#fleabag!reader

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

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Not when it matters.

Not when it’s least convenient for your nervous system.

…The irony.

All it took was one stupid text. A momentary lapse in dignity. Something he’d probably refer to as “compromised judgment.”

do you happen to know a very cheap lawyer asking for a friend

And instead of his usual three-to-five-business-days reply time, he hits you with:

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): Are you at home now? – A.H.

And now you’re just a bit overthinking… because how does he know that?

Did the FBI install a secret camera in your pothos plant? Does he have access to some satellite heat map of your apartment? Has he been watching your window? A camera in the air vent?

(Has he seen you trying out that new clear dildo in front of the mirror for “science”?)

(The one time you tried doing yoga and got stuck in child's pose for 40 minutes?)

You don’t know. You don’t want to know.

All you do know is that you are currently fully naked, shaving for a man who:

Has no idea he’s being shaved for, while you’re on speakerphone with him, as he gets closer and closer to your building block because he invited himself into your private space and-

Would absolutely turn around and disappear if he ever caught even a hint of cucumber-scented shaving cream (you borrowed from your roommate) and realized you'd… prepared for him.

Because your “just in case” implies premeditation. And premeditation implies intention. And intention? Intention is basically foreplay.

And foreplay is strictly prohibited outside the sanctity of marriage, a psychological clearance form, and at least three signed affidavits from HR.

He would enter WITSEC on the spot. Change his name. Grow a beard.

(Hot.)

“What’s happening? Are you alright?”

He concernedly asks over the phone - totally unaware (definitely unaware) that every time he checks in on you, he’s poking your very well-buried, very latent daddy issues with a stick.

(Or maybe he keeps asking because he’s the one with daddy issues. Very obvious ones. That classic parented-child energy. Raised himself on black coffee, moral obligation and emotional regret.)

What a match, really. You get off on being cared for, and he gets off on taking care of people he’ll never emotionally open up to.

Soulmates.

Anyway-

“So… my landlord is an asshole and I really hope he gets some very painful hemor-”

Mr. FBI has the audacity to call you by your full legal name before cutting you off with, “This call is being recorded. I’d appreciate it if you refrained from making…” he even pauses, searching for the most delicate phrasing. Because God forbid he doesn’t sound like a morally burdened Disney princess. “explicit threats.”

Oh, you’d appreciate a few things too. Like having his actual number and not the one issued by the United States Government - so you wouldn’t have to worry about scandalizing some poor technical analyst who’ll be forced to transcribe this call word-for-word the second they find his body in a ditch and trace it back to you.

(“Exhibit B: She said, quote, ‘I hope he gets some very painful hemor.’”)

…But you’re not as childish as him to complain about that.

“My bad.”

“It’s alright.” (Can he please stop talking like this?)

“Yeah… I-” Your voice trips. Your face is hot. Your entire body is hotter. “The thing is-”

“I’m listening.” Oh, fuck him. (Please.)

“In short: the building’s falling apart. We’ve been emailing the guy for weeks, complaining, begging, threatening – nicely - and either he forgets to reply or says he’ll fix it and then doesn’t. It’s been an eternity and he still hasn’t done a single fuc-”

Recorded line. Recorded line. God forbid the man has a seizure because of you. “-thing.”

You hear a chuckle on the other end.

You hate phone calls.

You’d choke him if he weren’t safely boxed inside a moving vehicle.

“I said threats. You can curse. I’m not ten.” Oh, he’s smiling. You can hear it. The smug bastard.

“Oh, that I noticed.”

You love phone calls.

If he were here, he would've already hit you with one of those signature stares - intended to intimidate, but really just making you want to lick the corner of his mouth out of pure spite.

But look at you. Free. Untouchable. Doing amazing.

“The thing is, I didn’t pay rent this month. Because they’re still ignoring the repairs. And now they’re threatening to evict me if I don’t pay.”

“That’s retaliatory. It’s illegal.”

“Wait… you’re telling me I’m not screwed?”

“No, they are. You withheld payment due to unaddressed health and safety violations. That’s protected under landlord-tenant statutes,” he says, suddenly shifting into full legalese, something-something code 572, subsection blah-blah, tenant rights, lease clauses-

You don’t hear any of it. Actually, the very second he started speaking fluent Law Daddy, , your brain slammed the emergency brake to focus on the real crisis:

What the fuck are you going to wear.

“Document everything-“

Lace? Bold choice, but post-shave? Masochism. Granny cotton briefs? He’ll never look at you again.

“Photos.”

Tight top, no bra? Risky.

What if he hugs you and feels how obnoxiously hard your nipples are?

(He’s not a hugger. He doesn’t seem like a hugger. Right?)

(Right??)

(But what if he is today?)

(What if he walks in, sees you - top clinging, no heating - and suddenly decides: You know what? Now’s the time. Now’s the moment I become a hugger. Just for her. Just this once. Just to pull her in close, pretend it’s chaste, press his palm between her shoulder blades and - oh fuck - realize it’s not.)

(What if he hugs you and feels it?)

(What if he hugs you and keeps hugging you?)

(What if he grips tighter, his hand slides just a little lower, and his voice does too, right by your ear - “You’re not wearing a bra.”)

(“Neither are you, sir.”)

(And what if that hug turns into a grind, into his thigh between your legs, into lift me onto the kitchen counter and show me what else you know about tenancy law.)

“Emails.”

Loose top, skimpy bottoms? Slutty. Strategic. Respectable slutty. He’d stare at your legs all night.

(He wouldn’t. But you’d know. Which is worse.)

You should lather in coconut oil, just in case.

You should lather in coconut oil anyway – hydration is important to avoid ingrowns (and yes, to smell edible too.)

“Timestamps.”

Tight top, no bra, skimpy bottoms? Too much? Too “I can’t pay the plumber, but maybe I can offer something else...”

(Not that you’ve watched those. Obviously. You’re just… aware of the trope.)

(Not because you spent 30 minutes the other night trying to find the perfect one. And then another 10 skipping the plot because it was too unrealistic, there’s no way the plumber just happens to have lube.)

(Not that you wouldn’t do it for him. But you’re also not going to lower yourself to being a badly lit, lazily scripted fantasy for the male gaze.)

“…If you haven’t already, I’d recommend drafting a written complaint.”

“…Aaron, I don’t even know where to start,” you mutter. “That’s why I asked if you knew a very cheap lawyer.”

“I’m the very cheap lawyer.” For some reason he chuckles, probably it’s because of his own joke, “Don’t worry, we’ll do it together, I’ll be there in fifteen.”

He is not there in fifteen.

