinly veiled threat is amusing or heartwarming to you. Even so, Hotch can’t quite hold back the putrid feelings stewing inside him. He’s never considered himself a jealous man but a principled one. Standing in that dark room, watching you play coy with a criminal who only sees you as prey, he finally makes that admission to himself. He, Aaron Hotchner, is jealous that another man is hearing all your sweet sounds committed to his memory. While he realises his possessiveness is infantile at best, a semblance of pride justifies his anger. After all, wouldn’t any man in his place feel just as bitter? In fact, Hotch is doing much better than what would be expected of him in this moment - he stalls, trusting your judgement and skills. He could barge in and tell Neil Beckett exactly what he thinks about his disgusting attitude but he chooses not to. The poise of a saint, truly.

“Lucky guy waiting for you back home?” Neil continues his inquiry. Aside from his bouncing legs, you can hear the quiet, rhythmic clicking of the handcuffs. It sounds like he’s tapping his fingers against the table, recreating a racing heartbeat.

Neil Beckett wants to dominate, to conquer. That includes things he perceives as belonging to other men. However, if you seem too involved with a theoretical partner, Neil might lose his interest in you. 

“There is someone but…” You hang your voice, counting on the possibility of Beckett not pushing the matter further. Give him only as much as he wants to hear.

“He treatin’ you right, doll?” The tone of his voice comes off almost paternal.

Putting on a timid, abashed expression, you look at your fidgeting fingers, expertly coming off as embarrassed. 

“He’s trying his best,” you say.

The answer seems to be just right. Neil gives you a practised sympathetic look that does little to hide the frenzy in his eyes. If he felt the range of emotions an average person does, he’d make quite a good actor. 

“That ain’t enough,” he says in a low, hoarse voice. “For a girl like you, he should be doing more than his best. Men nowadays don’t know what a sweet girl needs.”

You look up at him, just as shy and hopeful as Jane Roberts was two days ago. “Do you?”

“Sure do.” Neil chuckles quietly. “I could tell you all about it.”

“Really?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, doll.” Beckett suddenly leans back in his chair, pulling away after a period of pushing. Abusive partners tend to do that, you notice. “But first, I need you to do something for me.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t want that little agent back there freeloadin’. Turn that camera off and we’ll talk.”

You find it hilarious that Neil Beckett thinks that Aaron Hotchner would pick up a thing or two about flirting from him. As ridiculous as his claim is, you don’t let your composure slip. After this little lark is done, you can laugh all the way back home and into Aaron’s bed.

“Oh, I-I’m not sure if I can,” you stutter out.

“Come on, sweet thing,” he beckons in a condescending voice. “He ain’t your daddy, you don’t have to listen to him.”

Oh, Neil Beckett. If only you were at least as smart as you are perverted…

Pliant and gullible in all the right ways, you get up from the chair. You don’t have to turn around to know that Neil’s eyes are glued to your hips as you’re walking to the camera in the corner of the room. Turning the device off, you glance quickly at the two-way mirror in front of you. There’s no way for you to know if Aaron is facing you. You wish you could give him a signal that everything’s fine but considering Neil’s attention on you, it would be too risky. Beckett might start suspecting something.

As you sit down again in front of Neil, you realise that this is the most important part of the meeting. Every little smile and giggle lead you to this moment - Neil Beckett is convinced that you’re the only witness to this conversation. There can be no guesswork, only covert interrogation.

“Can you tell me now?” you ask him shyly, batting your eyelashes the same way you would at Aaron.

“Come closer, doll,” he demands, voice raspy and trembling. He’s reaching his limit.

You set your arms on the table, leaning in to the man. With a satisfied, sly grin plastered on his face, Neil leans forward as well. Again, your faces are no more than a hand’s length apart.

“Nah, a little closer.”

Anxiety clenches your stomach and chest. Your throat tightens around a lump inside it. As you fix your thoughts on Aaron standing guard on the other side of the mirror, you manage to swallow your fear, turning terror into an admirable show of juvenile bashfulness.

Then, you stop thinking about Aaron and begin wondering about Jane Roberts. She’s somewhere out there, helpless and hopeless. Now, you’re the only person she has, even if she doesn’t know it.

You lean in farther, feeling Neil’s breath fan against your face with each exhale. The tips of your noses are barely an inch apart. “Is this enough?” you whisper.

“It’s perfect, sweetheart,” he answers, voice equally low. His eyes study your features in detail. It seems as though he’s trying to remember the way you look or he’s imagining what you’re going to look like after he’s, well, done with you.

Aaron Hotchner is so beside himself, he might as well step out of his body and enter a new plane of existence. Focused on the scene behind the two-way mirror, he doesn’t even notice that Rossi has been observing him for quite some time now. David is worried about your well-being, that’s understandable. What concerns him more, however, is the impending possibility of Hotch doing something less than reasonable. He recalls what you have said at the beginning, that most men are identical in some ways. Staring at Aaron’s stiff shoulders and clenched jaw, he’s inclined to agree. Hotch, just like Neil Beckett, is a ticking time bomb. There’s no way to tell when either of them will give in to their needs.

The tension temporarily subsides when Spencer enters the dark room. He opens his mouth but before he can share the news, he freezes suddenly, seeing you leaning in so close to Neil Beckett. Rossi, all too aware of Aaron’s agitation, doesn’t let Spencer address the very obvious elephant:

“What is it, Reid?”

Spencer furrows his eyebrows as he stares between the two men, silently gauging all that they refuse to say. Judging by Hotchner’s expression, the unsaid words are not good. Spencer has seen Aaron angry but never as disturbed as now. Fury appears only secondary to something deeper, more primitive.

“The medical examiner finished the last report,” he says, voice revealing suspicion of the strange arrangement before him. “Hannah was missing a chunk of her ear. Judging by the ridges and circular shape, it was bitten off.”

Rossi’s face twists into a grimace. “Neil Beckett bit her ear off?”

“Part of the lobe,” Spencer corrects, “not the whole ear.”

Hotch turns on his heel. “I’m ending this.”

“Wait!” Rossi manages to grab Aaron’s arm before the man can reach the doorknob. 

While Hotchner doesn’t free himself immediately, the cold stare he gives David makes the older man let go. He leans backwards, silently moving away from the raging man. A falling knife has no handle and furious Aaron has, for lack of a better phrase, no handle.

“This may be our only chance,” Rossi argues. He’s clinging to remnants of Hotchner’s restraint. “Jane’s only chance.”

Aaron gives him a confused look. “Dave, I’m not about to let that man bite her ear off,” he retorts, voice trembling with barely controlled emotions.

“I know, just-” Rossi sighs, realising that Hotchner is past reasonable arguments. “Let’s just wait a little bit longer. He’s about to break.”

“Not just him,” Aaron mumbles under his breath.

Against his better judgment and itching hands, Hotchner chooses not to make a decision. He allows the situation to unravel naturally, with you leading the grand finale. Curiosity gets the better of Spencer and he stays in the room, intrigued by the upcoming unravelling. Besides, Rossi might need a little help in preventing an aggravated assault.

You swallow nervously. No matter how much saliva your mouth produces, your throat is still dry and painfully tight. Even if you wanted to scream, you don’t think you could.

Neil’s breath fans against your skin with each exhale. Stray strands of your hair dance sway on the gusts. It will take a few tries to wash out the smell of motor oil and freshly-cut lumber. His eyes continue to study your features, unblinking, as though he doesn’t want to idly waste time.

Beckett dives in towards your neck. His nose brushes against your jaw as he takes a deep breath. Whatever he smells on you, it makes him grunt with satisfaction. Under the table, you’re digging your nails into the flesh of your hand. The sharp pain temporarily distracts you from the unwanted close proximity. Neil has barely touched you but his sole presence feels intrusive. Like an invader outside the castle gates, he doesn’t need to attack for you to gauge the power of his army. All it takes is an attentive eye and a little bit of imagination.

“You’re all sweet and buttery,” he whispers. “Do you know what that means?”

“N-no,” you answer. “Is that good?”

“It’s perfect, doll. Just right.” Neil takes another inhale of your smell. His grunting sounds now more sexual than just satisfactory. It makes your skin crawl. “The lovely aroma of a ripe cunt.”

A sinking feeling in your stomach makes you sick to the point of throwing up. Digging your nails further into your hand, you try to think about Aaron. He’s on the other side of the mirror, keeping watch. Before you entered the interrogation room, he made a promise to keep you safe. There’s no reason for you to start doubting him now.

Neil has begun to talk about his victims, which is a green light for you. The whereabouts of Jane Roberts are within your grasp. He just needs the last nudge. What would a pliant, scared girl do in your shoes?

“The… others?” you choke out, tears falling down your face. You never thought the talent of crying on demand would come in handy after growing out of Barbie dolls and stuffed ponies.

To your horror, Neil licks a few tears off your cheek.

“Even your tears taste sweet, doll,” he murmurs. “Where have you been all my life? I could have your scent all over me.” Neil rubs his nose against your cheek, a pleased hum rumbles inside his chest. “I would get drunk on it. Bathe in it. Or better yet, drown your little man in it.”

His repetitive mentions of water make something click in your mind. All of his victims had pruned skin and water in their lungs but no algae. A body of water that is safe for drinking, deep enough to bathe or drown and isn’t natural…

Tears stop falling. You lean away from Neil, keen eyes focused on his face. The sudden change of your demeanour stumps him. The frenzy inside him subsides for a moment as he tries to make sense of the situation.

A sly grin spreads across your face.

"Oh, you little scoundrel,” you say, tone as amused as it is condescending. “You threw her body into the water tower, didn't you?"

What follows happens so quickly you barely register it:

Nostrils flared and eyes glazed with fury, Neil dives at you. Before you have the chance to get away, Aaron pushes Beckett away. The force of the shove makes the table drag along with the man as he almost falls off the chair.

Neil’s eyes remain on you. Again, you think back to that documentary. Strangely enough, that tiger in the zoo looked more human than Beckett does right now. After all, the tiger kills for understandable reasons: fear, hunger, protecting its cubs. Neil Beckett, however, murdered ten women for reasons you will never fully understand. Doesn’t that make him more animal than a tiger?

“You-”

Aaron stops Neils from speaking when he slams his fist on the table. You can’t see his eyes but you’re quite sure they have the same terrifying look as Beckett’s.

“One more word and I will gladly tell the DA how you assaulted a federal agent. Might add a few details of my own, for good measure.”

His newfound lack of respect for law and order actually makes Neil Beckett silent. The murderer seems unaware that a new charge wouldn’t change his outcome - he’s never going to see the light of day again.

Hotchner unchains the handcuffs from the table and forcefully pulls up Neil by his arm. Beckett winces for a second. Any more strength to that pull and he would have a dislocated shoulder. You have a burning suspicion that this was perfectly calculated by Aaron - enough to hurt, not enough to leave a mark.

After Neil Beckett is dragged out of the room, Rossi offers you a helping hand. You dismiss him, deciding to stand up on your own. That isn’t a smart decision, as your knees buckle under the weight of your body. David is quick to catch you, keeping a protective hold on your arm. He could ask how you’re feeling but he finds it obsolete. Legs tend to give out when people are definitely not alright.

“Reid ran to call the dispatch,” he says. You weren’t even aware that Spencer had witnessed the interrogation. “In an hour, Jane Roberts will be back with her parents.”

“Yeah and then it’s just the rest of her life,” you answer quietly.

Rossi gives you a look of confusion and disbelief. “You saved her, kid. In my books, that’s a good thing.”

“I know, it’s just…” Your voice trails off. You look at the other side of the table, where Neil Beckett was sitting just a moment ago. “I don’t think she’s going to share your opinion once PTSD sets in.”

“That’s between her and the therapist.”

You don’t respond, even though you know he’s right. When Jane Roberts is retrieved, your job ends and hers begins. The only thing you can do is pray that she’s equipped for it.

To your dismay, Aaron disappears until Jane Roberts is safe and sound at the hospital, her parents standing guard over their daughter. You keep telling yourself that he also needs to calm down but it doesn’t make his absence any less disturbing. As supportive as the rest of the team is, there’s only one person whose comfort you desperately need.

Hotch finds you in the conference room, alone. Everyone else left to give you some space, although in their minds, that means they’re still staring at you, worried sick, just on the other side of the door. Aaron doesn’t ask anyone about how you’ve been doing while he wasn’t there. That would be a waste of time. He needs to find out for himself

Hearing the door open and close, you turn around. Gone is the cold, professional demeanour. The man in front of you seems small, afraid. With his anger dissipated, Aaron looks strangely deflated as if he came home after a terribly long day of hard work.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

It’s expected of lovers to worry about one another. You know that. Even so, you’re reluctant to let Aaron know what’s really going on inside you. He’s got enough on his plate as is.

You giggle quietly, attempting to soothe his nerves. “Would it be very inappropriate right now if I said I’m hungry?”

He smiles at you but the expression isn’t happy at all. There’s something profoundly sad about the way he’s staring at you. “Not unless you’re planning to bite someone’s ear off.” Aaron vaguely points to the picture included in the medical examiner’s report that Spencer brought earlier.

A slight grimace appears on your face. “Ew,” you whine. Despite apparent disgust, you still lean closer to study the picture. “You know what’s worse?” you ask, making Aaron quirk his eyebrow in curiosity. “That didn’t kill my appetite.”

The two of you laugh dryly. You’re too loved, too known, by each other to believe faux nonchalance.

“How are you really, honey?” Aaron asks after a minute of silence.

What a strange dilemma it is - whether you’re honest or not, he’s going to be upset either way, just for a different reason. You want to spare him your grim thoughts but the way he’s looking at you makes you reconsider. A sense of understanding glimmers in his eyes. Whatever baggage you carry, no matter how large the piece of heaven on your shoulders, he wishes to know all of it. There’s no piece of you too unsightly that he couldn’t hold dear.

“Feeling a lot of mixed emotions,” you answer. As you exhale, you can feel poisonous tension leaving your body. With it gone, you can finally think clearly again. “On one hand, I’m kinda proud of what I did back there but at the same time, I’m disgusted with myself.” Unable to meet his adoring gaze, you look at your own shoes. “Playing into his game felt… wrong. Sordid. Even though I knew I was doing it for the right reasons.”

Feeling Aaron’s warm hand holding yours, you look up at him. His attentive eyes study you for a moment as he decides which one of the million things in his head he should say.

“You did what no one else could.” His voice is quiet, comforting. “Without you, we never would have found Jane Roberts.”

Hotchner sighs when he sees you shaking your head. Maybe the worst offender is that voice of doubt in the back fo your head. If only he could pluck it out.

“That hardly makes me feel better. It’s just…” Your gaze leaves his face again. Tears, honest this time around, gather along your lashline. All the bleach in the world won’t be able to make you feel clean again. “I know he was thinking about doing to me what he did to those women. And I indulged him.”

Aaron prefers to forgo considering that. Even a second of pondering that fact would make him go back to Neil Beckett and make sure that man can’t do much thinking for the rest of his short life. It’s better for everyone if Hotchner simply pretends that never happened.

Gently, he grabs your chin between two fingers. A tender, yet firm, pull forces you to look him in the eye. Seeing you cry, his own eyes glisten with tears. Somehow, he manages to push them back whence they came from.

“You beat him at his own game.” The confidence in his voice makes the statement sound lik a fact of nature and not just reassurance. “Not everyone would be smart enough or brave enough to pull that off. No matter what he said, you didn’t let fear get to you. It’s admirable.”

There’s nothing admirable about what you’ve done. In fact, that deplorable level of manipulation should be kept secret. It’s not good etiquette to let everyone know just how awful you can be.

“You don’t have to sweet-talk me, Aaron.” As you say his name, something about the look in his eyes changes. It softens. “I’m already wrapped around your finger.”

“Is that so?” he muses, a smile spreading across his face. “Rossi might have a different opinion. He had to stop me from coming in and giving Neil Beckett a stern talking to.”

The thought of Aaron barging into the interrogation room and re-enacting a scene from Rambo on a criminal makes you laugh. Not that it would be impossible, just improbable in given circumstances. It’s not like Neil actually hurt you or threatened you. He was just a deranged hick.

That little moment of humour goes a long way in lifting your spirits. No one is disgusted with you for playing into Beckett’s fantasy. Even more, they are impressed with your success. Their concern lies only with you being exposed to someone as vile as Neil Beckett. Whether he would have given up the location or not, the team would be just as worried about you.

Putting on a coy expression, you lift Aaron’s hand, playing with his fingers. A suspicious and amused look adorns his face.

“The dashing FBI agent has only one weakness,” you say in a theatrical voice, “a hardened criminal chatting up his girl.”

Hotch chuckles. His fingers move from your chin to your jaw, tracing it gently.

“I don’t like my girl,” he fondly stresses the title, “showing that side of her to other men, criminal or not.” While Aaron is willing to admit to himself that he gets jealous, he’s not about to indulge you. Knowing your antics, you would have a bit too much fun with that information.

“What side?” you ask, insidiously innocent as ever.

“The one that’s for my eyes only,” he whispers before kissing you softly. His lips move slowly, with purpose. He wants to feel everything about you, commit this very moment to memory. It’s a matter of principles, not jealousy, when a man stakes a claim on the woman he loves and enjoys every second of that belonging.

Or so he tells himself.

“You know, next time-”

“There won’t be a next time,” he cuts you off.

“Hello, this is Detective Rose,” An older man answers.

“Hello Detective, I'm with the FBI, SSA agent (Y/L) from the Bau unit” Your voice comes out sharp as you hold back the emotions swirling in your mind. If this is the group you believe it is, you're going to have to bring your team in, but no way could they know just how long you have been looking for them.

“Oh Agent, how can I help?” The man's voice is filled with confusion.

“I heard you found a body of a teenage boy, I read in the report he was badly injured and a 

John doe, look I think he might be connected to a case I'm working and I need you to send me all the information and photos of this boy you have as soon as you can” You don’t have time to explain to him, nor the patience.

“Case, but there's only one body?” There's a small arrogance laying under his tone as he speaks his next words. “Plus he seems to be a runaway, he doesn’t seem like the type anyone would be after”

“Excuse me” You can’t help but sneer into the phone, anger filling you up. “How dare you, he is a child, someone has to be missing him and even if not he deserves justice, so I figure you better send me what I asked for before I called your boss” Venom seems to drip from your words as your grip the phone like your life depends on it. Silence fills the other end and your patience seems to dry up, opening your mouth to send him another order when he finally speaks up again.

“Of course we don’t need that, files and photos have been sent, reach out again if I —” You hang up before he finishes speaking, you don’t need anything more from him. 

~~~

Sitting on your couch, your mind spinning as you go through the new photos of the crime scene you have received. This is it, this is them, no doubt about it. He fits the victimology, he’s the right age, fit and covered in so many cuts and bruises it’s impossible to see his face. What makes your heart drop the most is the cut on his left forearm, two other previous victims also had it. You know how they got it, hell you got one quite similar to it. Which means you know where they are being kept and where they are going next which means it's time to bring your team in. Grabbing the pile of older files, ones that you have collected over the years, pulling the top few files off the top for the team to see, placing the older ones at the bottom of your to go bag. You can’t let your team know just how long you have been investigating this case. If you do things could unravel and your past could be exposed, the one thing that could never happen, because if it does you might not have a job any more. 

Your phone starts dinging, your alarm going off. Great you pulled another all nighter, something you have been warned against many times in the past month. 