He’s “there” after fourty-eight minutes - flustered, apologizing, muttering something about I-395 and a jackknifed delivery truck, which is just adorable, really, coming from a man who’s clearly never taken the bus in heels while bleeding through his jeans, juggling three leaking Trader Joe’s bags, and re-evaluating every life decision since birth.

He’s grumbling about “infrastructure,” all furrowed brows and moral outrage. How sweet.

You, meanwhile, are Frenching the entire Department of Transportation.

You are giving gridlock the kind of wet, eye-contact blowjob that wins awards - because, for once in your adult life, the universe delayed a man just long enough for you to become a person.

Thirty-eight glorious minutes to shave, moisturize, hide the evidence of your emotional instability, light a candle, panic about the candle (too much?), blow it out, light it again (fuck it), rearrange your throw pillows, Febreze your loveseat, and clean your floors so well you briefly consider serving dinner off them - or yourself.

(Also enough time to change outfits four times, reject each one violently, and land on something that screams “Oh, this? Just threw it on,” while whispering: “I shaved everything.”)

You’ve never been more grateful for civic failure.

You look good. Your apartment looks good. You know it smells amazing in here. You know it. You can feel the Pine-Sol particles sparkling off the hardwood.

Any second now, he’s going to say something about it.

He’s going to inhale – deeply - and ask what detergent you use. Compliment your lavender baseboards.

You can feel it coming. You’re ready. You smile. You bask.

Aaron sets down his bag. Unclips it. Opens it. Looks up.

“I printed out the tenancy statutes,” he says, already pulling out an aggressively highlighted stack of documents from the briefcase.

And this would be impressive - should be impressive - if he weren’t wearing a plain black T-shirt that is doing things to his arms. And the khakis. Fucking khakis.

The most indecently decent pants in the entire male wardrobe.

They whisper "suburban dad," but scream "accidental bulge in soft daylight."

Speaking of which, unfortunately, your apartment lighting has never worked harder - midday golden-hour haze bouncing off every freshly scrubbed surface, casting soft shadows and sensual gleam until finally it settles on The Situation.

…Shit.

(Do not look at it.)

(Do not acknowledge it.)

(Do not mentally calculate whether that’s just the way his pants fold or if that’s his dick pressed against the zipper like it also has a clause to deliver.)

(Do notice, however, that he still hasn’t said a single word about how nice your apartment looks. Rude.)

“I flagged the key violations and I added notes on a recent amendment that strengthens your case - you can reference it in your response letter.” His eyes scan the room clearing it for hostiles - except all he really sees is your loveseat. Small. Soft. Close.

And you, in a tank top.

He clears his throat. Adjusts the folder. His gaze flicks back to you – quick, sharp, and immediately redirected to something safer, like the floor.

“Where… should we get set up?” he asks, like he hasn’t already mentally measured the loveseat twice, logged its exact dimensions in his brain, and is currently laser-eyeing the very cushion he’s dying – dreading - to sit on.

“Oh, I don’t know… wherever you’re comfortable.”

He nods - just a touch too seriously - then hesitates. Again. Checks one more time, with those painfully polite eyes: Can I...? Is it alright if...?

(…As if you might suddenly revoke loveseat privileges.)

Then, slowly, he lowers himself onto the cushion. Perches. Occupies the absolute minimum amount of space humanly possible.

If he still had the joint mobility of his youth, you’re convinced he’d just origami himself into a respectful little one-inch cube and tuck into the far corner.

You glance at his shoulders - very broad, deliciously broad, yes - tense, but more at how hard he’s trying not to brush them against yours. What a funny man.

Especially funny because while he's typing up your official letter - like a good little lawyer - he's also letting the conversation drift into a completely unrelated side street.

Unrelated except for the fact that it's all about you.

Like how he “casually” mentions he hasn’t seen you at the pool lately.

The one where he trains and you sit in a cracked plastic cafeteria chair pretending to wait for your friend’s aquatic therapy - when really, you’re mourning every second you’re not legally tethered to the hot dad at swim practice. The hot dad who doesn’t even know he’s the hot dad. (Him. Obviously.)

You go for your friend. Technically.

Spoiler: she’s got two weeks left.

Which means once her sessions are over, you and Aaron will have absolutely no logical reason to ever speak again. No built-in excuse. No default setting.

And now there’s a looming, mutual thing neither of you are acknowledging.

You’re sure there’s a term for this. Something about large mammals afraid of mice and metaphor.

“Yeah, I was in the lane next to your friend’s the other day…” he starts.

“Really?” You pretend you didn’t get fourteen missed calls from said friend, who - when you finally called her back - didn’t even say hi. Just launched straight into: “Burgundy swim cap guy looked up at your seat three times. Three. He looked so sad you weren’t there I had to explain where you were so he wouldn’t drown in longing.”

“Yes… we talked for a bit. She seems very nice…”

Ah.

Interesting choice of words, considering she told you – verbatim - “I can’t believe someone built like a brick shithouse could be that pathetic.”

(She has yet to understand that that is the whole appeal. Him. And that exact contradiction. Him and that-)

“So… how did… your date go?” he asks, pretending to be casual. He’s polishing his glasses against the hem of his shirt, even though they’re already spotless. (You weren’t even aware he needed glasses. Probably neither is the rest of the planet.)

He keeps at it. Rubs one lens. Then the other. Then back again.

You wonder if he’s trying to distract himself. From the question. From the answer.

Your date.

The one that made you miss your friend's call. The one you actually went on. The one that-

“It went well, actually.” It did. Way too well. And that’s the problem.

Because you keep chasing Aaron.

Despite the very obvious fact that nothing will ever happen between you. Because he’s… well, him. And you’re…

A little too young. A little too broke. A little too you.

(And technically if you do the math, you’re closer to his son’s age than his. Just by a few years, sure, but still. Still enough to justify it to yourself out loud, then say it again. And again. Until it starts sounding like a fact.)

It’s just a harmless crush. A stupid little thing. A flicker. A fantasy. A hobby, really.

You have so many of those - men. Smart, emotionally unavailable, vaguely haunted. You collect them like parking tickets: Useless. Repetitive. Always showing up when you least need them. But you keep them. Stack them in a drawer somewhere in your head.

Just in case.

Still, there’s something about this one.

About him.

Aaron.

Aaron in wireframe glasses, almost making you believe in the higher powers he believes in too. (Hopefully not the United States government.)

Aaron with that voice, that jaw, that posture.

Aaron, who says things like “landlord-tenant statute” and somehow makes it sound better than the poetry in those overpriced, niche little books you only buy for the cover, the ones where the author hits enter every four words so it tricks you into thinking they mean something.