~~~

Hotch has been on your ass a lot lately about looking after yourself, he’s the only one who can tell when you're struggling. Maybe that's why you're having a hard time figuring out how to bring this case to him. You know he’s going to know this isn’t just a regular case for you, you might be good at hiding your personal life and emotions from the team but that doesn’t include Aaron. You're not sure how you grew close to your boss, you two have hangout, outside of work many times, even including getting to know Jack and spending many weekends watching his soccer games, and of course getting ice cream afterwards as a reward. Somehow Aaron managed to get you to join them both for movie nights and your friendship has never been stronger than that night. But then you had to go and ruin it, pulling yourself away from him, when things started feeling real. You started feeling like you belong and not just with him, but with the team you're surrounded by. Belonging somewhere is something you have never felt before and it's terrifying, so you pull away from them all. Space is a good thing plus there were only a few reasons you took this job a few years ago and you need to remember that.

~~~

You're the first one at the office that morning, even beating Hotch to the office for once. You wait at your desk, your desk is different from the others. They all have personal items on their desk, things that make their desk seem more welcoming and comforting. Except yours, its fill of paperwork and a small fake desk plant that Garcia placed there one day that you just didn’t have the heart to move. Aaron arrives not long after you. Aaron stops by the glass door when he spots you, and he’s glad you're facing the other way so he can just watch you for a moment. He can’t help but feel something is wrong, the last few weeks you have been more off than normal. You're someone who keeps to themself and he knows that, maybe that's why he was surprised when you were spending a lot of your time with him and Jack. Not that he minded at all, he loves spending time with you, maybe more than a boss should but he shouldn’t be blamed when it comes to you, you're different. But when he was spending time with you, he managed to figure out your tell, and how you go inside your own mind when things aren’t right. Maybe that's why, even when you started putting more distance between you both, he couldn't help but remind you to get some sleep or remind you to eat, the two things you always seem to forget about. Aaron lets out a small breath, preparing himself for whatever the reason is that you're the first one here. The glass doors open and within a second you're spinning around in your chair, and the first thing Aaron notices is the files in your hands and then the bags underneath your determined eyes.

“Good Morning Hotch” Your voice is full of energy, which he can only put down to the empty coffee cup beside you.

“Morning, you’re here early” Aaron stares at you questionably, raising his eyebrow when you don’t respond.  “Is there a reason why?”

“I need to talk to you, it's important” You jump up quickly, meeting him in the middle of the room.

“Alright, my office then” He bites back a sigh as you nod enthusiastically, climbing up the stairs before him. He can’t help himself but compare you to a puppy, one who uses up all their energy but still refuses to back down when it's time to rest. He’s waiting for you to burn out, it may have been three years with you on the team, but he can’t help but wait for you to break. He doesn’t understand how anyone could keep going at the pace you do without any consequences.

~~~

You both enter his office, Aaron places his bag down before taking a seat at his desk, signalling you to do the same, so you do.

“Okay so I found—” You can’t help but start, holding your own homemade files,your leg bouncing as you speak.

“Stop” Hotch holds his hand up to silence you, dread fills your eyes as you do. “Did you sleep last night?” Accusation dripping from his words, his stern stare digging straight into your sole, making a strange shiver roll down your spine.

“That's not important” The confidence seems to slip by as he stares at you longer, you can’t help but sink in your chair, the uncomfortableness just making you want to run.

“But it is, I need to know my agents are looking after themself” Aaron holds back the proper lectures he wants to give you. Sometimes he wonders how you managed to become a full functioning adult with the way you treat your body, running yourself so low he wonders how you're alive at all.

“I look after myself perfectly fine Aaron” You have to physically bite your tongue to hold back the taunt you want to say instead, but you need him to listen to you instead.

“Do you, because you didn’t sleep last night, and can you even tell me the last time you ate something homemade?” 

“Last night” Smirking cockily at him, you indeed did make something last night so he can suck it.

“It doesn’t count if it was your usual cheese on toast” Aaron smirks as yours slowly disappears. 

“Okay, uncalled for Hotch” Grumbling as you place the files down before crossing your arms. “Look I get it, I need to improve, but I need your help on something much more important, please?” Your mask starts dropping, the fear and doubtfulness visible for just a few seconds, before you pull yourself together again, your face hardening up again.

~~~

“Tell me what this is?” Hotch reaches for the files, the pile alot bigger than he first thought it was.

“Someone is kidnapping teenages all over the country, and just hours surrounded the kidnapping another teenage is found dead a few towns over from the new victim, I have found about seven different cases over the course of 18 months so far, but the dead victims are never the ones from the recent kidnappings, they look older almost like they could have been kidnapped years prior maybe, they all have the same marks all over their body, the victimology is the same” You take a deep breath as Hotch flicks throughs the file. “The ones being taken are either from abusive households or already living on the street, they aim for the ones who are strong but not confident, they seem to find the quiet ones are go after them, but they are quick, they don’t leave much room for the kids to escape, they move fast” Your words seem to run from your mouth, the rush to get out of your mind and into Aarons ear makes you forget to breathe. The urgency is great and he just doesn't understand. 

“You keep saying they” Hotch looks up the files, his boss face activated, his lips pursed together. His eyes burn into you once more, you have to do everything in your power to not physically respond to that call out, unfortunately your body straightens up, your throat clutching. 

“I believe it has to be at least two unsubs if not more, and one of them could possibly be a woman” You take a deeper breath as your heart starts to pace, your mind screaming at you to stop as Aaron's eyes narrow more.

“And why do you think that?”

“Because they're fast, they move around the country, and according to the autopsy the kids are well nutritious, they cause of death is mainly blood lose, or hits to the head, I think—-” You quickly cut yourself off. No you can’t say that, you can’t let that detail out quite yet, he won’t understand, no one will understand not yet. “I think they must be keeping them somewhere safe before they dispose of them” You change the words that almost slip out quickly, but not fast enough for Hotch to not notice. Hotch watches you closely as you grow quiet, waiting for his response. Your leg bouncing as your nails dig into your arms, your eyes begging him to say something, just anything.

“What do you think they are doing to them if they are keeping them for so long then?” His question is innocent enough, but oh lord. Your stomach is now on fire, your eyes darken with anger as you speak.

“Training them to fight each other, fight to the death and then they keep the strong ones for who knows what” Oh but you know, oh you know too well what they are keeping them for and that makes you want to be sick. 

~~~

Silence fills the office as he stares at you, the anger that fills your eyes is something he hasn’t seen before, and he has seen you angry. But this is different, this is almost a murderous glaze in your eyes, something that makes Aaron uncomfortable. 

He knows what he has to do, even if he doesn’t like it. 

“How long have you been investigating this, how did you manage to get all of this information?” His voice is low as he speaks, his words filling with disappointment as he speaks.

“A few months” A lie, you both know that. But Aaron knows better than to question that right now, the can of worms that could open could be too hard to close.

“Why are you just bringing this to me now?” His voice raises, the disappointment sweeping out. “You should of came to me as soon as you saw a pattern forming” 

“I know I should have, but I wanted to see if I was right, maybe see if I could find any clues before bringing the team into a goose chase” You try to reason with him, gulping as if you know what you have to say. “I think I found them, and if I'm right another person was taken last night and I have a feeling that another body will be found near the state line of Nebraska and Wyoming, we need to take this case, we need to save them” A shaky breath leaves you as you lean forward, placing your hands on the desk, your eyes pleading. 

“Aar, please trust me on this” Gulping thickly as you see his eye flash with something unreadable as you say his old nickname, one you haven’t used in months.

“I need to make a few phone calls” He looks away from you as he picks up the phone. Standing up you smile slightly at him, thanking him quietly as you make your way out. 

~~~

The team soon arrives within the hour, where hotch is up in his office on the phone the whole time. Your body is on edge, sipping on your third cup of coffee as your mind runs. The team all stood around, talking and laughing as they usually do. Of course they try to get you to join in, but with one glance at you, they know this morning is not the time to get you to join in with them. It's Dave that talks to you this morning, his eyes couldn’t help but keep drifting to you as the team standing around teasing Reid and his crosswords. 

“Hey kiddo” Dave stands in front of you, pulling you from your mind, and mainly your eyes off Aarons offices.

“Ah, Morning Sir” Forcing a small smile as you do your best to focus on him, and not whatever conversation is going on inside the office right now.

“How many times have I told you Rossi, or Dave is fine? '' He smile’s down at you, hating to see the bags underneath your eyes, or the fresh scratch mask around your wrist. You wear long sleeves half the time, but that doesn’t stop the team from seeing the way your scratch at your arms when you get overwhelmed. 

“Right sorry” Pushing a small chuckle out, as you give him a weak smile. “My bad”

“It's okay, are you doing alright?” Rossi looks down at you worriedly, you weren’t the most talkative but right now you don’t even seem to know how to be your regular self.

“Fine si– Rossi” Your body tenses at the slip up, your eyes flicker back up to Aaron's office.

“Alright, if you ever need to talk kiddo you know I'm around” He smiles at you, one that's full of concern. A part of him wants to reach out, place a hand on your shoulder so you get the message, but he knows it won’t work with you. You don’t react well to physical touch, you jump when someone gets too close. The team remembers the first time Garica tried to give you a hug, you jumped back, hiding behind Morgan who was closest to you in that moment. She touched your shoulders, and you have never moved so fast, your body tensing your hands rolling into fist. You apologised as soon as you calmed down, you gave them no reasoning as to why. But they understood and no one has tried to touch you since, they even became your human shields when random people would try to hug you as a thank you. You were extremely grateful for that, it's been like that for three years now and still no one asks you why and you owe them so much for that.

~~~

Hotch finally emerges from his office after another hour, a sour look plastered across his face, and when you catch his eyes you know why. They found the body. 

“We got a case” Hotch calls out to his team, everyone's head shoots up to him. A deep unnerving tension seems to fill the room due to the seriousness on his face, and the way his eyes never leave yours. The air seems to leave your lungs as you stand up, grabbing your notebook off your desk before following the team into the conference room. Hotch waits by the door as the team walks in, placing his hand up in front of you to stop you. 

“One moment” His voice is low as he speaks, not wishing for the team to overhear.

“We found two bodies, one of them is Jason Ducan” Aaron speaks softly, as he watches your face flicker with recognition at that name. 

“They found a body” You stare up at him, your eyes now empty of emotions, putting them on the backboard as you prepare for this case.

“Jason Ducan, he was my first missing kid when I worked here” Your breathing hitches as fear flashes through your mind, doing your best to keep your poker face on. Do they know where you work, have they been keeping tabs on you for the last three years? Or maybe they never stop keeping tabs on you. 

“He doesn’t fit the profile, he was seven, from a good family. He was too young there is no way they would take someone from a family like that, it would be too difficult” Your mind spins as you speak, your words speeding up, slipping over each other in a hurry. Hotch hates the far away look that creeps into your eyes, almost more than he hates the numbness that dominates inside you. Taking a deep breath, hoping he doesn’t make it worse, Aaron slowly reaches out to you, placing his hand gently on your shoulder. You flinch sharply, your eyes narrowing on his hand, on his familiar touch. Aaron is the only one allowed to touch you, and only at certain times, only when you're ready for it, and normally you welcome his touch. Today is not the day you welcome it, his touch feels like fire, it sends painful memories of your past through your mind. 

“Don’t” Your voice is low and full of danger, a shaky breath follows as he doesnt let go immediately. 

“You need to tell me if this case gets too much, okay” Aaron words hold no judgement as he lets you go and just like he expected you stroll straight past him, anger radiating off you, as you fall into the chair beside Morgan.

~~~

Hotch starts the briefing, grabbing the team's attention with your homemade files. He informs them of everything you had told him that morning, minus your theories. 

“So you made these files?” It was Morgan who asked the question. The one thing that had confused the whole team, because this screamed to them as an off the books case, something Hotch would never do. 

“No I did” You speak up, leaning forward. You almost feel bored as Hotch gives the team the basic information, information you have been sitting on for many years. Everyone's heads turn straight to you, curiosity and surprised looks all over them. The quiet one who normally seems to keep to themself, is investigating a crime alone, and somehow convince Hotch to make it a real case. Oh you could feel the questions and doubt spreading throughout the room, and all you do is smirk at them as you lean forward.

“I didn’t think much of it at first, but something didn’t feel right so once I saw a second body drop in the same way. I started investigating a bit more, but I was always weeks behind, so in my time of hoping for new leads I went back and searched months back trying to find anything” You give them a brief explanation, making sure you don’t make eye contact with anyone, not needing to lose your nerve right now. The room stays quiet, giving you the confidence to keep talking, so taking a deep calming breath you continue. 

“After I got an alert last night of a kid going missing, I knew it was them. Conor Blue, he fits the description that the unsubs go after. He’s between the age of Nine and fourteen, he came from an abusive household and he’s into sports which isn’t always a go to, but something I see they prefer” You speak slower than this morning, remembering to breathe as you do. Hotch might be hard to convince, but making sure the whole team has your back on this case, is something you didn’t think through. You needed their help, because without the team, you can’t get close enough to get rid of them for good.

“How long have you been looking into this?” Emily asks, looking over at you with concern. She can see ghosts in your eyes, and whatever answer you give her, she’s not going to believe you. 

“About four months” Your lie is solided, you know that, you made sure all the files you gave them only look that old. Even if they have older information inside you can say it's from research. 

“He came to me this morning, and I have been on the phone with a few detectives” Aaron glances at you as he says that, your stomach drops. He knows you used your FBI statues to gather information you weren’t supposed to have, opps. “And It seems to be happening all over the country, so we need to make a fast move on this case, two new bodies were discovered this morning” Hotch continues, the team watches you instead of Hotch. They all notice the tense look on your face, the way your eyes darken, your lips tightening as a way to stop yourself from interrupting the boss. Photos pop up on the screen as Hotch keeps speaking, your eyes land on the photos, your stomach twisting. Jason laid in the dirt, his body covered in bruises and blood, a hopeless look in his eyes. But what makes your mind ache is the body laying beside the ten year old boy. A 20 year old guy. He looks strong, someone who you know could only live that long in that place, if they were extremely strong and brave. The marks around his neck send a shiver down your body, your stomach swooshes so much you think you're going to be ill. He’s the only one that ages with that mark, and there is only one guy who would do that. He’s still there, and that's all your fault.

~~~

“So (Y/n), any theories?” Rossi the one to ask you, his eyes on the notebook that you're clutching tightly.

“Quite a few” You glance up at Hotch, silently asking for permission to take over, he gives a quick nod and with that it's your turn. “It's a team, I want to say at least two older ones that have been doing this for many, many years, and if anyone has lasted long enough they would train them to join them, using them to find more opposition. They need a good routine of fighters, more opportunity for them to grow” You speak in a matter of fact, your fingers tapping away at the table.

“What makes you think they are fighting each other?” JJ glances at you from the photos.

“Easy, look at them, there is only one way someone can get that many bruises and cuts on them. Also not to mention the autopsy results mention multiple broken bones that have healed, internal bleeding due to multiple blunt force trauma”  Your not sure why but air soon becomes harder to inhale, it feels thick and the room starts heating up. Everyones eyes are on you, but you can’t look at them so you're focusing on the files in front of you instead. “Also look at their hands, they aren’t just defensive wounds, they fit back, also they are strong, it's like they train them. Plus they are well nourished so I guess someone is looking after them, my guess is a women is one of our unsubs” 

“That’s one hell of a theory” Morgan says, his eyes burning into you. His gut is full of distrust when it comes to you with this case, something doesn't seem right.

“I know, but have a look and you will see why I’m right, also this case is nothing like we are use to, I have many theories and most of them are strange but, you can see why” You speak from gritting teeth, your hand now gripping the table in front of you. 

“We are going to Nebraska, wheels up in thirty” Aaron eyes stay on you as you zoom out of the room, dying for some fresh air. 

~~~

“Jupiter wake up” Her viciouses voice fills your ears, as a piercing pain invades your side. A sharp hiss slips through your lips as your eyes shoot open, your body shooting up into a sitting position, pushing the thin blanket to the side. Inside you feel numb, nothing inside you is alive anymore, years of training has made you the perfect soldier. 

“Morning Ma’am” Your voice is emotionless, your eyes are dead as you stand up looking up at her. Keeping your hands behind you, your head slightly bent. 

“We have a new comer, you are to welcome them this morning, I don’t care if they live or die just clean up your mess” Her voice is assertive, a cunning look on her face as she leads you down the hall and past the other trainee soldiers. Some of them are still asleep, most of them without blankets, only winners get comfort items. You stroll past the training room where your fellow soldiers are lifting weights before being allowed to eat. You glance at them a part of you wishing you could join them, but that's not your task this morning. Instead you get to fight, and you get to choose the outcome, oh you do enjoy these fights. You always win, and even better, it doesn’t take much effort. Ma’am leads you to the empty swimming pool, where most fights to the death take place. As you walk over to the edge you spot your opponent, he looks small and extremely frightened, barely a challenge. He’s already got blood over his face as he hides on the corner of the pool, the area where the bloodstains seem to be less. A small chuckle leaves you as you check him out, the thoughts of destroying him winding you up. Licking your lips softly before glancing over at Ma’am waiting for permission to go down.

“Go on, but try and make it fair” She laughs softly, enjoying the murderous gaze in your eyes. In a matter of seconds you're jumping into the pool, smirking darkly as you make your way over to him. The boy looks to be about 14 or 15, a couple years or so younger than you. He looks up at you, a confused and scared look plastered over his face, it grows when you stop a few metres back from him. 

“Y you… you're alive” His whisper is barely audible, but it makes you freeze. That voice, you know that voice, how? 

“Come here, now” You growl at him, gritting your teeth as you stare into his eyes.

“I thought you died (Y/n)” He takes a small step forward staring at you with hope. Oh how wrong that looks for a place like this. 

“That's not my name” You spit at him, a horrible shiver dripping down your spine. 

“Yes it is” He speaks more confidently as he steps closer. “Your name is (Y/n), we used to be friends” That name, why do you know that name, it's wrong, it's so wrong. 

“I don’t know you” You sneer at him, taking a step towards him, dangour radiating off you.

“Yes you do, we used to be best friends, (Y/n) please you have to remember me, its Ryan” He begs you to remember. You freeze, Ryan. You know a Ryan, but he’s younger than him, Ryan was ten last time you saw him. But this can’t be him, because that part of your life is long gone, and who the hell does this guy think he is turning up claiming to be a part of that time. You react quickly with a sharp growl escaping you as you launch yourself on him.

“I don’t know you!” You scream as you grab him by his neck, and punch him repeatedly with your other hand. You're a lot stronger than him, using all your strength to pound into him. You let go of his neck, he falls forward with a gasp, begging you to stop but it falls on deaf ears. You knee him in the stomach as he falls forward, grabbing his hair holding him in place as you let him have it. 

“I don't know you” You scream as your anger explodes. “I don’t know (Y/n)!” You shove him into the wall, his body slides down, so you kick him, as you scream repeatedly. “I don't know Ryan” You keep screaming, blood starts to pile around him, as you lose control. “I don’t know you!”

~~~

“I don’t know you!” A scream invades the quietness of the jet. Everyone's head turns towards the scream full of pain, landing on you. You're asleep at the back of the jet, shaking violently with tears streaming down your face. Aaron is up in a matter of seconds, running quickly towards you. The team stays quiet, letting Hotch take control of this situation. He drops to his knees beside you, small whimpers and cries leaves you as you stay dead asleep. 

“(Y/n), wake up” He places his hand firmly on your arm, giving you a rough shake. But nothing, you stay asleep but your cries get louder. 

(Y/n), open your eyes” Aaron shakes you again sharper and luck is on his side. Your eyes shoot open, breathing heavily as you scan your surroundings. The jet, you're on the jet, with your team. Oh shit your team, everyone is watching you, they stare at you with unreadable emotions on their faces, and you hate it. Soon you let your eyes drop down to the man beside you, fear enters you quickly, yanking away from his touch you straighten up quickly.