And maybe – deep, deep down – it’s because you want to be proven wrong. That someone like him could find goodness in parts of you you’ve already declared a lost cause. That he could look at all the rot and still see something worth saving. Or maybe it’s just easier. Easier to chase something you’ll never catch than turn around and face the things already standing still, arms open, waiting to love you back.

“I’m glad to hear that,” says Deliciously Four-Eyed Aaron, just a little too tight. Tighter than his khakis, which shift and pull every time he readjusts to keep from getting a flat ass on your loveseat.

(What’s wrong, Agent Hotchner? Not expecting it to actually go well? God, you hope that’s why his jaw looks like it’s about to file for divorce from the rest of his face.)

“I don’t know him well,” he adds, clinically. “But… he seems like a nice guy. He’s good at his job.”

Right. Which is rich, coming from the man who literally handed you the guy’s number. And now he’s playing coy?

So what was that, then? A random act of kindness? A stroke of pity? Was it projection? Was it a fever dream?

Did he just reach into the FBI rolodex and go: “Hmm. You’re not under disciplinary review, you own slacks, and your blood pressure is normal. Here, date this emotionally volatile woman I know and I think you might like - she has opinions and abandonment issues, enjoy!

Because Aaron doesn’t do spontaneous. Aaron does strategic. Aaron does 48-hour surveillance and triple-signed documents.

He’s not the guy who improvises. He’s the guy who rehearses his improvisation.

So forgive you if you’re just a little confused by Mr. Times New Roman over here, trying to mentally trace the logic that gets you from “I barely know him” to “you should definitely let him finger you. Only after marriage, though.”

It’s weird. And yet, somehow, that’s not even the most annoying part.

“Good at his job?” you echo, with a laugh that sounds way too close to a cry for help. (Of course. Of course that’s Special Supervising Whatever-the-Fuck Hotchner’s metric for male compatibility. Not empathy. Not emotional availability. Not even basic social literacy. No, job performance. What a catch.) “What are you going to say next, that he’s a good person because he clocks in early and doesn’t steal breakroom coffee?”

“Well,” he says, adjusting his glasses that did not need adjusting, “I can’t vouch for the coffee. But I do see him arrive on time. From my office. If that’s what’s concerning you.”

…Oh. So that’s what this is. We’re flexing now.

Mr. I Have A Window. Mr. I Oversee The Peasants. Mr. Private Office While Everyone Else Plays Hot-Desk Musical Chairs. Mr. Title, Tenure, and a Chair That Supports Both His Spine and His Reluctance to Feel. Mr. I Deserve This Square Footage Because I Ruined My Marriage for the Federal Government.

(You could go on. And on. And on. You won’t. But you could.)

And it’s not even clear who he’s trying to one-up here. The guy he set you up with? Or… you? Both?

Like, “Yes, he’s punctual. Yes, he’s nice. Yes, he’s good at his job. But I define what good is. I’m his boss. Be impressed by me instead. Please. I beg you.”

Okay. Breathe. Relax.

No one invited him to a pissing contest and yet here he is, unzipping his intellectual fly right in the middle of your living room. (Not the fly you wanted unzipped, unfortunately.)

You squint at him. “So what, you show up before everyone else just to watch your little ducklings waddle in behind you? Mother Goose clocking in before sunrise to lead by example and assert dominance?”

He turns toward you. Tilts his head. Makes that face. The one you’ve been craving since the second he walked in.

Eyebrows drawn, mouth slightly open - just enough to spot that one crooked tooth, bless it - an expression that says concerned, confused, and disappointed in your tone, all in one.

“It’s none of that,” he’s dead serious, even if he’s visibly smiling… marvelous. “It’s just respectful to be on time.”

Sure, Agent Hotchner. Tell yourself that while polishing your Employee of the Decade plaque.

“I barely even see my boss at the café. Twice a week, tops. And only after we open.”

Aaron lifts his eyebrows. Shrugs. “I’m not an asshole.”

Then he goes back to typing, pretending he’s not biting the inside of his cheek like the whole thing didn’t get to him.

Like he’s completely unbothered by the idea of some man buying you coffee and making you laugh for two full hours.

Like his knuckles aren’t just a little too tight around that trackpad.

“You know, for someone who just said he’s not an asshole, you sure spend a lot of time trying to prove how much better you are than other men.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” he says, softly. Too softly. Like he knows volume would give him away.

And fuck, those eyes.

You can’t look at them too long. You bounce between his face and anything else - your coffee table, the printout, his lap (unfortunately) - because those glasses are giving him four eyes now, and all of them are aimed at your skull, dissecting every micro-expression.

He's a bit suffocating.

“I think what really bothers you,” he says, measured, "is that you’re used to being misread."

You scoff. “Excuse me?” (Bitch.)

"You act like you want to be chased, but only if it feels reluctant. If it's earned. You push people to see if they’ll push back. You turn it into a game because it’s safer that way. If it’s a game, you can pretend you were never serious when they walk away."

Well. Okay. First of all: Rude.

Second of all: Accurate. Horribly accurate.

But also: How dare he.

"And if they don't... if they try to meet you where you are... you push them away first. Just to prove you were right to be afraid" he says - and the bastard even smiles. (Fuck his dimples. Really. Pretentious as hell.) "You punish them for it… and you punish the ones who don’t play, too. Because deep down, you still don’t know which would hurt more."

"Wow," you never thought you'd actually be speechless, and yet - here you are, scrambling for a comeback. Great. "Good thing you said you weren’t trying to prove anything. Otherwise I might’ve gotten confused and assumed you were just showing off." (Good enough. You’ll take it.)

Smarty-pants chuckles under his breath then leans back against your very professional, very structurally unsound loveseat. His knee brushes yours.

You pretend not to notice. He pretends he doesn’t notice you noticing.

"Not showing off, just telling you what you already know."

"Oh, right, because you’re such an expert on me."

"I’m just observant."

"And arrogant." And a fucking hypocrite too.

"And you still looked at my mouth twice." What a who-

Somewhere between your brain screaming full bitch slap, full bitch slap and your hand almost twitching to deliver it… you miscalculate.

You lean in. And instead of bruising his cheekbone, you crash your mouth against his.

Pride - and the stack of feminist books judging you from the bookshelf - insist it’s you who moves first. You believe them. You have to.

Even though his hands are already there - rough and steady, drowning your face in their grip - before you even finish breathing in your half-ounce of courage. Before you really even choose anything at all.

(But sure. Go ahead. Call it empowerment. You’re totally running the show. Girlboss shit.)