“Sir, I’m so sorry sir I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I am extremely sorry sir It won’t happen again” Your words fly out of you with fear, your breathing picking up, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you watch him, waiting for the punishment. 

“It's okay” Aaron gulps, hating the fear you're experiencing, the panic attack that’s consuming you. “You are okay, you are safe here” Aaron speaks calmly, taking the chance to place his hand on yours, he’s grateful you don’t pull back.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep” Your voice grows quiet, your lip quivering as the adrenaline dies down. 

“It's okay you're allowed to fall asleep” Aaron reassures you, his thumb running over the back of your hand smoothly.

“I am?” You look up at him hopeful, your eyes full of tears. You almost seem child-like as you ask that simple question.

“Yes you are, I only woke you because you were having a nightmare” Aaron smiles softly at you, hoping he doesn’t embarrass you as he informs you.

“Oh no” You yank away from his touch, panic filling you. You know you sleep talk occasionally, what the hell did you say?

“We all get them, its okay”

“No.. what did I say?” You stare at him with a look of horror. Aaron's face drops, he knows that look, he’s seen it almost everyday of this job. A look victims have when they open up to much of their past, scared their abusiver will come back for them.

“You didn’t say much” He tries his best to comfort you but he knows that determined look in your eyes. “You said ‘I don't know you’ ” 

A small sigh leaves you as you lean your head back in relief, that's all you said then you are fine, you can recover from that. “Thank you” You force a small smile, before raising your voice, turning to look at your coworkers who all seem to be pretending not to pay attention anymore.

“Sorry for disturbing you”

“You're not disturbing us” Hotch is quick to correct you, hating to think that you would think you're a bother. “If you want to talk about it–”

“No thank you, I’m fine” You interpret him quickly, a sharp glare and turning your back to him is all the dismissal he needs. 

~~~

You're in the SUV with Morgan and Rossi, heading downtown to the morgue. You sat in the back seat, reading through the Jason Ducan files, before sighing loudly and laying your head back. The two men in the front seat share some curious looks before glancing back at you.

“You alright back there” Morgan questions you, a small smile on his face.

“Not at all, this makes no sense at all” rubbing your forehead as the frustration causes another headache. “Why the hell did they take Jason Ducan three years ago he doesn’t fit the profile and they wouldn’t of dumped him like that he would of hide the body better, you would think they know not to show of the bodies we are investigating” You can’t hide the frustration and anger invading you, your hand squeezing into fist and you think back. He was a clue back then yet you were so focused on moving on you didn’t see it, this is bad. 

“Maybe your profile is wrong” Dave shrugs as he speaks, as if it's a casual thing.

“My profile is not wrong!” You snap at him, the anger burning away at your chest.

“I still don’t understand your interest in this case” Derek turns around to face you, a distrustful look in his eyes, one you can’t help but return.

“Well, no one was looking into it, someone has to care. I'm sorry if that irritates you Derek” Glaring deadly at him, as his eyes widen just slightly at your comeback before turning back to the front.

“I was just asking.'' He grumbles before glancing at Dave who is staring at you through the rearview mirror, watching as your face drops as you cross your arms. 

~~~

You are shown the bodies and as the doctor talks you can’t hear her, the words flying over your head as you grab some gloves and start touching the bodies. Three pairs of eyes on you, watching like a hawk as you move like lightning. Your hands travel around the older unnamed victim's neck. The dark unformed bruises with a slight cut you can tell were made with wire, your stomach spinning as you move away from it and down to his feet. 

“His neck wound was made by wire” You state as you kneel down by his feet, anger flooding through you as you see the scars. They are doing it again. “Holy shit” Your words are barely audible, but Morgan catches them, his eyebrow narrowing as he watches you.

“What did you find (Y/l)” Morgan makes his way over to you, spotting fear deep inside your eyes before you quickly mask the emotion once more.

“You need to ring Garcia” You look up at him, gulping thickly. “I think they are recording them” 

“What, how can you tell?” It's Rossi that asks as he walks over, joining you and Morgan at the feet of the victims. 

“Look at this” You show them the bottom of the left foot of the victim, where a big L is cut into along with the name victory which looks like it has been tried to be cut out. 

“Okay” Morgan looks at you puzzled. “How did you get that they recorded them from this?”

“The L, It means they lost, I bet they showed this to the camera to show them that they truly did lose this time” Maybe what you said doesn’t make sense to the profilers, but it's what they do. But they stopped, you know they stopped. You couldn’t find them on the dark web so they had to have stopped but you never relooked when the bodies started dropping again. 

“You can’t know that” Morgan goes to argue with you, a hand on his arm stops him. He turns his head to see Dave shaking his head at him. Morgan stares at him stumped wanting to argue but he can read that look in Dave’s eyes, there is something more going on here. 

“It makes sense, they can earn money this way and also they are sick twisted little fuckers who can find other twisted fuckers to enjoy in on their torment as well” You speak quickly as you pull your phone out, taking photos of his foot. 

“Okay I guess I’ll call Penelope then” Morgan sighs glancing at the dead set look on your face before walking out. You go to move onto Jason Ducan, touching his foot lightly before freezing. You stare at him for a few moments, your body frozen in place. He’s too young, his family loved him. How could they take him from them? It doesn't make sense.

“(Y/n), do you want me to do it?” Dave calls out to you kindly, breaking up your thoughts.

“No I got it” You reply letting out a small breath before pulling back his foot and taking a photo. A small W has been crossed out and replaced with a L, your heart crashing into your stomach as you see it. In a flash you're pulling away and making your way outside for some fresh air.

~~~

You lean against the SUV as you ring Reid, who is driving to see the other body that was discovered last night. 

“Hey (Y/l), You're on speaker phone” You can hear Reid smile through the phone.

“Hey guys, are you at the body yet?” You focus on slowly your racing heart beat as you speak to them, readying yourself to pass on the information.

“Not yet, we are still two and half hours out from the town” Emily response, glancing at the phone as she drives. 

“Okay that's fine, I just have a few things I need you to look at when you get there” Taking a breath as you think back to the cut on Jason's foot. “On his left foot I need you to see if there is anything cut into it, I am sending you a photo of the other two victims' feet okay” You quickly send them the photos.

“Okay I got it” Reid replies after a few moments.

“Oh that's gross” Emily groans.

“That's because you hate feet” Smirking just a little at her reaction.

“It's not my fault they are smelly and gross” She laughs just a little.

“Also you two should be driving through a small town called Cobar, it's a small town with a big population of homeless teenages It might pay to stop and talk to them, see if they have seen anything out of place lately” You take a sharp breath as a strange feeling starts filling you as you think about that place.

“Sure we can do that” Emily nods, her face tightening into a frown. “Hey, um are you okay?” 

“I'm good, why?” Your lips pull into a thin line as you line.

“Because this case seems to be weighing on you alot” She explains, tapping her finger on the steering wheel.

“Nope It's just another case, I gotta go” You quickly hang up before she can ask more questions. Reid and Prentiss share some strange and concerning looks as the phone beeps.

“What is he hiding?” Emily mumbles to herself as she stares out at the road.

~~~

The rest of the day goes by quickly, you three end up meeting up with JJ and Hotch back at the precinct. Rossi and Morgan go and talk with Jason Duncan's parents once they arrive trying to get more information from them. JJ works with other precincts where the other bodies and missing boys have been reported, trying to get all the information she can. You and Hotch work together trying to organise a timeline for the last 12 months, and with all the information you already have some parts are easy to fill in. Until he starts questioning you on the one part you can’t answer. 

“They shouldn’t be here, they should have gone east” Hotch sighs as you both stare at the map laid across the table. 

“I agree but they didn’t” You don’t agree with that, but according to the timeline it makes sense. 

“But do you agree?” Hotch looks up at you, doubt playing across his face. 

“What are you getting at Hotch?” Huffing little as you pick up your coffee, staring back at him.

“You said they would be coming this way, so why would you think that?” There’s his stern look eating at you. Making your stomach sink as you hide the truth from him. The truth is, you know their base is around here. This town is the first thing you remember when you escape but you can’t tell him that, no one can know. 

“I don't know” You lie, and it's a bad one.

“Don’t lie to me” 

“I'm not lying!” You don’t mean to snap at him, but fear and guilt were eating away at you and you can’t contain it anymore.

“Then tell me the truth” His words are sharp and to the point, but his face stays calm, his eyes soft and caring as he stares at you.

“Fine, I had a feeling like this town means something, because look at the pattern here Aaron” Your shoulders tenses up as you lean forward, pointing at the map. “Look, they always avoid this town, and they always avoided leaving bodies in this state until last night so since they did that I decided to take a risk and wait for them to leave us something around here and do you want to know what I’m thinking right now” A smirk slips onto your lips as you speak, a feeling of excitement spreads throughout you as you share your idea.

“You think their base is around here” Aaron finishes your thought, not liking that smirk on your face. 

“Exactly and if they left us this breadcrumb it only means two things, one they are somehow becoming sloppy or two—”

“They know you are investigating them” He finishes your sentence again, dread filling him due to just how close you are to this investigation.

“Not me, but someone yes and we can use that” 

“How?” 

Luckily Aaron's phone rings just before you have to answer that.

“It's Garcia” He glances at you before answering it, placing it on speaker. “Hey Garcia, what do you got?”

“Well boss man, I got good news and some gross news” Penelope's sweet voice floats through the phone. 

“What's the good news Garica?” You straighten up as you hope.

“Well our unnamed victim is Liam Clark, he’s 19 years old and went missing five years ago in florida” Garcia informs you both just as the door to the conference room opens and the rest of the team walks in. 

“Alright, can you send through his family information please” You sigh, leaning backwards in your chair, the stress of the case becoming too much. 

“Will do my love, now are we ready for some more information?” Her voice starts filling with dread as she types aways.

“Hit us with the good stuff baby girl” Morgan speaks up, coming to sit on the edge of the table by the phone.

“Oh I wish it was good news chocolate thunder, but (Y/n) was right.” She sighs as Aaron phones dings. “I found their profile on the dark web and all their live streams have been saved, there are hundreds of them, maybe even closer to a thousand, and they got back many, many years” She takes a deep breath before continuing. “I haven’t looked at them all yet but there are some that are over 25 years old” 

Your heart sinks, your palms becoming sweaty as realisation sits in. Your videos are still up, your team could find out in a matter of seconds what you are. 

“25 years…” Your voice is as quiet as a mouse, your throat tightening up as your team glances over at you. “How did no one see this?” Your voice gets louder, filling with anger as you jump to your feet. 

“They hide their tracks well” Reid speaks up, his eyes focused on you.

“Bullshit, no one can hide their tracks that well!”

“Okay you need to take a breath” Hotch gets up, walking closer to you. Watching the anger firing up inside your eyes.

“No, we need to find these monsters and make them pay, they have hurt and ruined so many innocent people's lives” You spit the words out, your hands squeezing into fist. 

“Is that all?” Morgan questions you, getting up, standing uncomfortably close to you.

“What's that meant to mean!?” Your body is already in defensive mode, locking itself down as Morgan has a determined look inside his own. 

“Well you seem to be hiding something from us and I would like to know what that is?” His questioning is dangerous, he steps closer to you. The rest of the room falls quiet, your eyes burning into his.

“How about, none of your damn business Morgan”

“It is my business when you drag us into it” He huffs back at you. “Just tell us what you're hiding” He steps closer, his breath lingering on your skin.

“Back the fuck up Derek” Your voice is lower, and full of danger. You can feel yourself about to snap and if you do, you don’t think you will be able to stop.

“We barely know you, so why don’t you just tell us what the hell is going on” Derek demands to know “What is wrong with you (Y/n)?” His hand raises up, and before you can process what is happening. Bam. Your fist collides with his mouth and you see red as he stumbles backwards. You follow him, a low growl leaves you as you punch him again, this time aiming for his eyes. He manages to block, trying to hold you back, but you don’t stop trying to get a blow on him. You can hear voices all around you but you can’t hear past the blood rushing in your ears. Soon there are arms wrapping around you from behind, pulling you away from Morgan. You struggle against them trying to break free as you stare daggering at Morgan who is being confronted by three people of your team, you don’t recognize them. Soon there is another person in your way, your body tenses as you see them. They quickly place their hands on your cheeks which make you freeze, the anger vanishing from inside you. Your vision starts easing up and faces start becoming recognizable. The person who is holding your face gently, has beautiful eyes, and a soft smile.

“Your safe (Y/n)” JJ speaks softly, “Just take some breaths” You stare at her, and soon start copying her breathing. Rossi lets you go, moving towards the rest of the team as you calm down.

“Let me go JJ” Your words are as cold as ice, the numb empty look in your eyes being replaced by guilt and anger. 

“Okay” She takes a breath before removing her hands and as soon as she does you bolt out the door.

~~~

You keep running once you get outside, you don’t stop, you can’t, you just can’t. Your mind is spinning and the only way you know how to get it to become quiet again, is to run. So that's what you do, you run. The sun is already set so you enjoy the darkness as you run. You can’t believe you lost it and punch Morgan, but what the hell is he getting at? Now what the hell are you meant to say, what lie are you meant to produce that will cover your ass. You're not sure how long you have been running for, but you're running out of breath when you see a corner store and think oh why not. Checking you have your wallet you head inside grabbing a bottle of water and a pack of cigarettes. Walking back out you open it, throwing the rubbish in the bin before lighting it and taking a long drag. Closing your eyes as you inhale it, it's been a long time since you last smoked and god does it just hit right tonight. Slowly you begin walking back to the precinct, enjoying the nicotine hit. You know you're about halfway to the precinct when you decide to check your phone after feeling it ring a few times. 

Missed phone calls: Aaron Hotchner (6)

Penelope Garcia (3)

You're not sure how many smokes you have consumed already but the pack is way lighter than it used to be. You really should ring them back instead of lighting another one, but oh well you think as you bring one more to your lips. Pulling out the lighter just as a car pulls up beside you, groaning softly as you recognize it. You keep walking, not caring to look at him as he rolls the window down. 

“Get in the car” Hotch yells at you, following you.

“Nope” You go to light the smoke instead when he stops the car and gets out. 

“We are an hour walk from the precinct, get the hell in” Aaron doesn’t bother to hide his anger, holding himself back from grabbing that cigarette from your hand.

“Or what?”

“Or you're fired, and I’ll leave you here” He huffs angrily, seeing you weighing up your options.

“Fine” You take a long drag on your smoke before stomping it out and climbing in.

~~~

The ride back is quiet, as you stare out the window.

“How angry is everyone?” Your voice is quiet and empty. Almost empty because Aaron can detect a small trail of sadness and fear in your words. 

“Morgan winded you up on purpose, he pushed you too far. That wasn’t okay what either of you two did” Hotch ignored your question, because he knew you wouldn’t accept that fact no one is angry. No, everyone is just worried and concerned about you, something you don’t know how to spot or accept when it comes to yourself. He wishes you could just trust the team, trust him enough to let them help. 

“I have a past” You pull yourself closer as you stare out the window, thinking about your next words carefully. 

“You don’t have to tell me” Aaron quickly tells you softly, needing you to know there is no rush.

“And if I do want to tell you?” You glance at him quickly, and for a moment you forget he is your boss and see him in the light of your friend. 

“Then I'm here to listen” He smiles lightly at you. You nod quickly looking back out the window, and then slowly you move your hand towards him, which he happily takes sliding his fingers between yours.

“I was abused growing up, no one cared and nobody knew, I never told anyone” You stare out the window, emotions settling down as you speak. “This case brings back memories I never wanted to relieve back up, I have to find these people so that we can save these kids” Your voice is sweet as you speak, this is a side no one but Aaron ever gets to see.

“And we will get them and we will get them help” Aaron smiles weakly as he pulls up. “But once this case is over we need to get you some help too, okay?” His thumb slides over your hand as you glance at him. If only he knew that nothing on earth can help you, and at the end of this case you don’t think you will still be on this team.