You want to bite him. Sink your teeth into that smug, diagnosing mouth. Split his lip. Make him bleed all over the living room he still hasn’t bothered to compliment the smell of. (You’re not petty about it… it’s just an observation.)

But it’s slower instead.

You taste his nerve first, his fear right after.

He’s already halfway to pulling back even as he keeps kissing you - trying to have it both ways - and for a second, you do break apart.

Both pretending you could still undo this. (And also undo all the bullshit he said earlier, profiling you so hard he didn’t even realize he was accidentally outing himself too.)

It doesn’t last.

You crash back into him, sloppier, mouths dragging, missing, gasping, half-kissing, half-clawing at each other as you’re both a little too desperate to land properly.

For a split second, the kiss turns... almost sweet. Tender. Romantic, even.

You could say he’s a good kisser.

You could say he’s a great kisser.

You could say he’s the only man alive who could kiss you stupid and still find a way to remind you to breathe through your nose.

(Like when he notices you getting lightheaded and somehow fixes it without even pulling away... which, not gonna lie, is a little humbling.)

But there’s no time for critical analysis. You’re already shoving him flat onto the loveseat, pinning him down, while he blinks up at you - wide-eyed, flushed, so beautiful it makes your chest hurt.

(And he looks so... concerned. As if he’s realizing just now that there’s absolutely no dignified way to get out of this alive.)

(Good. He shouldn’t.)

There’s tongue.

There’s teeth.

There’s his hands – everywhere - gripping your waist, sliding under your shirt, squeezing the backs of your thighs, pushing your leg higher over him until you can feel - Oh. Oh, he’s hard. He’s so fucking hard.

There’s a muffled noise from the back of his throat that sounds suspiciously like please and you are not thinking about that right now.

And it’s-

God.

It’s filthy. It’s great.

You grind down hard, whimpering shamelessly into his mouth, and he bucks up into you, meeting you halfway with both hands locked around your ass, squeezing so rough you’ll be wearing fingerprints by tomorrow.

(You hope so.)

(You really fucking hope so.)

He helps you move –

Up.

Down.

Slower.

Harder.

Guiding your hips with just enough pressure to make it feel like it’s your idea, finding the rhythm you didn’t know you needed until he gives it to you, forcing you to ride the thick, hard shape straining against his pants-

Just the right angle. Just the right friction.

So perfect it catches your clit every single time, knocks a gasp right out of your throat, straight into his mouth.

You’re soaking through your panties. You’re shaking with it. And it clearly gets to him - God, it wrecks him.

You can feel it - the way he tenses under you, the way his hands clutch harder at your ass, the way his cock throbs against you through the fabric like he’s just barely holding on.

He bites down on your bottom lip, rougher than you expect. Too rough for a man who apologizes when he says fuck.

He holds it between his teeth, sucks it – hard - humming low and filthy against your mouth, so obscene it makes your hips stutter.

Drop.

Just enough to let your soaked cunt drag across the swollen head of his cock.

And when you grind back, slower, tracing right along the thick ridge straining against his zipper, he chokes on a breath.

“God, fuck-”

It tears out of him, raw, as if he’s almost embarrassed by how much pleasure is tangled in it, by how stupidly sincere it comes out of his mouth.

(Also, thank God he didn’t reverse it. If he’d said “fuck, God,” instead, you’re pretty sure he would’ve stopped everything, dropped to his knees, and asked you to drive him to a confessional. Not even a metaphor - actual church. Actual guilt. Actual “forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”)

He tilts his head back, groaning, neck arching against the pillow - exposed, gorgeous - and you completely lose it.

Your tongue drags over his throat, chasing the pulse hammering under his skin, tracing your way back up to his mouth.

He’s so hot. He’s so good. He’s-

…terrified.

"I'm so sorry," he breathes, suddenly sitting up on his elbows. “I-” 

He fumbles. He panics. He stands. Backs away from the couch. From you. Visibly blushing. Visibly mortified.

“I didn’t mean-“

He doesn’t finish the sentence...

…Because he finished in his pants instead.

Poor thing.

You should be a little cruel about it - he was an asshole earlier, after all - but you’re not quite mean enough to kick a wounded 6’2” puppy when he’s already limping. (No pun intended… or maybe-)

"Hey," you murmur, reaching out, curling your fingers around his wrist so he can’t backpedal any further. He flinches. (Not much. Just enough to make you want to kiss him again. Harder this time. Until he flinches worse.)

"It’s okay. It’s-" You almost say sweet - catch yourself just in time, because you’re not trying to get murdered tonight.

"It’s normal," you settle on instead. "It’s flattering. Honestly.” (Also kind of hot. But you’ll take that particular confession to your grave.) “You didn’t... ruin anything."

He still doesn’t look convinced. At all. In fact, he looks like he might apologize again, maybe even draft a formal statement and notarize it.

You scramble. “It’s not a big deal, seriously. Who cares if it was-” (You hesitate for half a second, fatal mistake.) "-like, 30 seconds? Could've been 29, right?!”

…Right.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

(I might've missed someone this time, pls tell me in the comments if your name got lost AAAA sorry in advance)

Little reminder that the requests for fleabag!reader are open!! Ok.. I'll go now. Bye.

To that chief of trauma doctor from Chicago Hope.

To the hot background guy from the Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas who had two lines and really great hair.

You are complex. You contain multitudes.

It’s just that Aaron Hotchner is… convenient. Reliable.

He’s easy.

Not easy-easy.

Cognitively easy. Low effort. High reward.

You don’t have to invent a man from scratch. Don’t have to mentally composite three mediocre exes and C-list celebrity actors into a half-decent fuck-doll when he already exists fully formed and fully clothed (barely.)

You don’t even have to think.

He’s basically a mental shortcut to climax, muscle memory with forearms, a comfort fantasy - like soup for the soul, if soup were six feet tall and weekly served wet at your local pool.

…And also dripping, practically naked.

All yours, at least visually.

You’ve memorized the way his thighs flex when he pushes off the wall, that split second of coiled power, the twitch of his calves, the ripple up to his glutes as he launches forward.

Perfect form. Perfect technique. Perfect… well.

Not a lot of meat back there.

Not exactly the kind of ass you’d grab with both hands and sink your teeth into.

No jiggle. No fluff.

Just… deeply respectable glutes.

Taut. Efficient. Compact.

An ass with more function than fat.

An ass that clocks in at the crack of dawn, files a huge pile of case reports, tackles a serial killer or two, then goes home and makes dinner for his kid.

An ass that probably says “thank you” when it finishes and then folds the towel neatly afterward.

Toned, athletic. Not juicy.

You wouldn’t bite it. (Lie.) You wouldn’t slap it.  (Another lie.)

(Because you’d absolutely slap it. If he walked past you up a flight of stairs in those tight trousers he insists on wearing - pleated, no less - you’d black out and wake up with a stinging palm, your handprint on him and a federal restraining order in the mail.)

You wouldn’t grope it. You’d shake its hand. A gentleman’s ass. Very in-character kind of ass.

…You’d still let it rail you against a doorframe, obviously.

You’re not an idiot. You have eyes.

And that’s how you know the way his back arches (yes, arches) when he does a lazy freestyle turn. That smooth, arrogant curve of his spine as he rotates, like the water exists solely to show him off.

You’d say he looks graceful, but that feels too innocent.

He’s obscene.

You know everything about his body. Everything except for one crucial part.

The only piece he hasn’t offered up for public consumption.

The mystery.

And yet… is it really?

Because thanks to the tight speedos he wears you’ve done more visual math in that pool cafeteria than you ever did in school.

Circumference. Vein definition. Drop. Girth. Angle. Hinge theory. Left or right lean.

You’ve factored in mass, blood flow, gravitational pull, and fabric stretch.

At this point, it’s not even fantasy, it’s field research. All you have to do is mentally rotate, enlarge by 37%, adjust for arousal, and boom - there it is.

You’ve seen that dick. You know that dick.

If it ever revealed itself in real life, you’d probably just nod.

Like, yes. Correct. That’s the dick I’ve been using. Thank you for confirming.

Your brain barely breaks a sweat.

Which is more than can be said for you, as you’re currently trying to act normal in front of a just-graduated baby pharmacist who definitely still gets ID’d at bars, while heading for the forbidden shelf.

The one that doesn’t technically exist, but everyone knows does.

You make the turn casually.

Like you’re browsing.

Like you’re not here to buy a vibrator at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday only because for some reason, buying it here - in a pharmacy - makes it feel... medical.

Like a wellness thing. Like vitamins, floss, or calcium chews.

Like a very modern, battery-operated form of hormone regulation.

Not pleasure. No, no, no, God forbid.

This is for health, for stress relief. This is for preventing female rage and preserving the social fabric of your household.

Also, it’s very, very late - which is strategic.

No lines. No witnesses.

No grandmas behind you buying Werther’s Originals and silently judging your rotating G-spot stimulator with ergonomic grip.

You tell yourself that’s why you’re here at this hour.

Not because, despite all the feminist essays and body-positive podcasts, you still get flustered at the thought of being seen in public holding a brightly colored orgasm machine.

No. Absolutely not.

You’re here because you swore - never again.

Never again would you endure the trauma of your vibrator dying mid-session and having to switch to manual mode like it was the Middle Ages just to finish.

(And worst of all, it didn’t even work. You dried up. Mood ruined. You just laid there, staring at the ceiling for fifteen full minutes before sighing, getting dressed, and deciding - once again, ironically - to take matters into your own hands.)

You’re a modern woman.

Sexually free modern woman living in a free country that still accounts for death penalty for some of their states. Nothing is more free than this freedom.

You can vote.

You can buy a dual-stimulation, six-mode, energy-efficient G-spot massager - (at least according to the box, which proudly claims it uses fewer batteries than your last one. And you believe it. You trust boxes. You’re loyal like that.)

Right next to the hemorrhoid cream. In the middle of the night.

And you can replace a fallen comrade - RIP to the last one. Gone, but not forgotten - and now, here you are, holding its shiny successor the way you’ve seen people hold babies in movie posters. (Tender. Hopeful. A little overwhelmed.)

Nothing says freedom like that.

Stars. Stripes. Clitoral suction technology.

God bless America.

…Maybe not.

Because just as you take a step back, you collide – directly -with someone you didn’t even hear approach.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt, right as a much deeper, much more male voice says the exact same thing.

A voice your brain knows very well.

Because not even an hour ago it was busy fabricating that same voice whispering “You’re taking me so well,” and - though you'd never admit this part - also: “Sweetheart.”

(Ew.)

Aaron Hotchner is now standing right there in front of you - real, breathing, and terrifyingly three-dimensional in a full three-piece suit – and is trying so hard not to look at the aggressively pink vibrator box clenched in your hand.

But he saw it. Oh, he saw it.

He’s a profiler. He’s trained to notice things.

(Or at least that’s what your late-night Google search said back when you first typed: “aaron hotchner fbi real???”)

(Which quickly devolved into a behavioral analysis rabbit hole run by people with usernames like @wifeofunitchief69 and @peter-rhea. All of them openly thirsting after him.)

(Especially this Peter guy - who you’re 85% sure is real, 15% convinced was a hallucination - kept posting photos a few years ago that looked… suspiciously intimate. Like “taken through the blinds” intimate. You don’t know how he got them. You don’t want to know. He hasn’t posted since.)

(Guess it was just a phase.)

Aaron’s locking eyes with you. Terrifying. Unfairly hazel, thanks to the pharmacy’s aggressive overhead lighting.

He’s focused on your face. Just your face.

(You are maybe a little flustered by this.)

(You bet all the serial killers he interrogates fall in love with him, too. You bet they get weird about it. Understandable, this man definitely knows how to hold eye contact.)

But you don’t buy it.

There is no way he didn’t read the full headline: “CLITORAL SUCTION + G-SPOT STIMULATION - NOW QUIETER!” (Ironically printed in all caps. For maximum discretion. Obviously.)

You are so incredibly fucked.

Unfortunately, only metaphorically.

Also, the silence is not helping. Not even a little.

…This feels like a crime.

(It’s not. Not technically. You can’t terminate a pregnancy in half the country, but you can buy a dual-motor vibrator next to the Tylenol. It’s somewhere in the Declaration of Independence - just after “life, liberty,” and right before “All men are created equal,” [*except slaves and women].”)

Still.

You are now committing an obscene act of self-service capitalism directly in front of a federal agent.

And some small, awful corner of your brain - the one with leftover shame and badly wired internalized misogyny, inherited from a cocktail of bad parenting and several seasons of Law & Order – fully believes this is the part where he arrests you.

Pushes you against the KY shelf.

Pins you with his full body weight.

Snaps cold real handcuffs around your wrists and whispers, “You have the right to remain silent…”

Which you clearly don’t.

Because your mouth opens before your brain can file an objection.

“…It’s for a gift.” WHY. WHY DID YOU SAY THAT. “…For my friend,” you add… as if that helps. (It doesn’t.)

He nods. Polite. Awkward.

…Too bad his ears are starting to match the exact pink of the vibrator.

Goddammit, he’s a prude.