“Okay” You nod forcing a small smile before pulling away and making your way inside.

~~~

You walk in quietly, followed by Aaron. The team is staring up at the tv, watching some of the latest fights. You freeze as you catch a glance of his face on the screen. You knew he was still there but the look in his eyes is killing you. He's gone, replaced by a murderous robot, his skills are fast and sharp. 

“Ryan” His name slips off your tongue before you can stop it, your body tenses up as you stare at the screen and the way he gets his opponent down in one quick move. Emily pauses it as everyone's head turns to you once more. This time everyone looks at you with concern as they see the tears forming in your eyes, which you quickly push away once you let everyone get a good look.

“You know him?” Reid asks you, tilting his head as he asks you. 

“Um y yeah..” You take a deep breath. “I went to school with him” It's a lie, but you know it's golden. “He went missing when he was around 15 years old, we were best friends then one day he didn't turn up to school and well” You take  a deep breath as Aaron leads you to a chair, your arms shaking just a little. “He was officially determined missing a week later, his parents were absent, they didn’t care for him” That wasn’t a lie, he told you about his parents and how much they hurt him and how they were barely at home. 

“Oh (Y/n)” JJ places her hand softly on the table beside your hand, not touching but showing you she is here for you. You give her a soft smile in response. 

“If he’s been there this whole time it's been twelve years” Twelve years, he is never going to be the same.

“Jesus christ” Morgan groans with regret as he looks at you. “That's what you were hiding?”

“I had a feeling he was there.. I was just hoping I was wrong” Your voice is weak and tiredness is starting to take over. It's been almost 48 hours since you last slept.

You’re a regular at this coffee shop -- it’s a quick walk around the corner from your office -- and Aaron is, too. That’s all you know about him, unfortunately. Well, you know he drinks his coffee black, one sugar sometimes but rarely, and that occasionally, he asks for a croissant as well.

You don’t even think he’s noticed you, which is fine, because the two of you aren’t friends by any means. You’re fellow regulars who sometimes chat quietly in line, but it has never gone beyond that.

Until today.

Until, you catch Aaron’s quick glance behind him, you catch his little smile, and you hear him add your drink to his order.

“Her usual as well,” he adds casually, tapping his black credit card before you can protest and before you can pick your jaw up off the floor.

“Thank you,” you tell him, stepping to the side with him to wait for the drinks. “You didn’t have to do that.”

His smile turns bashful suddenly, and he looks down at you, eyes fond. “I’ve been meaning to do it for weeks, actually.”

Your eyes go wide before you can stop them, and you’re sputtering through a reply that has you both giggling and blushing still when the barista places your drinks onto the counter.

“Thank you,” you say again. The two of you step outside onto the sidewalk. “I’d love to stay and chat, Aaron, but I’m really late for work.”

He chuckles. “I was wondering why you were in there this morning, this is usually pretty late for you-- for both of us.”

“Yeah, what’s your excuse?” you tease.

He shakes his head. “Morning off. Everyone isn’t coming into the office until lunch.”

You glance at your watch. It’s almost ten. “But you’re going in now?”

He shrugs, the sheepish smile returning. “I can’t really afford to take the entire morning.”

“What do you do?” you ask, and really, you shouldn’t be having social hour right now, but you can’t help it. This is the most you two have talked, finally going beyond the usual great weather today and ugh, it’s Monday again kind of small talk.

“Um,” he pauses, looking off in the distance beyond you. He’s clearly hesitating, and that has you slightly panicked, until he answers. “I work for the FBI.”

“No shit,” you blurt, covering your mouth as soon as you say it. “Sorry! I just wasn’t expecting that. I was expecting some government thing, I mean practically everyone around here is, but…the FBI. Woah.”

“It’s not as glamorous as it sounds,” he assures you. He digs into his suit pocket, pulling out a pen. “Listen, I really don’t want to keep you since you’re late, but I’d…I’d love to talk more. Maybe over dinner. Or coffee, when we don’t have work to get to and things to do.”

He’s rambling and it’s possibly the most adorable sound you’ve ever heard. You nod along with him, a smile slowly creeping onto your lips.

He’s still talking when you take the pen from his hands and use your non-dominant hand to hold his paper coffee cup steady enough to write your number on it hastily, along with your name, not that he needs it. He sees what you’re doing and stutters to a stop, a blush dusting his cheeks.

“Call me,” you tell him with a wide smile, handing him his pen. “We’ll set something up.”

You’re down the sidewalk and disappearing around a corner before he can get his words together.

+++

Hotch, in hindsight, knew better than to walk into the BAU office with a coffee cup with a woman’s name and number written on the side of it, but in his defense, he gave the team the morning off. He told everyone to come in around lunchtime.

He shouldn’t have been surprised, then, to find Reid sitting at his desk with a book in hand, Emily laughing with Morgan, and Rossi already pouring coffee out of the BAU’s fancy new coffee machine that he somehow got approved.

“There he is,” Rossi announces Hotch’s presence, and everyone turns. “Slow morning?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Hotch smiles, not-so-discreetly turning the cup so the writing is protected by his palm.

But everyone saw it before he moved it. Everyone took note.

No one says anything, of course, but “no one” does not include Dave Rossi, who follows Aaron up to his office and shuts the door.

“So,” Rossi makes himself comfortable in one of Hotch’s chairs, smug smile and all, “good morning, I assume?”

Aaron makes sure the writing is facing him and not Dave. “Stop fishing,” he says, but he is smiling a little, and he is rummaging through his briefcase to avoid meeting Dave’s eyes. “My morning was fine.”

“Seems it was better than fine,” Dave chuckles. “Whose number is it?”

“No one’s.”

“Is it the same No One that you see every day?”

“I don’t see her every day.”

“Aaron,” Dave chides through a laugh. “It wasn’t until six months ago that you started going to that coffee shop every day, and I’m assuming that’s when you started talking to her.”

“I bought her coffee today,” Aaron confesses, settling down into his chair. “She was running late for work, we didn’t get to talk much.”

“But she did write her number on your cup,” Dave raises an eyebrow, nodding toward it. “That’s something.”

“Yeah,” Aaron smiles, thumbing over the dried ink. “It’s something.”

From that day forward, it doesn’t take a profiler to figure out that Hotch is dating someone. The number on the cup was enough, but his behavior is a dead giveaway.

Suddenly, he’s not staying at the BAU until odd hours of the night. He isn’t taking naps on the couch in his office. He’s actually taking a lunch break, sometimes even leaving the office altogether to meet you somewhere. He finishes the paperwork for a case at a normal pace, and, most damning, he’s smiling again. All the time.

The first day you visit him at the BAU is not planned. He left his lunch on the kitchen counter that morning, and you, having stayed over the night before, thought you’d just pack something for yourself and join him for the hour.

The second you step into the bullpen, it turns into gossip central. Is that her? She’s gorgeous. Wait. Is she living with him? Look at him! He hasn’t smiled this hard in years. How long did he say they’ve been dating? They look comfortable together.

Aaron had warned you that when you eventually met the team to be prepared for how nosy they can be. They mean well, they really do, but it’s an inevitable side effect of the job. A team of profilers are bound to be in each other’s business from time to time, no matter how hard they try to adhere to the unspoken “No profiling each other” rule.

Needless to say, you are not surprised to hear the whispering accompanied by the heads turning. The team knows you’re a keeper, though, because you pay them no mind, waving and smiling as you head up the stairs to Aaron’s office.

“Hey,” he grins, meeting you at the door with a quick kiss on your cheek. “Thank you.”

“I knew you’d likely just go without, and we can’t have that,” you tease, walking into his office with him. “Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not,” he says, pulling you over to the couch. 

You’re pure stress relief, a balm to his chaotic days. Today has been rough, mountains of paperwork, Use of Force reports sneaking up on him, and demands from Strauss that he hasn’t met yet. Forgetting his lunch had been the least of his worries -- because he would’ve forgotten about lunch altogether -- but seeing you makes it all better. Always.

+++

Six months into the relationship you aren’t exactly living with Aaron, but you are spending less and less time at your own apartment, and the two of you have tossed around the idea of you letting your lease expire and moving into his. But there’s still time to figure that out, so for now, you’re here when he’s home and not on a case, and you’re here when he gets back.

He wants to see you first thing when he lands, so it’s simply easiest for you to be waiting at his place when he touches down. When he finally comes through the front door, you hear him dropping his bags and shedding his coat. You’re just about to stand to greet him when he practically collapses into your lap.

“Hi,” you giggle, narrowly avoiding suffocation with a sudden armful of your six-foot boyfriend. “Bad one?” you ask gently.

He nods into your neck. “Long” is all he says, placing a kiss where the hollow of your shoulder meets your neck. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, turning to press a kiss to his temple. It wasn’t the longest that he’s been gone, but the time isn’t really what he means. “What can I do?”

He shifts until he’s laying with his head in your lap, shutting his eyes. “I just need to lay down for a bit, I think.”

“Okay,” you frown, scratching his scalp lightly. “We can just do this.”

He hums, curling closer to you. You have no idea how he fits on this couch, much less with his head in your lap, but he manages. He inhales, exhales.

“You smell good,” he says then. “Is that weird?”

You know what he’s referring to. “Kind of,” you say, though you do laugh.

He turns and noses further into you, the action causing heat to pool in your belly. “Can I?”

“Aaron…” you murmur, still stroking his head. “You’re exhausted.”

“But it calms me down,” he says through another exhale. 

“It calms you down?” you laugh. “I thought it did the opposite. Sometimes you go a little crazy.”

It’s true. One of your first nights together, somewhat early on in your relationship, Aaron went down on you first. The two of you didn’t even have sex that night, he simply just wanted to go down on you. You aren’t complaining; it was beyond anything you had ever experienced. And every time since has been equally mind-blowing and world-shattering. You’ve just never quite understood it. He says he loves it, he says it’s his favorite thing, but you’ve never dated anyone who enjoyed having their head between your legs as much as Aaron does.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, glancing up at you. “Can’t help it.”

“I didn’t say I hate it,” you soothe his worry, tugging on his hair just a little. “I like when you go down on me, trust me.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “You do?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you roll your eyes at his smug little smile, lightly tapping his cheek. “Seriously, babe, I enjoy it. I just feel like I don’t go down on you nearly as much, and it doesn’t feel fair.”

He turns onto his back, looking up at you. “It’s not fair? We’re not keeping score.”

You grimace. Shit. “Sorry. Old habits.”

Aaron sits up at that. “Seriously?”

You nod, turning toward him. “Yeah, my ex. We don’t need to get into it, it’s just--”

“Is that why you’ve been acting strange?”

You gawk at him then, still not used to dating a profiler. “Okay, I wouldn’t say I’ve been acting strange, but--”

He just gives you a pointed look.

“Fine. Maybe, yes, I was worrying about it a little.”

“Honey,” he murmurs, taking your hands. “We aren’t keeping a score, and even if we were, that wouldn’t be fair to you.”

You tilt your head, intrigued. “How so?”

He laughs quietly, a blush beginning to color his cheeks. “Because I’d happily go down on you every day, multiple times a day.”

Your jaw drops and you don’t even try to hide it. You thought that every other day (roughly, when he’s here) was a lot -- not in a bad way, just in a way you had never experienced before -- but every day? Multiple times?

“There is no way you want to do it that often,” you argue, shaking your head at him.

He just stares at you, raising his eyebrows in challenge. 

“Aaron,” you hiss. “Are you serious?”

“You have no idea how often I think about it,” he replies, deadly serious. Fire stokes in his eyes, growing hotter, hungrier the longer he looks at you.

“You should tell me,” you squeak out, already feeling yourself getting worked up just from his gaze. “Whenever you think about it.”

“Can I?” he asks. “And could I…?”

“Could you what?”

“Do it. When I tell you I’m thinking about it.”

“Could you eat me out every time you think about it?” you ask, just to be completely certain that you both understand the rules you’re putting up.

He nods slowly, licking his lips. “Please.”

Your skin has never felt this hot. “Okay,” you nod. “Only because you asked so nicely.”

He smiles, melting with your words -- which isn’t a difficult feat. “So, can I? Right now?”

“Babe, you’re tired,” you say, reaching for his hand. “Are you sure?”

“Please.”

“I don’t want you to feel obligated, seriously, you’re exhausted, you just got home,” you say. “We can start tomorrow.”

“Obligated,” he scoffs, palming your hips to lay you down. “It’s a privilege.”

You let yourself be guided by him, knowing there’s no fighting him when he’s like this -- not that you even want to. It’s been a week and you’ve missed him terribly. As much as it felt like a lot for him to be going down on you nearly every day, you’ve felt yourself starting to crave it just as much it seems he does. 

He settles between your legs with a low groan, tossing your shorts and panties who knows where, pulling you into his mouth by your hips. You cry out when he immediately goes for your clit, sucking in the way he knows you like. It doesn’t take long for you to climax at all, and you have to physically push his head away before he makes you pass out.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, licking you off of his lips. “Got carried away.”

“I can tell,” you gasp, still trying to catch your breath. 

He rests his head on your inner thigh, his fingers loosening their grip on you but still keeping you pinned. His eyelids droop.

You had never really noticed it before, but you do then. It does calm him down. Sure, he was tired when he walked in, but he was tense, he wasn’t this close to sleep. He wasn’t this calm.

You thread your fingers through his hair, smiling at him. “Let’s go to bed,” you whisper. “You need to sleep.”

He nods, pressing a quick kiss to your thigh. “Yes ma’am.”

+++

The very next day, it’s as if the floodgates have opened. You had no idea what you were getting yourself into when you agreed to this little game, and you certainly didn’t expect to be pinned to the kitchen counter at seven in the morning with Aaron’s hands hot and heavy and everywhere.

“Please,” he says in between bruising kisses. “Woke up thinking about it. Need you.”

“What about breakfast?” It’s a weak attempt to dissuade him, and of course, it doesn’t work.

“Just need you,” he repeats, grinding into your hip, and fuck, he’s hard already. Just from this. “Please, honey.”

“Okay,” you nod wildly, barely getting a word out with how hard he’s kissing you. Jesus Christ, your body is on fire, and you just woke up. “Yeah, go ahead.”

He’s on his knees within the second, and he doesn’t even pull your panties down, just hooks them to the side, and dives in. As if you’re his new dose of caffeine, as if you’re the air he needs.

Your knees buckle the second he tongues through your folds and he holds you up easily, smirking into you. He’s so pleased with himself and you both know it.

He isn’t even using his fingers and you’re close, his nose nudging your clit with just enough friction to have you gripping the counter with all your strength. He growls into you, something primal from deep in his chest, then a broken whine.

“Are you gonna cum?” The words are so muffled, you barely hear him. “Please.”

“Aaron,” you gasp, feeling as if you’re trying to climb onto the counter, somehow climb away from him, but you can’t. He won’t let you. He keeps you right where he wants you, right where he can suck on your clit, flicking his tongue, sending you right over the edge at a blinding pace.

He holds you up as your body shudders through it, through the fact that he just doesn’t stop, he keeps drinking you in, keeps inhaling you.

When he finally pulls back, he’s heaving, his lungs barely keeping up with his breaths. He tucks your panties back into place, thumbing over your clit through the fabric and you squeak, swatting him away. He kisses your thighs, your hips in such a happy daze. Meanwhile, you’re trying to figure out if you’re absolutely certain the earth’s axis hasn’t tilted ninety degrees.

He stands with a content sigh, kissing you much slower now, and you can taste yourself, and it’s maddening. 

“I’m gonna go shower real quick,” he says so casually. “Wanna stop for coffee before we head into work?”

You stare at him, shaking your head in disbelief. “Sure. Yeah. Let’s do that.”

“Okay,” he smiles, pressing another gentle kiss to your lips. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” you murmur, watching him walk down the hall.

You lean back against the counter and curse. You’re in for it now. And you have no idea just what you’re in for.

+++

It happened two more times the first day: once more when you got home from work and Aaron was on you the moment you walked in and had you right there against the door, and once again when you were getting ready for bed and watching you put on your pajamas -- panties and one of his old law school shirts -- was just simply too much for him.

The next day, you’re working from home, and you get a text about an hour after Aaron arrived at the office. Thinking about you.

Your heart picks up its pace almost instantly. You are ridiculous. He literally went down on you in the shower this morning. You had gotten in and he followed you without you realizing, until he quietly leaned against the sink asking you if he could join.

Want to come here for lunch? I only have 30 mins today, lots of meetings.

If you know your boyfriend well, then you know exactly what he’s implying. He doesn’t have enough time to come back here for lunch and have you here, so he wants you to come to the BAU for lunch so he can have you in his office.

Aaron.

Most of the team took half days. And then: Please.

Good lord, he’s going to send you to an early grave. Ok, be there at 12. Your usual?

Just you.

You roll your eyes. You’re bringing him food because he will be eating lunch, no matter how much he wants to only eat you.

When you arrive at the BAU, you see Aaron was telling the truth. Rossi’s door is closed with the lights off, Spencer’s desk has clearly been used but he’s gone, Morgan’s likely with Garcia, and Prentiss has also clearly taken off early. 

However, that doesn’t mean no one is here. The interns and general admin assistants are still very much walking around. And will absolutely hear you.

Aaron is opening the door to his office before you even reach the landing, and he looks…a wreck. 

You raise your eyebrows at him in question but also concern. He said he had meetings, but you didn’t anticipate him looking this stressed. 

He gives you a quick kiss and helps you inside, shutting the door. You set lunch down on his desk and gather him into your arms for a hug, listening to him sigh and feeling him relax.

You eat lunch in silence. He doesn’t even protest the food. It’s a stark contrast from his text messages, the demeanor entirely different, and he won’t stop stealing glances at you -- and then looking away when you catch him, like he’s doing something he shouldn’t be. 

Once the food is finished and you’re satisfied with him having an actual meal in his stomach, you turn the profiling on him. 

“You’re restraining yourself.”

He coughs. “What?”

You answer while he guzzles water like his life depends on it. “You told me you were thinking about me, wanted me to come here, and now that I’m here, you’re holding back.”

“Well, yes, because we’re in my office--”

“Aaron, you told me to come here.”

“I know, but--”

“Stop being like this,” you scold softly. “Ask for what you want.”

You watch his throat work as he swallows, his pupils dilating the longer he stares at you. His tongue darts out and wets his lips. 

You raise an eyebrow. “What do you want, Aaron?”

“I want you to fuck my mouth,” he blurts. “I want to taste you, but I need--” He cuts himself off, but you know. You know. 

He’s been like this a couple of times before with you. It’s rare, but you should’ve seen it coming, after such a long, hard case and now a day full of bureaucratic bullshit. He can handle it, of course he can, he’s the Unit Chief, but it wears on him. Sometimes he needs direction. Sometimes he needs you. 

“Does your door have a lock on it?” 

He nods.

“Go lock the door.”

He stands and takes two long strides, locking the door and checking to make sure the blinds are fully drawn. He turns to look at you for direction, his feet still firmly planted at the door. 

You smile, extending a hand to him. “Come here.”

He comes easily, taking your hand and letting him be guided to the couch. You bring him in for a kiss, tangling your fingers in his hair. 

“How do you want me?” you ask, and when he makes a noise of protest, of please don’t make me make another decision, you shake your head. “None of that. You were thinking about me, about doing this. Tell me what you were thinking about.”

He whimpers into the next kiss. “You were-- I was on my knees and had you on my desk--”

You stand and walk over to his desk, looking at the various files and papers. “Did you clear the desk off?”

“I can.”

You just give him a look. It’s all he needs. 

The desk is cleared soon after, the files stacked and set on the floor, his cup of pens and various other things set onto the bookcase behind you. 

“I don’t know if you’ll be comfortable--”

“I don’t know why you’re still standing,” you interrupt. “Didn’t you say you were on your knees?”

He stutters, “Yes, but first I put you on the desk.”

“Oh, you did?” you tease, allowing the slight brattiness in his tone to slide by for now. “Alright then. Go ahead--!” Your words trail off into a squeak when you’re suddenly manhandled and placed on the desk, and Aaron is crowding in between your legs, kissing up your neck, his hands gripping your hips so tight you might bruise.

“And then I--” he breathes shakily in your ear, sending chills down your spine. “I ask if you’ll let me taste you.”

“Only if you ask nicely,” you gasp when he grinds into you, his erection barely constrained by his pants. “And if you-- fuck-- if you tell me why you need to.”