One of those soft-spoken, morally burdened types who probably says “intercourse” and excuses himself when a condom commercial comes on.

Oh no.

What if this is his first time seeing one up close?

What if you just popped his sex toy cherry?

What if he goes home, locks the door, and has a slow, shameful jerk thinking about you in CVS with a 6-mode clitoral suction wand?

(…You wish.)

No. Worse. Because now he’s staring at you like he wants to ask, “What kind of friend buys a vibrator at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday?”

But won’t.

And since you are a mature, well-educated, emotionally intelligent woman - and not, say, a liar desperately trying to salvage a crumbling cover story – you say:

“Her birthday’s tomorrow.”

(It’s not. It’s in three days. But the product needs testing. Obviously. You’re not going to spend that much money again unless you know it delivers. That’s not selfishness. That’s friendship. That’s quality control.)

“Well… technically today. Midnight and all,” you add, even smiling. So bright. So natural. So deeply suspicious.

“It’s alr-” he starts, finally working up the courage to glance down-

…Only to be slapped – hard - right between the shoulder blades by very enthusiastic, very just-graduated-and-finally-making-big-boy-money night-shift pharmacist who materializes out of nowhere behind him.

Ouch.

Now - to be fair - the pharmacist doesn’t see it. (You do. Unfortunately. In high-definition, too.)

Because Aaron Hotchner is currently holding a box of ThermaCare HeatWraps and naproxen sodium - both of which are for his back.

He jolts forward on impact, barely, and then freezes.

Just enough to make you worry that’s it, that’s the final blow. That he’s going to stay like that forever, just slightly curved, permanently bent.

Italic Hotchner.

“My man,” the pharmacist beams. “Everything alright?”

By the look on Aaron’s face, you can tell he has never seen this person before in his life. Never. Not once.

But Aaron nods - tight, polite, already calculating the minimum number of words required to exit the conversation without triggering a background check or losing his license to carry a firearm.

“Just wanted to say, I really admire you.” The pharmacist grins, still holding Aaron’s shoulder, “Not every guy’s open-minded enough to use toys in the bedroom with their girl.”

…Oh. Oh, fuck.

You should say something. Anything. Correct him. Laugh, even.

But you’re too distracted by the fact that Aaron isn’t saying a word either.

He’s just… frowning. Not full frown, just pulling his eyebrows closer together.

Which, in Hotchner language, could mean anything from “I’m flattered” or “You could’ve handled it differently” to “I’m about to shoot you.”

It’s impossible to tell. You’re not fluent yet. (You need more fieldwork. Preferably hands-on.)

“Damn, look at that,” the pharmacist chuckles, nodding at Aaron’s little arthritis starter pack.

Then turns. To you.

“Is this your fault?”

Ha.

Ha ha.

How adorable.

You wish. God, you wish.

You’d rail him into a herniated disc so bad he’d have to wear a brace for three months and think of you every time he reached for the cereal shelf.

But no.

“Um…” you manage, shaking your head. “We’re not-”

Fucking. Sexually intimate.

Connected in any capacity beyond weekly pool glances and intrusive masturbation thoughts.

(And it’s not like he seems like the type to just have a casual “friend.” No, he seems like the kind of man who'd call a hookup a regrettable lapse in judgment and then spend six months punishing himself for it.)

And so, in doubt? You flee.

A timeless tactic.

You did the same thing when your therapist asked, “Why do you think you’re so attracted to older men?” and you suddenly remembered - oh no! You didn’t lock the café.

“I think I’m just gonna…” you gesture - vague, noncommittal, something in the direction of the register - and after a short, awkwardly graceful round of people-pleasing Olympics with the vibrator-pink-faced pharmacist-

(something between “Sorry if I misunderstood, I’ve been here since 6 p.m. and I’m on my third energy drink,” and “It’s okay, no really, it’s my fault” [for what? unclear])-

You’re outside.

Alive.

Vibrator in a paper bag and…

…It’s pouring.

Not only do you not have a significant other to kiss in the rain like a scene from one of those movies you only watch when you’re actively trying to remember how alone you truly are, but your car is enjoying an extended, all-inclusive, paid-for-by-you vacation at the mechanic.

Great.

“Miss.”

You physically jolt. Because:

1. That voice.

And

2. Miss?! Hello???

Aaron is standing just behind you, yet again.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Oh, yes.” You are soaked. And flustered. And holding a fucking vibrator in a paper bag while the hottest man in federal law enforcement addresses you like a schoolgirl who dropped her books in a rainstorm. “Yes. Alright.”

He looks at you with that stupidly concerned face - the one where his brows pull just slightly together.

It lasts a second.

Feels like a week.

“You’ve been standing here for a few minutes…”

…Apparently, the old man’s been watching you contemplate your entire existence under the sad little pharmacy awning while he casually stocked up on meds for his fucked-up joints.

How romantic.

“Oh… I was-” Nope. Nope, you were not anything. You have no explanation.

“Do you need a ride?” he asks.

Oh. Fuck. “Don’t worry,” you blurt. “I live close by.”

Feminism is a beautiful thing.

Except right now.

Right now, feminism is cockblocking you.

Aaron hums - hums?! - already pulling his phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and it’s… it’s the smallest iPhone you’ve ever seen.

Probably an iPhone 4, but in his hand - his massive hand - it looks like he’s stolen it from a dollhouse.

He swipes the screen (with his very thick thumb), squints just enough to tell you he’s absolutely in denial about needing reading glasses, then turns the phone toward you:

“99% chance of hard rain until 7 a.m.”

…Unfortunately, you’re far too distracted by his hands to verify the evidence. Especially that thumb, still hovering near the screen like it’s not the most erotic thing you’ve seen all week.

(And speaking of data - there is a study. Something about men with very large hands also having very large-)

Without hesitation, Aaron just shrugs off his suit jacket. “Put it over your head,” then he hands it to you. “Don’t want you to get wet...”

Too late.

Not only because you're touching his very warm, very expensive, very tailored, very smells-so-much-like-him jacket, but because he didn’t even flinch.

Not at the acid rain.

Not at the dry-cleaning bill.

Not at the fact that he doesn’t have an umbrella for himself.

Not even at the fact that he’s now just standing there in a white shirt.

A white shirt. In the rain.

(You pray that he’s not wearing an undershirt.)

(You pray this turns into an unofficial Aaron Hotchner Wet T-Shirt Contest…Wet shirt. Wet dress shirt.)

“…You’re the one holding the electronics,” he adds, tilting his head toward the bag.

Ah. There it is. Thank you, Aaron, for making it weird. Again.

He sort of redeems himself by opening the door of his very shiny, very hot-dad black car like it’s the 1950s. (You hate how much you love it.)