He whines, low in the back of his throat. “Please, honey, don’t make me--”

“Aaron,” you pull him up by the back of his neck, applying just enough pressure at his throat so he knows you’re being serious and so he knows who is in charge here.

His eyes are nearly glazed over, but he’s there, he’s hungry, he wants you to stop dragging this out just as much as he needs you to continue. You raise one eyebrow.

“Please,” he whispers, voice breaking and eyes shutting. “Please, honey, I need to, it’s been back-to-back meetings this morning and I didn’t want to leave you this morning and I just need to taste you again and make you cum again, please.”

“Okay, okay,” you coo, cupping his cheeks and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Go ahead.”

He surges forward and kisses your lips, crying, “Thank you.”

He kneels before you as if he has you laid out on the altar, carefully dragging your pants down your hips, tossing them onto the couch. He takes your panties next, putting them in his pocket, and you let it slide because you can’t help it, not when he’s like this.

He opens you up slowly this time, gently tonguing at your clit and darting in between your folds. He’s waiting for something, and it isn’t until you grind forward into his mouth that you realize what it is.

“Wrap your arms around me,” you instruct, smiling when you feel him instantly stabilize you with his hands on your hips, tossing your legs over his shoulders. “Good boy.” You rock into his mouth to test him, and when he groans, you know he’s ready.

You chase your pleasure then, using his mouth in a way that is equally sinister and sweet, and he takes it, every bit of it, without hesitation.

It isn’t long before your orgasm is approaching, and Aaron only seems to grow hungrier, pulling you in just as much as you’re pushing his face into you. He starts babbling nonsense into your core, and you understand none of it, but you don’t need to.

You’re covering your mouth when you cry out, just as the phone on his desk starts to ring. It sends a shock through you like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over your head, but Aaron doesn’t stop. He shoves the phone off his desk, and it unplugs itself as it clatters to the floor, but he doesn’t stop. You’re not sure if it’s a second wave of the first orgasm, or a second orgasm altogether when you feel yourself reaching that peak once again, fingers tightening in his hair, grinding into his mouth.

When he finally, finally comes up for air, he has a dazed look in his eyes, and his face is soaked. 

“Feel better?” you say through heaving breaths, cutting yourself off with a laugh.

He just nods and hums happily, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Much better.”

+++

By the fourth day, the team is beginning to wonder if aliens replaced their Unit Chief with someone else entirely. 

“He is never late, not even by five minutes. Something is going on,” Emily hisses, smacking Morgan’s shoulder lightly when said topic of their conversation breezes through the glass doors looking as happy and relaxed as ever -- and exactly seven minutes late.

“Prentiss, I think you’re being overdramatic,” Morgan chuckles. “He’s got himself a woman now, that’s why he’s so happy.”

“No, I know that, I mean how relaxed he’s been. Isn’t it weird?”

“It’s true,” Reid pipes up from the depths of his book. “He’s been way less tense this past week.”

“Guys, we haven’t been on a case, of course he’s not tense,” Morgan argues. “Aren’t you guys feeling better sleeping in your own beds?”

“Absolutely,” JJ answers as she flies in with a handful of folders. When she spots everyone’s alarmed looks, she adds, “These are just for Hotch, they’re not cases. Those are looming on the corner of my desk.”

She whirls up the stairs to knock on Hotch’s office door, and everyone watches with dropped jaws as Hotch accepts the mountain of paperwork with a smile.

“Okay…” Morgan tilts his head. “Maybe I’m convinced.”

Prentiss scoffs. “Typical.”

JJ slowly comes down the stairs, her eyebrows furrowed. She pauses in the small huddle Prentiss and Morgan have formed. “Is he…?”

“Yep,” Emily nods.

“Huh,” JJ shakes her head. “Must be love.”

“I mean, yeah, but…”

“Or drugs,” Reid says without missing a beat. When everyone’s heads turn toward him in alarm, he returns the expression. “What! I can joke about it!”

“Sure, kid,” Morgan laughs. “Anyway, I’m not complaining about him being less of a drill sergeant, I’m just--” He waves his hand.

“Weirded out,” Prentiss finishes.

“It is a little off putting, isn’t it?” JJ adds.

“What’s off putting?” Rossi scares the shit out of everyone when he joins the circle, coffee in hand like always. “What are you gossiping about?”

“Nothing” comes the defensive reply, which is clearly the least convincing answer that any one of the team could’ve given him.

“Hotch is…” Prentiss starts, then looks to Morgan for help, and of course, Morgan offers none.

Rossi chuckles into his coffee. “I think we should all be grateful that he is finally dating someone who convinces him to sleep in and come to work at a reasonable hour.”

Everyone agrees, and when they glance back up at Hotch’s office, he is wearing his usual stern expression again. The team isn’t sure whether they’re glad to see it or not.

+++

Hotch leaves for a case that lasts four days too long (you feel the need to clarify that he was gone for a total of four days), and when he returns, he absolutely cannot keep his hands off of you.

“We have to make up for all of the times I thought about you,” he declares into your neck while his hands have a mind of their own, traveling up your shirt and rolling your nipples between the pads of his fingers. The two of you barely make it to the couch, and fuck, he still has his damn suit on.

“Aaron, that’s like--” you gasp, arching into him. “--you texted me a million times.”

“And?” he fires back, nipping at your ear. “I wanted you there with me.”

“You were working!”

“I don’t care,” he whispers, going for your lips, claiming you, inhaling you. “It was torture.”

You laugh against his mouth. “You’re so dramatic-- Aaron!”

Somehow in the midst of your bickering, his hand found its way into your pants, and his fingers parted your folds mid-sentence.

He moans into your neck, “Missed you.”

You nod frantically against him. “Missed you too.”

He kisses you hard then, like he’s forgotten how to operate his own body after so long (four days, you remember) without yours.

He snakes himself down the couch until he’s at your core, dragging your pants down your legs as he goes. He buries his face in you, his nose nudging your clit with delicious friction through your panties. He’s inhaling like a man starved, like he hasn’t breathed properly in four days because he hasn’t been here, mouthing at your clit.

He takes you apart for what feels like hours, and when you think you’re done, when you’re almost ready to tap out, he starts up once more.

“Aaron,” you whine. This will be orgasm number…five, you think, if he manages to make you climax again -- not that you’re doubting him, but you are beginning to wonder just how many orgasms you can have in one night.

“I know, honey,” he murmurs, words muffled because he just won’t leave your pussy. His arms tighten their hold around your hips, adjusting your legs higher on his shoulders. “Please, honey, just one more.”

“You’ve said one more three times already,” you groan, but despite your protests, your fingers remain firmly tangled in his hair, your palms steering his head where you need him most, and you arch into him, grinding your core into his open and eager mouth.

“One more,” he repeats. “You can take it, honey, I know you can.”

The drag of his tongue over your clit is so good that it hurts, and there might be tears falling from the corners of your eyes, you don’t know. You just know that he’s ruining you -- he has ruined you -- and that you’re going to sleep for twelve hours after this.

+++

To celebrate ending yet another case -- and really just a poor excuse for team bonding in the form of drinks -- the team has decided to go out to a bar for the night, which means you’re invited.

And you’re thrilled.

You’ve never actually gotten to hang out with the team in full like this before. You’ve met them in passing, of course, as you visit the office, and once when Rossi had you and Aaron over for dinner, Derek and Penelope were able to make it, but this is everyone.

Miraculously, you make it out of Aaron’s apartment on time -- either one or both of you have been late to almost everything these days with this little game -- and you’re one of the first at the bar. Morgan is already nursing a drink and chatting up the bartender when you arrive, interrupting his flirting. Hotch grabs the bartender’s attention instead, asking about what booths aren’t reserved and also putting in drink orders.

Derek grins wide when he sees you, pulling you in for a hug. “I hear we have you to thank for how happy boss man has been.”

You hide your shock well, but Aaron sees the slight alarm in your eyes when you flick your gaze toward him for a moment. “Why do you say that?” you ask through a laugh.

Derek then explains how Hotch has been almost an entirely different person at work, relaxed, carefree, smiling. “You’re good for him,” Morgan says then, deadly serious. “I mean it.”

It’s sincere, you know it is, but you can’t help but stifle a laugh because he just has no idea.

Aaron returns to your side, his arm slipping comfortably around your waist, tugging you toward him. “What are we talking about?”

“You,” you smile, stretching up for a kiss. “Did you get my favorite?”

“Of course I did,” he goes for another kiss, then turns to Derek. “How was your day off?”

The time passes easily with Derek talking about the new renovations he’s doing on one of his properties. Your drink arrives and you sip while you listen, feeling yourself leaning into Aaron’s broad chest.

Soon Penelope arrives with JJ and Emily in tow, and the girls steal you away, crowding into the booth Aaron got for you. Rossi comes in later, Reid not far behind, though Reid comes to join you with the girls while Morgan continues to fail at flirting with the bartender. Eventually, Aaron comes to sit beside you on the edge of the booth, his hand easily slipping into yours underneath the table.

It’s wonderful. It’s a night full of warm laughter, drinks, and many embarrassing stories about Aaron at work. Most notably, the time he came into the office with your number on his coffee cup.

“He thought none of us noticed,” Morgan snickers.

“I probably wouldn’t have thought anything of it if he wasn’t holding it so protectively,” Prentiss adds. “You’d think he had state secrets hiding in his coffee.”

“I knew way before any of you did,” Reid declares with a bit of pride in his boyish little smile.

“How could you possibly have known?” Hotch asks, but he’s smiling. He’s been smiling through every story.

Reid shrugs. “You never went out for coffee before.”

This catapults everyone into the story about the time Morgan got called out for trashing his coffee just to get back in line to talk to a girl, and by the end of it you’re clinging to Aaron with tears in your eyes from laughing so hard.

The music in the bar grows louder as the evening hours tick onward, and soon the lights are dimming and the dance floor is opening up. You’ve got just enough of a buzz in your veins that when Pen squeals, “This is my song!” you follow her to the dancefloor with no hesitation.

Morgan isn’t far behind, grinning wide when Pen pulls him into her. You manage to convince JJ and Emily to join you, which doesn’t take much convincing at all, and soon the girls are all flocking to Reid, dragging him along, too. 

Rossi watches on from the booth with a smirk, occasionally leaning over to say something to Hotch. When your eyes meet Aaron’s, your breath hitches.

He has that look in his eyes again. The look, the specific look that always gets you two in trouble these days. And fuck, you don’t help yourself at all, because you raise one eyebrow at him, smirking, challenging. Practically egging him on. Oh, really? Here? You know he can hear your thoughts with only a glance. 

He downs the rest of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving yours. Absolutely. Here.

He stalks over to you, arms outstretched. You pull him in, wanting to have a little fun first. You never get him on a dance floor like this, so you’re not about to waste the opportunity.

You spin yourself around in his arms, pressing your back to him, preening into the kiss that he leans down to press to your cheek. His hands rest on your hips for a moment before wrapping around you, resting on your stomach.

His lips travel to your ear. “You’re making me hard.”

Thank God for the music blasting as loud as it is because you cannot imagine anyone else hearing this. You turn your head to whisper into his ear, “Oh, am I?” As if you can’t feel him, as if that wasn’t your intention when you pulled him into you.

You feel him smirk against your skin. He turns his head again and claims your lips, but still restrains himself. For now.

“Either we need to leave,” he starts, pausing to nip discreetly at your earlobe, “or we need to excuse ourselves to the bathroom before I drop to my knees right here.”

You gasp, turning to look at him in shock. Obviously, you could tell he was getting hot and bothered, but you didn’t think he was serious about doing it now. Spinning around in his arms, you cup his face and pull his lips down, leaving him on the dance floor with a wink.

You disappear through the bar to the bathroom, and Aaron probably should’ve waited longer than he did before following you, but he can’t take it anymore. 

The good thing about this bar is that the bathrooms are one seat only, so the door locks, and the two of you have the room to yourself.

“You’re insane,” you giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck and dragging him in.

His lips are on yours immediately, and he is ravenous. He tastes like whiskey and it’s the hottest thing, especially when he’s licking into your mouth, pulling moans from your chest with precision.

“Is this okay?” he asks in between kisses. “Can I have you?”

“Seriously?” you breathe into him. “You want to? Here?”

He nods into the next kiss, open-mouthed, a groan low in his throat. “I do.”

“Fuck,” you laugh. “I’m not complaining, I just--”

He lifts you onto the counter and kneels down, tossing your legs over his shoulders and pulling your hips to him. When he lifts your skirt, he freezes. Grins.

“You were dancing like that on purpose,” he clicks his tongue. “Naughty.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about-- Aaron!”

Mid-sentence, as he so loves to do, he’s latched onto you and started devouring you. He’s mumbling against your core, some nonsense about you wearing no panties on purpose -- and okay, maybe he’s got you there -- and grinding into him on the dance floor just to spite him.

When you try to lift your hips into his mouth, he pins you in place, looking up at you sternly. Your head falls back against the mirror, and he seizes the moment to dive back in, fucking you with his tongue this time. 

You try to keep still, you really do, but it’s impossible when he does this, when his fingers bruise your hips and he growls into you like he can’t get enough, like he’ll never get enough of you, for as long as he lives.

“Aaron,” you whine. “Please.”

He just smirks into your core, the motherfucker, and tongues your clit lazily, keeping you right on the edge of bliss, but not quite throwing you over. Not yet.

When he works a finger inside of you, you’re practically flailing on the counter, and if it weren’t for his grip, you might fall off. One finger becomes two, and then he’s curling them, hooking them just right, and your body lights on fire.

You’re cumming before you even realize it, but he knows it, and he sucks on your clit at just the right moment so another wave crests. You’re writing in his arms, useless against his mouth as he holds you where he wants you, riding out your orgasm until you’re whimpering.

Finally, he relents, standing up and pushing between your legs, cupping your jaw to kiss you hard.

You’re breathless into every kiss, despite each one being slower and sweeter now. 

He pulls away, thumb stroking your cheek. “My sweet girl.”

Your eyes roll again, a laugh slipping from your chest. “Don’t start.”

“You started it,” he chuckles, one hand slipping under your skirt again, settling on your hips. “No panties? Seriously?”

“I didn’t feel like wearing any,” you smirk.

“Right,” he says, capturing your lips again. He presses one to your nose, then your cheeks, then your forehead, until you’re giggling. “How much longer do you want to stay?”

You shake your head through a laugh. “A couple more songs, but not long,” you murmur against his lips. “I’ve created a monster.”

He shrugs through a grin. “I’m not complaining.”

+++

After many attempts to schedule a dinner at Rossi’s house with the entire team, one finally succeeds. Everyone is free, no surprise case pops up, and you’re ecstatic. You love any excuse to dress up and drink wine and eat pasta -- homemade pasta, at that.

You’re just finishing getting ready in the bathroom, dabbing the last touch ups of makeup under your eyes, when Aaron joins you, leaning against the doorframe to watch you in the mirror.

You think nothing of it at first. He loves to watch you get ready on any normal day. But when you catch his eyes in the mirror, your hands falter.

You glance at your phone on the counter, and then back up at him. “Aaron. We have to leave in ten minutes.”

He just stares at you, his irises molten as they bore into your skin, pinning you in place. 

“We’ll be late,” you scold, watching him come closer to you, hands reaching out for you. “Aaron.”

“Honey,” he mimics your tone with a smirk. “Just five minutes.”

You’re already pressing your thighs together just at the thought of it, and because this game the two of you have been playing has made you into a monster just as much as it has him. 

“One round,” you give him your best I-mean-business look, but he just smirks at you. “Or we’ll be late.”

“It’s just dinner with Dave,” Aaron says, pressing a kiss to your lips. “We’ll be fine.”

You expect him to kneel down and take you right there, but he doesn’t. He pulls you into the bedroom and lays you out for him, as if laying out a feast fit for a king. When he places a pillow under your hips, you know you’re fucked. 

But you don’t care. Suddenly, being late doesn’t matter all that much, not when you’ve got Aaron’s head between your legs.

He’s murmuring sweet nothings into you, about how gorgeous you are, how he won’t be able to last at dinner with you in this dress, and you’re melting into the mattress with every word, every touch, every drag of his tongue.

One round, unsurprisingly, turns into two, that unsurprisingly, ends with him inside of you.

Somehow, you’re only half an hour late to the dinner, but you are the last ones to arrive, which is, without a doubt, suspicious.

“There’s the lovebirds,” Dave smirks when you both walk in. 

“Sorry we’re so late,” you chuckle, sheepish.

“Traffic,” Aaron explains, which is just about as obvious of a lie as any. It doesn’t help that he says it with a smile that is not apologetic in the slightest.

You know you aren’t hiding it well either, but Aaron is zero help with his smug little smile, looking every bit the role of that cat that caught the fucking canary. Not to mention, the glances he keeps sending your way as if he didn’t just fuck you right before this.

You make it through dinner before you excuse yourself down the hall to the bathroom, hoping but not necessarily expecting Aaron to follow you. But he does, of course he does.

After nearly a year of dating, Aaron had finally taken you to meet the BAU family.  For months you had been dropping subtle hints to meet the BAU.  It was obvious by the amount of time he spent at work that his co-workers were important to him.  You had always wished to know them, to know that part of Aaron.  You tried to tag along to Bureau events, but he always found some way out of it for you; he always framed it as getting you out of it.  Little did he know you longed desperately to get to know who he viewed as family.  And finally, after months, Aaron asked you, "Sweetheart, how would you like to come to a BAU dinner?"

You could barely contain your excitement though you tried your hardest, fearful it would spook him into keeping his work life shrouded in mystery.  "That would be lovely," you told him.

When the night came, Aaron came home from work earlier than usual to pick you up to drive together.  All day you had worried about what an appropriate thing to wear to such an event was.  You tried on countless dresses wondering if the team would think it too much for a simple dinner.  Of course, Aaron had been no help at all, saying simply, "You look beautiful in anything, sweetheart."

As you walked up the long sidewalk to Rossi's front door, you couldn't help but be nervous.  Your sweaty palms smoothed down imaginary wrinkles on the front of your sundress.  You looked up at Aaron, his brow settled – permanently you thought – into a familiar scowl.  You looped your arm through his.  A steady anchor for you as you approached the house.  There was no turning back.  You had met Aaron's brother before, but this felt more important to him.  This felt like his real family – the family he chose to love.  You didn't want to say the wrong things.  You didn't want to embarrass him.

You realized you had been worrying about the wrong things.  As soon as you walked through the door, the group erupted into shouts of joy and excitement.  A chorus of "nice to meet you's" echoed around the open kitchen.  A squeal from Penelope and an awe-struck "you're so pretty" immediately put you at ease.  You shook everyone's hand, big smiles on everyone's faces at finally meeting the only person who brought a smile to Aaron's face while he was on a case.  Though you had anticipated being nervous about what they would think of you as Aaron's girlfriend, you had not prepared yourself for the feelings that overtook you meeting the mysterious brunette.  

"Emily Prentiss," she introduced herself with a firm handshake and a voice smoother than silk.

"N-nice to meet you," you blushed.  Butterflies sparked in your stomach each time her eyes glanced towards you.  Never once had you seen someone so radiant.  Women who looked like that didn't exist outside of movies and magazines.  Yet here she was, joking and laughing with the rest of the team.  You fiddled with the hem of your dress as you sat down across from her.

All night your eyes darted to wherever she was and would quickly glance away when her eyes met yours.  Blush stained your cheeks any time you garnered her attention.  The one time you could stand keeping her gaze, you noticed a familiar glint in her eyes.  She looked at you like Aaron looked at you.  A knowing, teasing smirk teased the corner of her sensuous lips.  You shivered under her gaze and looked away in embarrassment.  But as the night wore on, as alcohol increased the volume of everyone's voices, you couldn't help but to keep staring at her.  Staring at the way her slender fingers twisted seductively over the stem of her wine glass.  Listening intently to the soft lilt of her velvet voice.

All night you tried ignoring the confusing want simmering in your stomach.

You knew it was wrong since you were with Aaron, but you couldn't help but desire Emily.  Though she was relaxed – also enjoying a night with her family – there was something about her that was just so domineering.  An air of authority haloing around her as if it were a visible aura.  And as hard as you tried to hide your feelings, fearful Aaron might get jealous, you couldn't help but wonder what those long fingers would feel like over your skin.  You couldn't stop wondering how her mouth would twist around your body.  You stuffed down the lingering desire until you could be alone with Aaron.

The rest of the evening was spent in uncomfortable need.  You shifted your weight at the table, trying to relieve the mounting ache inside of you.  When you finally got home that night, you were nearly at your limit.  You couldn't remember the last time you had been so wanting.  And it didn't escape Aaron's notice.  Of course it didn't: he was a profiler after all.  While not being able to keep things from him often came in handy, tonight it was frustrating.  "So," he started, "What did you think of the team?"  Where to begin?  Finally free of Emily's hypnosis, you suddenly felt incredibly guilty for thinking of her the way you had.

"They were great!  Everyone was really nice."  You smiled tightly.  You weren't lying, but you felt bad leaving out such a huge piece of the night.

"'Nice,'" he scoffed.  "Is that what you call staring at and simpering after Prentiss?" he asked knowingly.

"Prentiss?" you asked with faux ignorance; you knew exactly who Aaron was talking about.  "Is that Emily or Penelope?"  Just saying her name gave you a thrill.

His huge, long thumb and pointer finger firmly grasped your chin, forcing you to make eye contact.  You could see his eyes darken.  He hated being lied to, and you weren't fooling him one bit.  "Try. Again." he warned.

His grip on your chin loosened infinitesimally.  "I-"  Could you really admit to your boyfriend that you couldn't shake the feeling that Emily could fuck you so thoroughly, so animalistically?  Could you really admit to him that you wanted them both so desperately?  That you wanted to be pressed between their naked bodies?  "I'm sorry, Daddy.  She's just so pretty."

He chuckled darkly.  "Yes, she is," he admitted.  "But you and I both know it's more than that, don't we, slut?"  Your core tightened at his voice dropping.  "What do you say, baby?  Are you good?  Do you deserve a treat?  Should I invite her over one night?"  Your breath caught in your throat.  Was it really so easy?  Could you have both him and her at the same time?  Just like that?  Your breathing increased at just the thought of getting her hands on you.  

You nodded meekly, lowering your gaze in shame at even wanting such an experience.  "What is it baby?" he asked softly.  "Did you think you couldn't tell me that?  Did you think you couldn't have her?"

"I thought you didn't like to share," you admitted weakly.  How many times had he fucked you senseless, taking what was his, marking what was his?

"I'm willing to make an exception.  You know there isn't a thing I wouldn't do for you, princess; there's nothing I wouldn't give you."  Despite his harsh grip still on your chin, his voice was cloyingly soft.  "Besides," he smirked, "It could be really something seeing you two together.  I'll make all the arrangements.  Don't worry, baby."  He kissed you on the forehead, and you both got ready for bed.  

You took extra care to fix your hair back up, to put his favorite lip gloss on, to wear your silk pajamas instead of your favorite, ratty FBI t-shirt you'd stolen from him.  When you slid under the covers, you inched towards the middle of the bed, much closer to Aaron than you typically slept.  His attention never shifted from his phone, fingers flying over the keyboard.

You sighed softly, trying to sound breathless and wanting.  "Goodnight, Aaron," you said hopefully, a hint of an invitation in your voice.  You needed him to close the gap, to roll over you and use you.  Still, his eyes remained glued to his phone.  You sighed forlornly and rolled over to sleep.

But long after Aaron had turned the lamp out and put his phone away, still you struggled to sleep.  You tossed back and forth, agitation increasing the longer you stayed awake.  The more you thrashed, the more insistent throbbing between your legs became.  You were too worked up, too aching.  You felt like you were on fire.  And you were out of luck for the night because nearly as soon as Aaron settled into his pillow, soft snores disturbed the silence of your bedroom.  You were impossibly hot, and Aaron was asleep – oblivious to your arousal.  You knew better than to touch yourself without his permission.  So you laid there, sleepless and suffering.  Your thoughts were too focused on how it would feel to get that raven-haired beauty's fingers inside you.  Instead of twisting her wine glass, you imagined them toying with your nipples.  You couldn't stop imagining how she would look hovering above you as Aaron watched.  Instead of chaste, curious looks across the table, you imagined heated, heavy gazes as she stared down at you as you got her off.  You finally drifted off, hoping Aaron would make good on his promise.

- - -

For the next week, you thought of little else but Emily and Aaron.  You daydreamed away most of your days at work thinking about getting pounded into the mattress by your boyfriend while Emily rode your face.  You alternated that fantasy with one of you sprawled beneath Emily while she slammed her fingers into you relentlessly, teasing you, smirking at you.  She'd tell you to keep jacking off Aaron.  You imagined her sinful smirk as your hand stilled because she just felt too damn good.  And the resulting punishment.  No matter which fantasy you indulged, you spent every day several days in a row ruining your panties by 10:00 AM without fail.  You didn't know if Emily would be as rough with you as Aaron was, but fantasy Emily sure was.  Your fantasies always featured her harsh, taunting smirk as you whined underneath her.

Not only did you spend all day being aroused like never before, but to make matters worse, Aaron inexplicably refused to touch you at night.  Day in and day out, you worked yourself up without reprieve.  When you tried initiating anything with Aaron, he denied you.  By night four, you had had enough, dressing in his favorite lingerie set for bed.  You had hoped he wouldn't be able to resist the soft, red lace and would finally quench the fire between your legs.  When you stepped out of the bathroom, he just quirked a brow at you and shifted his gaze back to his book.  You couldn't help rolling your eyes.  Maybe if he had seen that you would have gotten what you wanted.  By night six, too desperate to care, you finally begged for him to tell you why he wasn't touching you; all he gave you was a cryptic assurance that it would all be worth it.  But was anything really worth this aching?  

You had given up all hope Aaron would make good on his promise.  You wondered if he understood how important this had become to you.  Maybe he thought you were confused, or worse yet, joking.  Maybe he decided that he didn't want to share after all.  A million maybes swam in your mind until you thought you'd drown in them.

The following afternoon, you were glum and ignoring all work.  Your coworkers left you alone to work through this funk.  You sat with your head in your hand, staring off into space trying not to remember how good your fantasies could be.  Aaron's text tone interrupted your self-pity.  It was a bit odd for him to text you in the middle of the day.  You tried to stuff down the disappointment that always accompanied him telling you he was being called away on a case.  Your mood drastically improved when you read: "Be home and ready for dinner by 6:30.  You will be completely naked and seated at the dinner table with dinner set for three.  Do not embarrass me tonight by being a fucking brat."  Your heart stopped as did your breathing.  Set for three.  Had he made the "arrangements" after all?  You knew it wasn't like him to forget things, but he hadn't brought it up since last week.  Was Emily coming over tonight?  And then your heart took off in a sprint.

You checked the time.  3:15.  You knocked on your boss's office and told them you weren't feeling well, lying through your teeth.  But you were convincing because your face was overly flushed, feverish.  Aaron getting you over-excited for tonight worked to your advantage, so you played it up.  You had to get home to shower and shave and get started on dinner.  Aaron's threat to not be a brat was unnecessary.  You wanted tonight to be perfect for them.  You'd be on your best behavior for your guest.  For her.  You suppressed a shudder.

You followed Aaron's instructions to a T.  You had no idea if they would actually be on time tonight; Aaron often came home much later than 6:30.  You didn't want to plate dinner too early and just have it out on the table.  What if it got cold?  What kind of hostess would you be serving them cold food?  You didn't want to embarrass Aaron; you wanted to make a good impression for Emily.  You worried your bottom lip in indecision and then quickly released it from your teeth, worried you'd smudge your carefully-applied lipstick.  His instructions had been clear: have dinner on the table for them by 6:30.  At 6:27 you decided you should have dinner waiting for them and started plating the food, really racing the clock.  

As you set the first plate on the table you heard the garage door open.  Shit shit shit, you cursed yourself.  Of course Aaron would be on time today.  He gave you an instruction on purpose.  You berated yourself as you rushed to get the last two plates on the table.  You whipped the apron off, leaving you wearing nothing but Aaron's favorite lipstick and the necklace he had given you for your anniversary. 

The back door opened as you were sliding in your seat at the table.  You tried to catch your breath – nervous about missing the 6:30 deadline – panting as if you had just run a marathon.  Aaron and Emily walked in, both of them assured and confident, chuckling at something you missed.  God they were both so sexy.  Nervous anticipation simmered low in your belly as you got your first glimpse of Emily in a week.  "Hi sweetheart," Aaron cooed, coming over to kiss you on the forehead.  You leaned into his kiss, but your eyes never left Emily.  There was something different about her tonight.  She was even more commanding.  You could tell she was already slipping into a Domme headspace.  She was fucking gorgeous.  

Her eyes bored into yours and dropped down to your chest.  And as if she commanded your body without even a touch, your nipples hardened under her scrutiny.  You shifted uncomfortably.  You didn't realize how incredibly vulnerable it would feel to be the only one naked while you all did such a mundane task like eating dinner.  Aaron and Emily remained fully clothed in their tailored suits, guns still holstered on their hips.  You licked your lips, ravenous.  

Emily turned her head to Aaron and exclaimed, "Wow, Hotch!  What a good girl you have.  Followed my instructions perfectly."  Your stomach clenched pleasantly.  They weren't Aaron's instructions.  "What did you make for us, angel?"

Your throat went dry, and your head emptied.  You swallowed thickly, begging yourself to remember what meal you had prepared less than an hour ago for them.  "Uhm," you started.  You looked down at your lap, took a deep breath, and softly responded, "Spicy vodka sauce pasta, Ma'am."

"There's no need to be nervous," Aaron stated.  Contrary to his assurance, they both stepped towards you and took a seat across from each other in perfect sync.  It was clear they spent much time together, moved together in unison like a well-oiled machine.  Your stomach clenched pleasantly.  Would that transfer to the bedroom?  

You were seated at the head of the table, equidistant from them both.  Aaron grabbed his napkin, placed it over his lap, and turned to you.  His foot sneaked forward and nudged your legs apart under the table, your bare pussy now completely exposed.  He looked at you pointedly, a clear warning to leave your legs like that.  You nodded at him, shifting your weight.  You already needed more stimulation, but you could be patient.  You had been waiting a week, what was another hour?

Emily and Aaron started talking to each other as they dug in.  You knew they were talking about a case, so you stayed quiet.  You didn't want to interrupt Daddy if he still needed to work.  He had, after all, left work early for you.  But as each minute passed, you grew more impatient.  

"I still don't understand the motive," Aaron argued with Emily.  "That isn't clear from victimology or injuries."

"Passion, desire, sex…"  Emily trailed off.  You shivered at the way her mouth twisted around the word sex, adding more emphasis than was necessary.  Much like the last time you shared a meal with Emily, your eyes drifted over to her, surreptitiously watching her as her mouth closed over her fork.  Enthralled, you stared at the way her tongue darted out to lick her lips after each bite.

"But the victims look so different."  Aaron took another bite, filling his mouth full of your cooking.  He didn't hum in approval like he normally did.  He continued to look at Emily earnestly, waiting for her next train of thought.  Passively, you wondered if this wasn't actually part of their game, if they forgot about what tonight was and really did need to work all while you sat before them naked.  But why get you naked?  You pushed the food around your plate, too worked up to eat.  You wanted dinner over as soon as possible.  Dinner being over meant play could finally start.

"This is good, princess," Aaron said, pulling you out of your thoughts.

"Thank you, Sir."

"Why aren't you eating?" he wondered out loud.  When you didn't respond, he commanded, "Eat.  You need energy for later."

Your stomach clenched again.  You bucked your hips at the thought of what they had in store for later.  You scooped some noodles and lifted them to your mouth in a trance.  But your thoughts ran away from you and your curiosity got the better of you.  Before you could stop yourself, you asked, "And what are we doing later?"  He snapped his head back to you, eyes blazing.

"You'll find out later," he said sharply.  "Now, where's the wine?"  You mentally smacked your forehead.  In your rush to get dinner on the table, you forgot the wine on the counter.  Upon seeing your eyes stare across the kitchen to the wine, open and breathing on the counter, he said, "Go get it."  You moved to go get it but stopped yourself.  You were completely naked.  It made you uneasy to be so exposed in front of both of them, especially knowing you wouldn't be able to hide half of yourself if you left the table.

You protested, "But Sir-"  The rest of your sentence died in your throat at seeing his eyes flare in anger.

"Sorry," you whispered.  You stood up hesitantly, a fire igniting in the pit of your stomach upon seeing desire in Emily's wandering eyes.  After you grabbed the bottle and turned back around, you noticed Emily sitting back in her chair, eyes still tracking your form like a lion stalking its prey.

"Good girl, thank you, angel," Emily praised as you sat back down.  You handed her the bottle to pour.  When her hand brushed over the skin on the back of your hand you had to bite back a moan.  You flushed, your skin heating up in embarrassment.  If all it took to get you this hot was a brush of her fingers to the back of your hand, how would you survive what they had in store for you later?

"Daddy?" you asked at the same time Emily started talking to Aaron.

"Shh," he shushed harshly.  "We're talking right now."  You bit your lip, holding back yet another moan.  "When we're ready for you, we'll tell you, okay princess?"  His tone dripped with condescension.

You nodded your head and apologized, "Sorry, Daddy.  Sorry, Ma'am."

"And what did I tell you about this?" he asked, jerking your legs back apart.  You had forgotten his rule as soon as you stood up and saw Emily staring at you like that.  When you had sat back down, you were so distracted by Emily's hands, you had forgotten his request.  Aaron's fingers traced up your thigh.  A teasing a touch.  A whisper of what was to come.  You bit your lip to suppress a moan.

"What's this?" Emily asked curiously, her head ducking low to look under the table.  "Oh, angel," she gasped.  Her hand snaked under the table and traced over the top of your thigh much like Aaron's just had.  Goosebumps raised on your skin under her touch, pleasure blooming in your stomach at the assurance that they had not forgotten about you.  "Yes, I'm going to have quite the time with you later," she cooed softly.  And this time, you couldn't hold back the moan.  It ripped long and low from your mouth.

"What did I say?" Aaron asked.  "Keep quiet while we're talking."

"Hotch, go easy on her," Emily teased, her hand still lightly tracing the top of your thigh.  "She's just a desperate slut.  What more could you expect of her?"  Her tone matched his; the condescension coiled something deep in your stomach.  There was also something so arousing hearing them talk about you as if you weren't sitting right there in front of them.  Naked, exposed.  Their object only present for their own gratification.  Like a zombie, you scooped pasta into your mouth, trying your hardest not to choke as Emily's fingers slid higher and higher up your leg as they finished dinner. 

When she finished her second glass of wine, she slid out of her seat and crouched near you, her hand sliding further up your thigh closer and closer to where you were already desperate for her.  "You ready for your rules, baby?" she whispered in your ear, raising goosebumps again.  Her voice dripped with sex; your eyes nearly rolled back in your head.

"Mmhm," you managed on a gasp.  Her hand continued trailing up and down your thigh.  Aaron slid over and mirrored Emily, his huge hand falling to your other thigh.  "Oh god," you breathed out.  Reflexively, your thighs spread apart further for them.

"First: you will address me as Ma'am.  You want something?  Ask for it, but use my title.  Second: you may not touch me tonight until you have permission."  Aaron's hand slid up your torso to cup one of your tits, his thumb lightly tracing over your nipple.  Though they were just getting started, you were already on cloud nine.  "Think you can handle that?" Emily asked.  You couldn't respond.  You writhed underneath their too-light touches.  Your eyes closed as you slumped into the chair.  She pinched the inside of your thigh sharply.  "I asked you a question."

You nodded furiously.  "Yes, Ma'am.  I can handle it," you rushed out.  You moaned at their hands picking up the pace.  Emily added a second hand over your shoulder and down to your other nipple.  "A-" you gasped at the stimulation.  The contrast between her soft hands and his rough, calloused ones was intoxicating.  "Any rules from you, Sir?"

"No, sweetheart.  Tonight's for you and Emily.  Be a good girl for her, okay princess?"  Emily's hand caressed the line between your hips and thigh.  She stroked over it lightly, teasingly.  She inched her fingers closer and closer over your lips.

"Yes, Sir!" you gasped again.  Your hands grabbed either side of the seat of the chair.  It would be impossible not to grab Emily tonight.  Her hand was so close to where you needed her most.  Yet it was so far.  "Mmmmmmaa'am please," you moaned.  Her finger inched towards your center, lightly rubbing you up and down.  Her finger dipped in, spreading your wetness around.

"So wet already," she gasped.  "What a good girl you have, Hotch."  Your hips bucked into her finger at her praise.  Her right finger circled your clit while her left hand kneaded your tit.  Meanwhile, Aaron's hands were trailing up and down your torso, touching any and everywhere.   You writhed underneath their ministrations and threw your head back.  You spread your legs even wider, the muscles in your hips pulling pleasantly.  You couldn't remember the last time you felt this good before anything had even really started.  You'd been on edge all week.  Maybe that had been Aaron's plan all along.

Your brain, long into sub-space, went fuzzy around the edges.  Her finger dipped into you, pushing slow and deep.  You moaned again, quickly losing the ability to make any decisions, speak, or even think.  You tightened your grip on the edge of the chair, desperate to anchor yourself to something as they tortured you with their pleasurable touches.  Emily's tongue darted out to trace the shell of your ear.  She nibbled down your neck and back up, sucking softly just behind your ear.  "That's it, angel.  Does that feel good?" Emily whispered against your ear.  

You registered her words, but nothing would come out of your own mouth.  Her fingers were so small compared to Aaron's and you needed more.  You had a feeling she was teasing you like this on purpose.  You circled your hips against her finger.  But it still wasn't quite enough.  Her finger stilled but remained inside you.  "Answer me."  Her soft voice was long gone.  This commanding tone caused a new rush of wetness to flood around her finger.

You whimpered.  "Yes, Ma'am.  You both feel so good."  She ripped her hand out of you and grabbed your throat.  You could feel your own arousal transfer to your neck from her wet finger.  "Last rule," she said harshly.  "You may not cum until you have permission.  Got it?  Or are you already too stupid to understand?"

"No please, Ma'am.  I understand, I promise."  You looked towards Aaron, desperation in your eyes.  "Tell her, Sir.  I always follow that rule, don't I?"  Emily's hand tightened around your neck.  You couldn't help but smile at the pressure.  Aaron swatted your pussy right over your clit, and you hissed.

"I said don't be a brat tonight."

Your eyes watered, nearly overstimulated before the night had even begun.  "I didn't mean to, Sir."  You turned to look back at Emily.  "I'm sorry, Ma'am.  Please can I cum now?"

Emily threw her head back and laughed, her hand slipping from your throat.  "Oh, angel," she said with a sinister sneer.  You begged her with your eyes, your fingers nearly numb now from gripping the chair so tightly.  She leaned down and captured your lips in a long, searing kiss.  Her tongue swiped lightly over your top lip, teasing.   Pulling back she answered, "No," finality ringing in her voice.  "We're just getting started."

You whimpered at her again, desperate to get her fingers back inside of you.  "Stand up," Aaron commanded.  You scrambled up, unwrapping your fingers from the seat of the chair, flexing them furiously to get the blood flowing again.  "Go kneel in front of the bed and wait for us."  You couldn't stop your jaw from dropping in shock.  Emily had just had her fingers inside of you, and now Aaron wanted you to wait more?

A protest almost escaped your mouth.  You might have pushed him a little if Emily weren't there, but you needed her to know what a good girl you were.  Good girls get rewards, you chanted silently.  "Yes, Sir," you whispered softly.  You turned and stumbled towards your room.  Confusion settled inside you as you dropped to your knees in front of the bed.  You took three deep breaths to recenter yourself.  Your head turned up and strained to hear what they were doing.  Sounds of ice clinking against glasses and their soft voices drifted from the kitchen.  You sighed.  Were they having another drink just to torture you?  Your hand, dutifully resting on the top of your thigh, started inching between your legs.  They couldn't make you wait like this!  Your heartbeat increased the closer you got to where you desperately needed relief.  You knew it was wrong, but you were aching.  

As your pointer finger moved inwards, your breathing increased.  Rapid exhales sounded around the room, and your heart pounded so fast you thought that might be audible too.  You teased the path Emily had blazed on your thighs, your fingers nothing in comparison to hers.  Soft footfalls grew louder as they moved closer to the bedroom.  You wrenched your hand back to its rightful place on top of your thigh, fear snapping you back into submission.