…He even closes the door for you.

There are a few immediate observations that need to be made about Aaron Hotchner’s car:

•           It smells divine. Like clean leather, big paycheck, small emotional availability and a touch of lavender, too.

•           It’s spotless. Not a crumb. Not a fingerprint. There’s not a speck of dust anywhere.

•           There are superhero comics tucked into the seat pocket. Jack’s, obviously. Unless… they’re his. Which would be - God. A brooding man with a soft spot for two-dimensional justice and emotionally stunted men in capes. Fatherhood and projection, hand in hand. Amazing.

But what really grabs your attention is the seating.

Full black leather.

Sleek. Cold enough to sting if your thighs were bare. Soft enough to leave marks if you were sitting on his lap instead.

Easy to wipe down. Easy to grip.

A car designed to be fucked in.

The hottest thing inside it, though? Probably the fact that it takes a few soft Are you alrights and Do you need anythings before Aaron finally starts the engine.

And it’s… quiet. Disturbingly quiet. No coughing. No sputtering. No “please God start” noises.

Just… starts.

“It’s such a cool car,” you blurt.

Fifty percent because you mean it.

Fifty percent because the silence is killing you and that’s literally the first thing your brain offered up as a conversation starter. You’re not even sure what you’re complimenting. Just that it has… technology.

You’re genuinely impressed. There’s literally a screen. A touchscreen. With sensors. A built-in navigator.

Meanwhile, your car still has a cassette slot, three loose aux cables, a suspicious stain that doesn’t want to come off, and a radio that only plays static unless you hit it twice.

“It’s a good car,” he replies, completely unbothered. Literally just a man stating a fact. About his vehicle. And yet, your brain shuts off.

You’re hot under the collar because Aaron Hotchner said something true… in a nice voice.

That’s it. That’s the bar.

And to make it worse, he doesn’t follow it up. No “Do you drive much?” No “What year is yours?”

Nothing. Just those three words and then silence.

He's the worst small talker you've ever met and now you have no idea how to keep this going.

You consider asking him about… tires. Or gas mileage. Or how long it took him to sell his soul to become this repressed.

Pathetic.

You’re even more pathetic when he does that thing. The hot thing. The driving thing.

Where he turns around to check behind him - one hand on the back of your seat, other on the wheel - torso twisting, shirt clinging, full neck exposure.

Basically porn.

You try so hard not to spontaneously combust.

Not just because you’re pressed into his personal space, or because his white dress shirt is completely see-through now after all that rain and you can see where his spine ends, or because he’s absolutely not wearing an undershirt and is one unexpected pothole away from full nipple contact.

No. It’s the tongue.

The tiny flick. Just a flash. Quick. Absent. Almost innocent.

His tongue darts out - just a little - as he focuses, like it helps him steer straighter. Nothing but a reflex. He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

You, however, are acutely aware-

Just as aware as you are of the fact that the two of you are sitting in near silence. Almost comfortable.

If not for the small detail that you’re horny and holding a vibrator in a paper bag. The only sound is the rain-

And the soft, awkward half-comment he lets slip when you tell him your address:

“Oh. You were right. It is really… close.”

No shit, Sherlock.

If you had even an ounce of courage, this would be the most satisfying “told you so” of your life - because not even four minutes in, he’s already pulling into the cracked little square that overlooks your apartment complex.

“Where’s the entrance?” he asks, squinting at the very charming, definitely-not-a-fire-hazard 1970s architecture. “It’s barely lit here.”

He’s right, though.

There’s a little pedestrian alley that leads to your stairwell, and it’s lit by what is essentially half a lightbulb and probably one moth if you’re lucky.

“I can’t leave you here,” he says, already switching off the engine.

“It’s fine, don’t worry, I’ve done it alone a thousand times.”

You get The Look™.

The full Dad Look™.

Eyebrows lowered. Mouth set. Silent moral judgment loading. Which, naturally, makes you blurt out something helpful:

“I swear. Even at 3 a.m. When I was blackout drunk.”

He looks horrified.

Which is… great. Exactly the vibe you were going for on this totally unromantic, emotionally neutral, post-pharmacy ride home.

“Well, you’re not walking alone all the way there today,” then he proceeds to open the driver’s door before you can even object.

“Wait- really, you don’t have to-”

“Stay here,” he cuts in, already halfway out before you can finish.

Then suddenly, he’s at your door. Umbrella overhead.

Like some man from a black-and-white movie who has no idea you’re holding a vibrator in your bag and have a sink full of crusted risotto waiting at home.

Chivalry.

That’s what it should be called. But that word feels too… medieval. Too knight-in-shining-armor. Too “written by robed men who thought ankles were sinful and menstruation was the devil’s piss.”

No.

From him, this isn’t chivalry. It’s something else.

Not performance. Not politeness.

Just… kindness.

Offensively tender, nonverbal, soak-himself-in-the-rain kind of kindness.

And so the two of you walk under the same umbrella together, arms brushing every other step.

You try to create distance. He scoots closer.

Adjusts the umbrella to keep you dry.

Prioritizes your dry head over his own sopping suit.

Kind of romantic.

You could kiss him here.

Right now.

Under this umbrella. In the rain. In front of your depressing 70s concrete box of an apartment.

You could just… do it.

Lean in. Shut him up. See what that mouth actually feels like.

If it weren’t for the very inconvenient fact that you are juuuuuust a bit terrified of rejection.

Terrified in the “ha-ha I’ll never date again if someone even slightly hesitates when I flirt” way.

In the “I’ll replay the rejection in the shower for the next ten years, write five alternate endings, and mentally workshop comebacks well into menopause” kind of way.

In the “what if he says no and then I have to move to Vermont” way.

Also, you are currently holding a vibrator in a paper bag. So. There’s that.

Still, Temptation is real.

Even because Aaron is still mid-monologue about street lighting standards. Turning his head every few steps. Gesturing with one hand like a man who has read far too many municipal codes for someone this hot.

The idea of shutting him up for good with a kiss is honestly starting to sound like a public service.

“It’s barely visible here,” he mutters, scanning the alley. “No signage. No reflective paint. Anyone could-”

“Trip?” you offer.

“Worse.” He deadpans, then turns toward you, “Are you humoring me?”

“A little,” you shrug (he’s pathetic.)

He stops. Looks at you. “I’m being serious.”

…Ah, the dad voice. Firm. Slightly patronizing. Delicious.

“I know,” you smile. “That’s what makes it so fun.”

By the time he’s done glaring, you’re already at your building entrance, heart stupidly tight.

Saved. Almost.