You couldn't control your breathing in time, your heavy pants still falling from your mouth as they entered the room.  You tracked their forms, appreciating the way Aaron's suit pants hugged his ass.  He had shed his suit jacket and rolled his sleeves up his arms.  You licked your lips at the way the muscles in his forearm flexed as he lowered himself into the chair in the corner of the room.  To your disappointment, they turned towards each other and finished their conversation.  Your hands tightened into fists atop your thighs.  Why were they ignoring you again?  

"Today was long," Emily murmured.

Ice against glass tinkled around you before Hotch hummed in agreement.  "It certainly was."  You tried squeezing your legs together tighter to get some stimulation, but it did nothing for you.  "I've been a bit worked up this week, as well," he admitted.  Well whose fault was that?  You thought back to each time he had denied you this week.

"A perfect way to unwind after a case," Emily agreed.  You heard their glasses clink against each other's as if they were making a toast.  As if you weren't burning with want before their very eyes.

"Please," you whispered, barely audible.  They either didn't hear you, or they were intentionally ignoring you.  Your neck strained under the mental restraint it took to not look at Aaron and Emily, to beg them to touch you.  Your breathing came in labored gasps as the want built up inside of you.  The ghost of Emily's fingers inside of you just ten minutes ago had you simmering. 

You heard fabric rustling softly and you desperately needed to know who was taking off what.  "Please," you tried again, a bit louder.  When, again, you got no response, you whimpered in frustration.  

"Listen to her, Hotch," Emily said from the corner.  "How fucking pathetic she is already."  Panting heavily, your chest rose and fell.  You hoped it would entice Aaron to come touch you.   From the corner of your eye, you saw her down her drink.  Aaron continued sipping, unaffected.

From your peripheral vision, you watched Emily slowly stand up, her suit jacket now gone revealing smooth, strong arms.  Your mouth watered as you watched her stalk towards you from the corner of your eye.  One, soft finger tilted your chin to force you to meet her gaze.  "Why are you so loud already, angel?"  You tried to look down in embarrassment, but she pinched your jaw between her thumb and pointer finger.

"I-"  Her eyes were mesmerizing.  Her sinful smirk was exactly how you pictured it in your fantasies this week.  It was exactly as it had been that first night across the dinner table.

"You what?" she taunted.  You whined again, your hips bucking into nothing.

"Please," you whispered.  In the back of your head, you wondered how it was she already had your head so empty when you hadn't even cum yet.  As if she could read your thoughts, she chuckled darkly; the sound made your stomach twist.  Her thumb continued to swipe back and forth on your chin.  You got lost in her deep, espresso eyes.  You couldn't tell what she was looking for in yours, but you figured she'd found it when finally the fun began.  She drew her pointer finger up under your chin and pulled away.  "Lay on the bed," she commanded.

You were all too happy to lay down for her.  As soon as you laid down, you spread your legs wide, hoping Emily would get the idea you needed her there.  "Let's make sure these stay spread apart, shall we?"  You furrowed your brow in confusion.  "Hotch said this is where you keep your toys," she said moving towards the bottom drawer of the armoire.  Your breathing became labored as it fully sank in that this was really happening.  Emily was pulling out rope to tie you up.

"I've been good!" you protested before you could think.  "I don't need that!"

Emily turned slowly, eyes wide in disbelief at your outburst.  "Is that so?" she asked, twisting rope around her hand.  You swallowed thickly, wishing the words you had just so carelessly let out would fall back down your throat.

"No, Ma'am.  I'm sorry," you whispered.  "You know best what I need."  You turned your head to look at Aaron, wondering if he was upset.  His face, as was often the case, gave away nothing.  He watched seemingly passively as he continued to sip at his scotch.  You lost yourself in the way his large hand nearly engulfed his rocks glass entirely.  You startled at Emily's cold hand wrapping around your ankle.  She tugged you to the edge of the bed and tied your legs to each bed post.  Your muscles pulled slightly at having your legs spread so far.

"You're sorry?" Emily asked.

"Yes."

She paused.  "Yes what?"

"Yes Ma'am!" you quickly corrected.  "I'm sorry."

"I bet you will be, angel.  Won't you?"  You nodded earnestly.  "I bet I don't need to tie your hands."  You shook your head.

"What's wrong, baby?" she asked, her voice taunting.  Her hands smoothed up your legs.  God she was soft.  Her light touch was so opposite of what you were used to.  It was faint, teasing, and free of callouses.  It was intoxicating.  As her fingertips rose up your legs, it was as if they pushed every thought from your mind.  "Hmm?" she asked again.  "Are you going to behave?"

"Mmhm," you whined.

"And do you remember the rules I gave you?"

"Mmhm."

She smirked.  "What are they?"

"What?" you breathed out, already distracted by her soft fingertips tracing along the lips of your pussy.  

She chuckled.  "Your rules," she prompted.  "Or are you too fucking stupid to remember ten minutes ago?"  You felt your pussy clench around nothing.  You needed to be filled up.

"Call you Ma'am."  Your breath hitched as she slid a finger inside you softly.  She pumped in and out of you achingly slowly.  "And no touching," you gasped as she picked up the speed.  You knotted your hands in the sheets above your head so you weren't tempted to grab her.  You had forgotten her rules until she had asked again.

"And?" she prompted.  You bit your lip, wracking your brain for another rule, trying not to lose yourself in the feeling of Emily's fingers inside you.  Had she given a third?  "I don't have all day, whore.  If you can't even grasp three simple rules, I'm going to have to tie you up so you don't have to remember any."  She curled her fingers, hitting a spot deep within you, one you hadn't felt in a while.  Your back arched up into it, a loud groan leaving your throat.  Involuntarily, your hands released the sheets beneath you and reached to touch Emily.  Before you got yourself in trouble again, you slammed them at your sides.  Emily's free hand darted up and swatted your nipple.  "What's the last rule?" she nearly growled.

"No cumming!" you nearly shouted, finally remembering.  You could feel your orgasm building in you as her fingers curled inside you deliciously.

"Not quite," she amended, crawling up your body to hover over you.  "You're going to cum a lot tonight," she promised.  "But you need my permission," she whispered, smoky whiskey heavy on her breath.

"Okay," you cut her off on a heavy pant.  "Can I cum??"  If she didn't stop soon, you were going to cum.  It had been a long time since you had raced to the precipice so quickly without clitoral stimulation.

Her fingers pulled out of you in an instant.  "No."  Finality rang in her tone.  You huffed, frustrated and disappointed.  You stared at the ceiling and willed your pussy to stop clenching around nothing.  Emily gave you a few moments to catch your breath, and when your breathing had nearly leveled back out, you were shocked to feel her tongue swipe up your slit from bottom to top.

You nearly choked on your sharp inhale.  "Oh God," you moaned.  You had thought her fingers felt like heaven but it had nothing on her tongue.  It felt like hot silk.  Your fingers ached to bury themselves in her hair, but you didn't dare touch her.  Rather, you dug your fingers into the skin of your thighs, the sting reminding you your hands were in the right place.  

Emily sucked softly at your clit, the pressure building inside of you.  Your back arched again, lifting your hips tighter against her mouth.  "Ma'am, please!" you whined.  You felt her shake her head back and forth, not breaking the rhythm.  Her eyes glinted up at you mischievously, and she shook her head again.  She sucked again, strong, as her tongue continued to flick against your clit.  "I NEED TO CUM!" you shouted.  She pulled back with a soft pop.  

Your body collapsed against the bed.  Was she ever going to let you cum?  "Let's get one thing straight," she domineered, "You do not need to cum.  You're a slut who thinks she deserves to cum.  But you don't need to.  You may do so when I say you can."  She moved back up your body, face-to-face, she asked, "Is that clear?"

"Ma'am," you protested half-heartedly.  Her hand wrapped around your throat, pushing you further into the mattress.  "I need you," you amended, hoping inflating her ego would help.

"Then beg," she sneered.

You tried your best puppy eyes, your lower lip jutting out enticingly.  It nearly always broke Aaron; he couldn't resist this pout.  "Please?" you begged.  "You said I just needed to ask for what I want.  Please Ma'am.  Can I cum?  Please."  Tears welled in your eyes as her cold ones looked down at you.  "Please!"  

Her fingers slammed back inside you.  "AH!  Please Ma'am!"  She set a relentless pace.  "Fuck.  Please!  Please may I cum?!" you shouted.  At her hard thrusts, you knew you wouldn't last long.

"No.  Hold it off."

"I can't!"  Your fingers started to ache again from how tightly they gripped the sheets at your side.  "I'm gonna-"  And her fingers stilled.  You couldn't stop clenching around her fingers, but you didn't quite get there.  You felt like screaming.  Desperate to cum, no longer thinking rationally, you looked over to Aaron for help.  His legs were spread, his hard dick pulling his pants tight.  

"Daddy?" you asked with wide, wet eyes.  "Please can I cum?"  

His eyebrows raised incredulously, but before he could respond, Emily's hand struck your cheek.  "What?  Not getting your way, so you think you can run to Daddy?" she taunted sinisterly.  "I'm in charge tonight, you fucking brat."

A tear slipped down your face at both Emily and Aaron's faces, disappointment clearly etched in the matching creases between their eyebrows.  "I'm sorry, Ma'am," you whispered.

"What was that?" Emily demanded harshly.  Before allowing you a chance to speak up, she shoved her fingers – covered in you – into your mouth.  Your breath caught in your throat at the intrusion.  You moaned around her fingers, hoping you could mumble out another apology around her fingers.  She pushed them deeper down your throat.  "Hmm?  What's wrong, baby?" she cooed down at you mockingly.

There was something about her calling you baby with such disdain that had butterflies swarming in your tummy.  You whimpered, unable to stop the pathetic noises from leaving your mouth.  Emily leaned down to speak directly against your ear, "Such pretty noises just for me.  Let me hear you, baby, nice and loud.  Can you do that for me?  Can you do that for me?"  You groaned again and nodded.

She slipped her fingers out of your mouth, a trail of your own spit falling down your chin as she released them.  "Be my good girl and close your eyes," she said gently.  Her change in tone was giving you whiplash, but the uncertainty of her actions made you all the more excited.  Taking one last look at her dark eyes, you closed your eyes, ready for whatever she was about to do to you.  You nearly protested when you felt her body slip away from yours, the weight of her leaving the bed.

Your ears perked up at the soft click and buzz of a vibrator, excitement tightening your stomach.  And then an internal groan of dread soon following at the realization that holding off an orgasm from a vibrator would be even more difficult.

But all thoughts left your head as soon as Emily touched the vibrator to your clit.  "Oh my God," you exhaled, your breath leaving your body at the pleasure.  It was difficult inhaling again, your rapidly-building orgasm the only thing your body could focus on.  

Your eyes pinched shut as tight as they could, a crease forming in your brow as the pleasure washed over you so intensely.  You thrashed your head back and forth, whines leaving your throat louder and louder.  "Ma'am-" you gasped, desperate to get air in your lungs.  "I'm-"  Your back arched almost painfully, the rope pulling at your ankles.  "Can I-"

"What's that, angel?" she asked again in that sweet, mocking tone.  "I don't know what you're asking me when you don't form full sentences."  Your core tightened further at her condescension.

"Pleeeeease," you moaned, begging her to understand you were asking to cum.  "I'm so close," you finally choked out.  

"Beg for it, whore."

"PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE," you screamed, desperate to not let this orgasm go.  Every muscle in your body was tensed.  The skin on your ankles started to chafe against the tight rope as you pulled against it.

"Cum for me, darling," she whispered in your ear, the weight of her body settling over you.  

You didn't mean to scream so loudly in her ear, but you couldn't help it.  "Fuck!  Yes, more please, more!" you whined in her ear.  And before you knew it, you had thrown your arms around her body, begging her to stay exactly where she was so you could ride the wave of the longest orgasm you'd ever had.  

Your nails dug into her back; your teeth sank into her shoulder as you willed it to never end.  But as the waves of pleasure settled and your body relaxed back into the mattress, you realized where your hands were.

Before you could apologize for breaking a rule, Emily asked, "Think you can cum once and the rules don't apply anymore?"  Aaron crossed the room in two long strides, eyes lighting up in anger that you had broken the rules again.  His huge hand wrapped around your wrists and pinned them to the bed.

"Go ahead, Emily.  Show her that you can take her pleasure away just as quickly as you can give it.  Make her regret begging so much to get off."  Your brows furrowed in confusion.  You opened your mouth to ask what your punishment was when Emily touched the vibrator back to your clit, all thoughts of punishment fleeing your mind.

The vibrator was a bit much at first on your sensitive clit, but it soon morphed, racing you to the precipice again.  "Yeesss, Emily.  Fuck that feels so good."  You pressed your body firmly back into the mattress, the combination of Emily's body weight on you and Aaron's hand around your wrists a pleasant pressure.  You had nowhere to go; you had to lay there and take it.  "Can I please cum again, Ma'am?  Sir?"  You flashed your best puppy eyes up at Emily and Aaron, looming over you.  "You feel so good.  Please can I cum again?"

"Already?" Emily smirked.  She leaned down and whispered in your ear, "Go ahead, angel.  Cum as much as you can."  Aaron kissed you on the temple as Emily wrapped her tongue around your ear.

"Oh God," you sighed.  Aaron did the same, both of them trailing hot, wet, sucking kisses up and down the side of your neck as Emily relentlessly held the vibrator to your clit.  You had nowhere to go under the weight of them both.  Soon, the pleasure was overstimulating.  You had no release as Emily tortured you with the vibrator and her tongue.  "PLEASE!" you screamed, desperate for a break from the pleasure.  

"Please what?" Emily whispered into your neck, her hot breath making you shudder.  

Orgasm after orgasm blended into the next, a constant peak without end.  You lost count, no clear break from when one ended and the next began.  "It's too much," you whimpered.  You thrashed around, trying to get away from the vibrator, Aaron and Emily pinning you down.

You gasped, desperate to pull in any air you could.  Emily wiggled down your body, taking a nipple into your mouth.  You didn't think you could take another second of stimulation until she slammed her fingers into you, the vibrator clicking up a notch.  "Please!!" you screamed.  "I can't take anymore," you begged, tears welling in your eyes.  

Aaron trailed his free hand up and down your arms, skin barely touching yours.  Goosebumps raised on your arms at the contrast from Emily pounding into you relentlessly as Aaron gently caressed your arms up and down.  "You were a stupid little slut all week, begging me to cum, parading around in lingerie…and now you're being ungrateful about Emily letting you cum."  His hand snaked around your throat, pressing you further down into the mattress as Emily continued to slam her fingers in you at just the right pace.  His hot breath tickled your ear as he husked, "Don't embarrass me, sweetheart.  Be good for Emily, and take what she gives you.  Do you hear me?"

You opened your eyes to look up at Aaron, begging him silently for just a short break.  "One more, come on angel.  I know you have one more in you," Emily crooned.

"I don't!" you argued.  "I can't!"  But as soon as the words left your mouth, you felt Aaron's mouth around your nipple, his hands continuing to press you into the mattress.  "Oh my God," you groaned.

"That's it, angel."  You clenched around Emily's fingers, so close to another orgasm.  "There you go."  You screamed in near-agony, as every muscle in your body contracted from the overstimulation.

"Yellow!" you gasped, desperate for a break.  Aaron's hands loosened from your throat and wrists, Emily retracting her hands from your body at the same time.  She clicked the vibrator off, and the only noise in the room was your labored breathing.

Both Aaron and Emily started caressing your face, moving your hair from your face.  "You did so good, angel," she cooed softly.  You could barely hear, blood rushing through your ears.  "You took me so well, baby."  All you could do was lay there, chest heaving as you caught your breath.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" Aaron asked in concern.

You nodded, unable to speak yet.  Eyes closed, you let the muscle contractions settle, your pussy still clenching from such intense orgasms.  "Verbal response, please angel," Emily checked in.

"I just need a minute, Ma'am."  Emily continued to caress your head, smoothing your hair down as Aaron took a step back, grabbing a cup of water for you.  You stared up at Emily, wondering how she could so quickly shift to being so soft.  It made you ache looking into her eyes shining with pride.  She leaned down and kissed you, the lingering whiskey on her tongue mixing deliciously with the taste of you.

She let you have a few minutes, fluttering light kisses to your temple, your neck, your shoulder.   When you finally felt like you could breathe again, you whispered, "I'm okay."

Aaron helped you sit up and take a drink of water.  You hadn't realized how dry your throat was, and you looked up at him gratefully.  "Thank you, Sir."  He wiped an errant drop of water from your chin.

"What color are you, angel?" Emily asked softly.

You swallowed thickly, wondering what she had in store for you next.  "Green, Ma'am."

"Positive?" she asked in concern.

"I'm sure."

"Okay," she said softly, hopping up.  She went to the foot of the bed and started loosening the rope from around your ankles.  When she freed your legs, she smoothed some lotion over the skin of your ankles.  You nearly moaned at how refreshing it felt against your raw skin.  You idly wondered how many times Emily's practiced hands had performed this gentle ritual.  She looked at you with tenderness in her eyes, gauging your reactions for any further signs of discomfort.  You nodded at her slightly, and in the blink of an eye, the domineering Emily from before returned.

She pulled on your arm, helping you off the bed.  She pushed on your shoulder, forcing you to your knees.  "Get on your knees and get Hotch off."  You nearly smirked at her calling him "Hotch," wondering if anyone but you called him Aaron.  "And no touching," she reminded.  "Mouth only; you're just a hole for us, nothing more."

You bit your lip, holding in a groan.  You thought about how Emily had gotten you off at least six times tonight and you hadn't done anything for them.  You settled your weight on your knees, finding a comfortable position.  You were ready to please Aaron, to show him how thankful you were for the gift that was tonight.

Aaron walked towards you slowly, glass of whiskey in one hand as he undid his belt with the other.  You pressed your thighs together at the sight of his long fingers expertly pulling his belt loose.  Focused solely on how his hand wrapped around the rocks glass, you lost yourself to thoughts of him wrapping that hand around your neck again.  

Emily pulled you out of your thoughts as she pulled your hair, wrenching your neck back to look up at her.  She leaned down and kissed you hot and wet.  The angle was awkward, but you couldn't help the way your stomach fluttered at her teeth nipping at your bottom lip.  She pulled back and touched your chin with her pointer finger.  "Open up," she demanded.  Immediately, your jaw fell wide open for Emily.  Her mouth twitched slightly, and then she spit in your mouth.  You moaned, your eyes closing in pleasure at allowing her to use you however she saw fit.

Aaron's belt buckle clunked on the floor.  Emily's hold on your hair released, allowing you to look forward again, coming face-to-face with Aaron's hard cock in front of you.  Realization dawned on you that Emily wanted you to suck Aaron off with her own spit.  Mouth still full, you opened wide for Aaron.

He slid into your awaiting mouth with a hiss.  "Fuck, baby," he groaned.  "I've been waiting all week to fuck this mouth."  You looked up at him from under your lashes, wishing you could grab his balls, but you remembered Emily's rules.  To prevent another inadvertent breach of the rules, you pulled your hands behind your back, grabbing your wrists as a reminder to keep them behind you.  Over your head, Aaron handed his glass to Emily who immediately started sipping his whiskey.  With two hands now free, Aaron gathered your hair in his grasp and started pushing in and out of your mouth.

You pushed your head forward, trying to take more of Aaron down your throat, but he always pulled back.  After taking another drink, Emily set the glass on the nightstand.  "You can do better than that, angel," she taunted.  You were always willing to take Aaron deeper, but he never let you.  When you had tried previously, he always pulled out, finding some excuse to stop.  I can never lose control with you, you remembered him telling you once.  You always wondered what it meant, and you were hopeful Emily could encourage him to lose that control tonight.

You pushed forward again, opening the back of your throat to take him deeper.  He ground his teeth and just barely got out a strained, "Careful, princess."  But you were listening to Emily tonight.  She had made it clear she wanted a show.  You swallowed thickly around his cock, tears springing up in your eyes as he hit the back of your throat.  "Shit!" he hissed out.  He couldn't help but thrust a bit deeper, and you thrilled at his actions.  You gagged around his cock, spit dripping down your chin.  He had never fucked your throat before, no matter how many times you said it was okay for him to do so.  The tears spilled down your cheeks as he hit the back of your throat.

"So good for Daddy, aren't you, angel?" she cooed.  You blushed from her praise, humming your assent.  Aaron moaned again at the new vibrations from your humming.  You couldn't stop yourself.  You were pleased that he was letting himself lose some control for once, probably content knowing there was someone else to be in control over you, too. 

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Emily taunted.  She wound her hands in your hair, and Aaron dropped his hands to his side.  She tugged you back, and Aaron slipped from your mouth.  "He was so generous setting this up for us to play, right angel?"

You nodded eagerly.  "Yes, thank you Sir."  You looked up at him with shining eyes.

"And don't you want to show him how grateful you are for tonight?" Emily continued.

"Of course," you answered hesitantly.

"So use your mouth on all of him," Emily commanded.  She guided your head down beneath his shaft to his balls.  "Suck."  You didn't need to be told twice.

You paid special attention to his balls, licking and sucking lightly, just how you knew Aaron liked.  You only wished you could cup them while you took him back into your mouth.  After a few seconds, Aaron took your hair back from Emily's grasp and took control of your mouth again.  He pulled you back and tapped the head of his cock against your mouth, urging you to take him back into your mouth again.  You opened wide and let him slip inside.  

You moaned around his dick again, bobbing your head up and down.  "You're such a slut for Daddy's cock," Aaron grunted.  "Look at you."

"Pathetic," Emily agreed.  "Take him deeper."

Your eyes rolled back into your head at their tone.  But eager to obey, you forced your head forward, taking Aaron deeper into your mouth.  He hissed again, your hot mouth sucking him insistently.  You really did want to show him how grateful you were for tonight.  You lost yourself in the eagerness to have Aaron cum down the back of your throat, needing him deeper and deeper.  

Without thinking, you released the grip on your wrists and grabbed his thighs.  Your nails sank into the flesh to get a better angle for him to fuck your mouth.  

Aaron pulled out of your mouth entirely, and roared, "Didn't Emily tell you no touching?!"  Your mind reeled from the change, playing catch up.  "You just can't keep your hands to yourself tonight, can you?"  His open palm struck your tear-soaked cheek softly.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," you whispered, eyes falling as a sign of your submission.

He grabbed your chin much like Emily had before.  But his grip was far harsher than hers had been.  "Too desperate to follow the rules?" he scoffed in disappointment.  You knew better than to respond.  

Aaron stomped over to the armoire and pulled out your least favorite restraints.  Your eyes went wide at the thought of having your legs tied together.  He handed Emily the restraints and said, "tie her up, Prentiss.  Can't keep her hands to herself, so I guess we can do it for her."  He shook his head, his hand pumping around his own dick.  You ached to touch him again.

Emily positioned you on the bed, sitting up on your knees facing the headboard.  Her hand trailed down your back teasingly as it descended back to your ankles.  She latched each cuff around an ankle and hooked them together.  You felt the wetness inside you, but it had nowhere to go now that your legs were forced together.  You felt Aaron get on the bed behind you, pressing his back to you.  Aaron gathered your hair again in one hand, holding you to him as if it were a leash.

Your eyes drooped, hooded in lust, as you watched Emily strip herself completely.  You knew she was sexy; that was apparent through her tight suits.  But to see her naked – the soft curve of her hips, the swells of her pert breasts – all you could do was stare.  You watched in awe as she climbed on the bed and settled herself in front of you.  Slowly, teasingly, she opened her legs to reveal herself to you.

"Gorgeous," you breathed reverently.  

Aaron grunted in agreement.  Emily pushed forward, looping a hand around your neck pulling you down to your elbows.  You settled between her thighs, hopeful you would get a taste of her.  "Use her, Hotch.  Get yourself off while she gets me off."  

"I can touch you, Ma'am?" you confirmed.  "Please?"  Emily nodded her assent.  Elated at the chance to get Emily off, you leaned down and took a long lick up her slit, but Emily didn't even acknowledge that you had touched her.  The only sign she was turned on was that you could taste how aroused she was, your tongue now coated in her slick.  Rather than tell you how good you were for her like you expected, Emily grabbed your hair and pulled your head back from her pussy.  Your neck twinged at the sudden movement. 

"I don't think she deserves to cum," Aaron said.

You sat on your knees and elbows, neck pulled back in an awkward position.  How maddening it was that they, again, talked about you like you weren't there! 

"Don't let her," Emily continued.  You whimpered, desperate to be filled up again.  It had been over a week since Aaron had slid into you, and you ached for him.  "She's ours to use for pleasure" - you moaned at the idea - "Isn't that right, angel?"  Emily relaxed her hold on your head, your neck falling slightly into a more comfortable position as you nodded in agreement.  She stroked your cheek softly.  "You won't cum without permission, will you angel?  You're going to  be a good hole for Daddy and let him fill you up, aren't you?  You wouldn't put your own pleasure before his, right?"

Your eyes rolled in the back of your head from the combination of Emily's teasing voice and the feeling of Aaron teasing the tip of his cock at your entrance.  Your hips twitched back, needing to be closer.  You swayed your ass back and forth, desperate to feel him enter you.

Aaron's hand swatted against your ass, the sound of the smack ringing around the room.  You hissed in surprise as he demanded harshly, "Answer her."

"Um," you fumbled.  You looked up at her, unsure what she had asked you.  You begged for a repetition, already forgetting what she had asked you.

Emily sat up fully, her face just inches from yours.  "Are you going to be a stupid slut and cum before you let Daddy cum?"

"I'll be good!"  You would say anything to have him slam into you.  "Please use me!  Please!  I'm yours to use!  Just please," you begged, pushing your hips back towards Aaron.

"I want to see you please Emily first," Aaron said from behind you.  Emily fell back into the bed, her legs falling open once more.  "Show her how grateful you are that she came to play tonight.  Tell her thank you."

You licked your lips, anxious to start pleasuring Emily, to return the favor.  "Thank you," you parroted.  Aaron spanked you again, the sting increasing as it was over the exact same spot as before.  "Thank you, Ma'am," you corrected.  "Thank you for letting me cum tonight," you added on for good measure.

"Good girl," she praised, caressing your face softly.  "Do you want to show Daddy how you can get me off?"  You nodded enthusiastically.  "Tell me.  Tell me you want to get me off."

"Please, Ma'am.  Please can I make you feel good too?"  Before Emily could respond, Aaron's hand pushed between your shoulder blades, forcing your head down to Emily's clit.  You moaned loudly as you tasted how wet she was for you.  

Emily tilted her hips up, finding a better angle against your mouth.  "That's it, baby," she cooed.  Tentatively, you lapped at her clit, unsure what would make her feel good.  As much as you had wanted her, you were suddenly self-conscious about how to please a woman.  And this wasn't just any woman; this was Emily.  You had never wanted a woman as much as you wanted her.  "A little faster, angel," she coached you.  "Get me off."

Emily started grinding against your mouth, one hand softly against your head to press you in further.  It was all the encouragement you needed.  You started sucking against her softly, moving your head slightly to get a better angle.  You were rewarded with a loud moan from Emily.  You smiled internally, cheering that you had made her feel good.

Aaron slammed into you from behind.  The intrusion startled you; you had been so wrapped up in thoughts of getting Emily off.  You groaned against her, your hand smacking against the mattress.  You whimpered against Emily's clit.  Unable to help yourself, you threw your head back in pleasure, breaking your contact with Emily's pussy.  You needed Aaron to know how good he was making you feel.

"Daddyyy," you panted.  Your moans were garbled as Aaron pushed your head roughly back into Emily's pussy.  You moaned against her clit, her wetness smearing all over your face.

"You're here for our pleasure," Aaron grunted as he pushed into you.  "Don't slow now.  Don't disappoint Emily."  He slapped your ass again as he pounded in and out of you relentlessly.  A tear escaped the corner of your eye at the bruising pace.  Emily continued to grind against your mouth, her breath coming in shallower and quicker pants.  You could barely catch your breath as Aaron's thrusts pushed your face into Emily's pussy.

Aaron's hips stilled but he remained inside you.  You whined and pushed yourself against him.  "How's she doing?" he asked Emily.  

Emily moaned, her hands tracing up her abdomen to circle her nipples.  You flattened your tongue and laved it over her clit slowly.  "Fuck," she panted at the change.  "She's doing great, Hotch."  

You preened at her compliment.  You pulled back and whispered a soft, "Thank you, Ma'am."

Aaron roughly pushed your face back against her clit.  "She can do better."  He commanded, "Use your fingers, too."  Eagerly, you wiggled your hand between your bodies and slowly slid a finger inside her.  She hissed, her hips picking up the pace against your mouth.

"That's it," Aaron praised.  "Show Emily what a good little toy you are.  Can you be a good little toy for us, princess?"  You nodded against her clit, still pushing in and out of her.  Aaron resumed his pace, and your eyes fluttered closed in pleasure.

He swatted your ass again and picked up the pace.  His breathing became labored as he fucked you.

"Deeper," she commanded.  You could barely hear her as waves of pleasure made your head spin.  Aaron continued to slam into you.  You couldn't help but push back into him in time with his thrusts.  You tried to do the same with your finger, pushing into Emily as Aaron pushed into you.  Using the momentum his thrusts created, you pushed into Emily just as fervently.

"Oh my God," Emily and Aaron groaned at the same time.

"Such a good little hole, aren't you sweetheart?" Aaron murmured around his grunts of pleasure.  Your eyes rolled back in your head at knowing both of them were receiving pleasure from you.  You ached to yell Use me!  But Emily had a tight grip on your hair as she raced to her own peak.  Her hips lifted as she fucked herself against your mouth.

You felt Aaron spill into you sooner than you expected, his hot seed filling you up.  You moaned around Emily's clit at the full feeling.  Aaron pulled out, and you whimpered at the loss.  "You felt so good, sweetheart," he whispered against the small of your back.  He massaged your hips, palming your ass, unable to help himself.  You felt his cum start to leak out of you.  "Get Emily off," Aaron commanded.  "And don't you dare waste a single drop of this," he continued, pushing his cum back inside you with his fingers.

"Come on, angel," Emily encouraged.  You doubled down your efforts, but it was hard to focus with the feeling of Aaron's fingers pushing into you.  You wanted to cum again, but this wasn't about you, you reminded yourself.  You pushed into Emily harder, adding a second finger.  As Aaron hit that spot inside of you, you moaned around Emily again, pushing her over the edge.  "Yes, yes, yes," she chanted.  "Fuck!"  Her fingers tangled in your hair painfully tight as she climaxed underneath you.

Her hips stilled, and the vice-like grip she had on your hair loosened.  Her body relaxed into the mattress.  You went to push off of her, but Aaron forced you back down.  "What did I say?  Don't waste a drop."  Your head dropped to the bed, a confusing mix of fatigue and desire straining your muscles.  Your neck hurt from being in this position so long, and you clenched around nothing, desperate to cum again.  But each time you clenched, a bit more of Aaron pushed out of you.

Emily slid out from underneath you.  Her hand trailed up your spine and settled at the nape of your neck.  Her strong fingers started massaging gently, some of the ache leaching out with each pass of her fingers.  As you relaxed, you felt more and more of Aaron start leaking out of you.  You whined at the feel, wishing he would fill you up again.

His fingers trailed up your thighs, collecting his cum, and he pushed it back inside you.  You whined, your hips pushing back towards his fingers despite how tired your muscles were.  "Please Daddy.  You feel so good.  Stuff me, please."

"Pathetic," Emily tsked.  "Haven't you cum enough tonight?  Or are you so desperate for Daddy's cum you have to beg for it again?"

You were incoherent at this point, unable to speak, focusing all your energy on keeping your hips up.  Emily continued to trail her fingers up and down your spine, goosebumps forming in their wake.  Before you knew what she was doing, she had wrapped a hand underneath you and started circling your clit as Aaron continued to push his fingers in and out of you.  You pressed your face into the mattress, nearly about to scream from their slow pace.  It was brutal compared to how fast he had pounded into you earlier.

As you got closer to the precipice, you started babbling incoherently.  They tortured every ounce of pleasure from your body with their agonizing pace.  You thought you had begged them to go faster, but you had no idea what nonsense was coming out of your mouth.

"Listen to her, Hotch," Emily cooed.  She slapped your ass, a jolt of pleasure shooting through you.  "Such desperate noises coming from such a desperate slut."  Both of them continued to pleasure you so slowly you thought you might combust.  "She's already cum so much tonight.  I wonder if she really needs another…"

"PLEASE!" you screamed, scared they would stop.  "Please don't stop.  Use me however you like, but please don't stop!  Please don't-"  Your babbling started again, tears pricking at the back of your eyes as you neared delirium.  You could almost feel Aaron smirking at Emily; they had you right where they wanted you.

"Alright sweetheart," Aaron gave in.  "One more, baby.  Give Daddy one more."  His pace picked up.  Taking a cue from Aaron, Emily started circling faster.  "You like being our little toy?  You like how we use you?" Aaron asked.  "You like how I push my cum in you?"

"Oh God," you groaned.  "Yessss," you whined.  Aaron pushed into you relentlessly, your face smushing against the mattress in time with his thrusts.  You had no energy left to hold yourself up.  You panted at the combination of Aaron's thick fingers fucking you and Emily's expert fingers circling your clit, "That feels so good."

"Come on, angel," Emily cooed.  She gently smoothed the hair off your forehead with her free hand.  "Be my good girl and cum."

After a few more pumps of Aaron's fingers, you screamed into the mattress, fucked into bliss.  Unable to hold yourself up any longer, your hips slumped flat against the mattress.  You panted heavily, trying to catch your breath.  You didn't even bother trying to listen when you heard Aaron and Emily whispering.

Suddenly you felt Emily's soft hands rubbing up and down your back.  "What hurts most, angel?" she asked softly.  This voice was a far cry from how she had spoken during play.  It was saccharine, dripping with care.

"Neck," you mumbled, not bothering to lift your head.  She pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder and then straddled your back.  Her hands started kneading the sore muscles, pulling a groan from your throat.

"Just relax, angel."  Her voice was hypnotic.  You thought you could listen to it forever.  "Relax, and feel the tension leave your muscles."  As if your neck muscles could follow her directions, you started to feel yourself melt into her touch.  After a few minutes, once the haze of pleasure lifted from your brain, you realized Emily had rolled off of you and you started to hear a bit of shuffling around the room.  

"Can you sit up, sweetheart?" Aaron asked softly.

"Mmhm," you hummed. 

He chuckled softly.  "Come on, turn over for me, baby."  He helped roll you towards him.  "That's it," he praised.  

"You did so good for us, baby," Emily praised.  "Let us take care of you now.  Can you do that?"

Aaron helped you sit up, holding much of your weight as you were still quite tired.  "Yes," you whispered.

"Good girl," he murmured, placing a soft kiss to your temple.  Your eyes closed contentedly at the tenderness.  "Can you take a few bites of food while I go run you a bath?"  You nodded your head.  

Aaron transferred your weight to have you lean against Emily so he could go run the bath.  "Almonds or banana?" Emily asked softly.  You nuzzled against her neck, "Surprise me."

Emily placed a slice of banana by your mouth.  "Open," she murmured softly.  "Bananas will help with your muscle soreness and prevent any cramping later," she explained.  You internally startled at the gentleness.  She didn't owe you this soft explanation and care.  But it was a welcome surprise.  "You also need to drink a lot of water before bed.  Can you promise me you'll do that for me, angel?"  You nodded dumbly, confused at her concern.

You looked into her eyes, wishing you could uncover some truth in them, some explanation.  But – much to your dismay – she was all too similar to Aaron.  Her eyes gave away nothing.  "Another," she goaded, holding another slice for you to take.

Once you swallowed, you looked up at her again, content to feel her soft skin around you.  Before you knew what you were doing, you leaned up to kiss her.  She kissed you back softly, and then pulled away.  "Thank you," you whispered.

"Tell me," she said softly, holding out a cup of water for you to take.  "What are you thinking?"

"That you don't have to do this," you blurted.

Her brow furrowed in confusion.  "Do what?  Feed you?"  She chuckled, her head shaking slightly.  "You can hardly sit up," she teased.  You pushed away from her just to prove she was wrong, but you slumped awkwardly, your muscles begging to let her support your weight again.  You raised your brows as if to say See!  "I guess I just want to follow up and make sure you're feeling okay.  Hotch and I used some pretty degrading language."  

Understanding dawned on you.  You hadn't expected this from Emily.  From Aaron, certainly.  But in all your fantasizing this week, you hadn't considered that Emily would engage in after care.  You never imagined she'd be so soft after.  "I'm okay, Emily, thank you.  I appreciate you checking in."  You bit your lip, unsure what to do next, wondering what was taking Aaron so long.  "Are you, um, okay too?"

She chuckled and kissed you lightly on the forehead.  "Yes.  You are so sweet to ask."  A somewhat awkward beat passed, the both of you unsure what to say next.  She rubbed your shoulder, soothing some of your worries with the gentle touch.

"How's my girl?" Aaron asked, walking into the bedroom, sweatpants slung low on his hips.

"Floppy," you sighed, leaning against Emily again.

Aaron smirked while Emily chuckled softly.  "Come, sweetheart," Aaron said softly, crossing the room to you.  He held a hand for you to take, but when he saw how much Emily was supporting your weight, he slid his hands underneath your legs and picked you up bridal style.  "Your bath is ready."

"Is Emily staying?" you murmured softly into his neck.

"Not tonight," Emily replied.  She leaned over to place one last gentle kiss on your forehead.  "Goodnight, angel.  I hope to see you soon."  Butterflies flurried in your stomach at the thought.  Would Aaron allow a second time?  Your flipping stomach soon settled low with anxiety, guilt pressing on you.

Aaron walked you into the bathroom and lowered you into the warm water, the smell of your favorite bubble bath assuaging some of your unease.  But some worry still settled between your brows as Aaron took his sweats off.  "Scoot forward, sweetheart."  You slid forward, your arms wrapping around your knees.  After Aaron had settled behind you, he traced a finger up and down your spine.  He pulled you back into his chest, but you couldn't relax into his embrace, not when you felt this guilty.

"What's wrong?" he broke the silence.  "Did you not enjoy tonight?"

You bit your lip, wondering how much you could share with Aaron.  "I did," you admitted.  You couldn't deny that you had enjoyed the night's activities.  You just wondered how Aaron might feel about how much you liked tonight.  "I just…"  You trailed off, uncertain.

"You what?" Aaron prompted you to continue.

"Emily and I kissed!" you blurted.  "When you were drawing me a bath, she kissed me goodbye."

"I see," he responded in understanding.  You didn't reply, couldn't reply.  The lump in the back of your throat making it difficult.  "You don't need to feel guilty about kissing Emily, baby."

"But I liked it," you whispered.

Squeezing you tighter, he kissed your temple.  "I'm glad you liked it.  I hope you enjoyed all of tonight.  I know I did."

Hesitant, you asked, "You're not upset with me?"

"Of course not."

"It's just that Emily focused so much on me.  I worry you didn't get much out of tonight."

"Ahh," Aaron hummed in understanding.  "I want you to have everything you've ever wanted.  It makes me happy to make you happy.  That includes you enjoying a night with Emily."  You relaxed into his arms, letting the last bit of guilt go.  "Plus," he added, "You did so good, baby.  You were the perfect plaything for Emily and I to use tonight.  Don't think that you were the only one having fun.  I enjoyed myself immensely watching you."  

Your stomach flipped pleasantly at his words.  "Thank you, Daddy."  You rubbed up and down his arms, so grateful for his comfort and praise.  "I didn't want to disappoint you."

"You could never," he said firmly.  You settled back into him, his hands continuously moving the water over your exposed skin to keep you warm.  "You're perfect, baby.  I love you."

you’d been woken by Aaron moving around the bedroom, hurriedly getting dressed while you sighed. 

this wasn’t a new occurrence, in fact, it seemed to happen every time you and Hotch got together.

he sighed as he turned and seen you awake in his bed, leaning in to press a kiss to the top of your head.

“sorry for waking you”

Aaron pulled away as you sat up, your eyes following him as he continued to get dressed, his tie slung loosely around his neck.

“it’s okay”

your words were soft, still laced with sleep.

his back was turned towards you as he started to do his tie, your eyes meeting his in the mirror.

“do you really have to go?”

that’s what made him finally turn back to you, not all the way but his eyes found yours.

it made him sigh.

seeing you here, in his bed while he was rushing out the door for work.

“i do”

you tilted your head, a frown tugging at your lips while your thoughts raced.

“it’s early”

Aaron paused, tie halfway done.

his eyes flicked slowly between you and the clock that sat on his nightstand, the time confirming that it was in fact early.

“i know sweetheart, i’m sorry”

it was tearing him apart, it was obvious.

Hotch liked mornings with you, the way you curled into his side, as if you were trying to steal his warmth. it had a new wave of warmth spreading through his chest.

but today that couldn’t happen, his job had other ideas.

“after this case, i promise i’ll make it up to you”

you offered him a tired smile, watching him finally finish his tie before closing the distance between you.

“i’ll call you when i land”

he told, parting with a soft kiss.