“Well… this is me.” You pull out your keys to prove to him you’ve got your shit together. “Um… thanks for the ride. And the walk, of course.” (What is this, Pride & Prejudice?) “I think I’m good from here.”

You say it lightly, casual, because if you don’t end it now, you’re 100% sure he’ll keep going.

He’ll follow you to your door.

To your kitchen. To your hallway. Maybe even your bedroom.

Not for sex. God, no.

Just to make sure you’re safely tucked in.

That your bedroom window locks properly.

That the shadow outside was just a tree and not a threat (more likely, the stray cat you and two old ladies keep over-feeding.)

He’d stand there - in the doorway, quiet, stiff, arms crossed - and wait until you hit REM sleep before silently excusing himself.

The worst part? He’d make it feel horribly sweet.

And the much, much worse part? To do that, he’d have to walk through the disaster zone you call home.

The crusty risotto bowls still soaking in the sink. Three wine glasses, none of which match. A fork in a mug.

He’d pass your roommate mid-makeout with a “friend” who’s definitely not wearing pants and is probably sitting on your throw blanket.

He’d see the takeout containers on the counter.

The mystery stain on the wall you keep forgetting to Google.

The chair you keep meaning to fix but now just refer to as “decorative.”

He’d see you. As you are.

And you can’t be the reason this man actively re-dyes his greys by Wednesday. You’d love to be. You really would.

But not like this.

Also, you’re just really tired and you’ve got… things to test.

And, if you’re honest, some things are better when they stay in your head. Untouched. Untried. Safely fantasized.

So you smile.

“I’ll be fine.”

He nods. Doesn’t argue.

But doesn’t leave, either.

Instead, he pulls something from his coat pocket.

His business card.

“Text me when you’re inside,” he says, dead serious.

You blink at it.

The paper is thick. Embossed.

Feels like you’re holding a warrant.

“Oh wow,” you murmur, trying not to smile. “This is the smoothest way I’ve ever gotten someone’s number.”

He straightens slightly. “It’s my work phone.” Still serious, but fumbling.

(He’s so bad at this. It’s almost adorable.)

You nod, suppressing the second smile in a row. “Of course.”

He looks at you for a moment - too long, maybe, or maybe it’s just your perception that’s a bit fucked up - and says, “Goodnight, miss.”

You pause.

“It’s-” You tell him your name.

He nods. Revises. And repeats it. A little too careful. A little too gentle.

You might actually pass out.

Not just from the emotional whiplash, but also because your apartment has too many goddamn stairs and your legs were not built for this level of cardio or romantic tension.

You stumble inside, safe. Unmurdered. Emotionally unstable. Immediately grab your phone and text the number printed in the most intimidating Arial you’ve ever seen.

made it still alive didn’t get murdered not even a little bit

He replies almost instantly.

(Almost, because he’s an old man with disproportionately large thumbs and the texting accuracy of someone whose phone autocorrects “fine” to “filing.”)

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): This is a work number. Please be mindful. – A.H.

…He signs his own texts. Oh fucking hell.

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): But I’m glad to hear it. Goodnight, miss. – A.H.

You type back:

goodnight... agent??

Three dots appear. Pause. Then-

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): 👍 – A.H.

Apparently flirting is a lost art, so now corporations have to prepackage desire and sell it back to people. Profitable as hell - no one’s here for coffee and cake, they’re here for the speed-date special (one drink + compulsory pastry purchase), hoping to get laid while you just get paid.

So you keep grinning, as if your soul isn’t evaporating into the steam belching from the industrial dishwasher, as if you don’t feel blisteringly alone in the middle of it all.

And through it all, your brain keeps skipping from timer alarms to the image of federal fingers, two knuckles deep, every time you’re piping cream into a puff. (Shit… down to the last few slices of cream pie, too.)

Suddenly, the strawberry glaze on the donuts looks uncomfortably close to the pink of his lips, and before you can stop yourself, every eclair, cannoli, and tart around you starts to register as blatantly, absurdly phallic.

So no, there’s no God in these few square feet of linoleum.

Only the rush, the timers, the low-grade panic of not scorching custard while imagining what it might feel like to have a very specific authority (say, a 46-year-old, father-of-one, Unit Chief of the BAU sort of authority) shoved into you, both literally and metaphorically.

Spinoza’s Theory: burned to a crisp.

Or maybe not burned - just torched by distraction.

Because it’s easy to dunk on Spinoza’s God-in-everything theory when the real problem is this: whatever it is you feel for Mr. Aaron Hotchner (swimmer, FBI agent, father of one, unfairly skilled at fingering) is not just lust. And those polyester Valentine puppies staring at you aren’t exactly helping you pretend otherwise.

The thing is, you and Aaron have undeniable (stupid) sexual chemistry. You’ve tried to avoid each other - it doesn’t work. You’ll both always find an excuse to meet.

And while the beginnings of those meetings are awkward-but-friendly, catching up like two people playing at normalcy, they never stay that way. Because inevitably one of you leans in, and suddenly (veeeery suddenly) you’re making out, messy and pressed together, and more often than not it escalates - your fault, mostly, but he never exactly protests - into grinding so intense it teeters on obscene.

(Dry humping. Yes. Very good dry humping. [Which is, frankly, mortifying.])

But that’s where it stops.

Because you both know if you cross that line - if hands slip below belts (or into that mythical zone where his undershirt never seems to exist) - then you’ll have to have the Talk™. And nothing is more terrifying than that.

So you settle for what you do: kissing until your lips ache, pretending the marks you leave on each other are accidental, silently agreeing that everything from collarbone to hip is no man’s land.

But then, inevitably, you have to leave.

He drives you home, walks you all the way to your door, and kisses you goodbye with such unbearable tenderness it makes you want to undo every boundary you swore you’d keep.

And now you’re starting to miss him.

You catch yourself wanting to see him even in your luteal phase (a biological red flag if there ever was one). You get a dopamine rush every time your phone screen lights up, only to spiral into frustration when it doesn’t say Aaron Hotchner.

You linger too long on his profile picture, sketching his face from memory, refreshing his status, waiting for the green dot to glow - then panicking and exiting the chat the second he comes online.

You’re absolutely cooked (like the sponge cake in one minute, croissants in nine, Lover’s Cheesecake in fourteen) for him.

And worse, you’re terrified. Terrified he might not feel the same. More terrified he does, and might want to make sense of… whatever this is.

It’s not that you don’t want love… hell, love is your longest obsession, the thing you’ve been starving for since you were old enough to understand what wanting even was.

But wanting it with him feels different.

He’s older, sharper, devastatingly hot in a way no guy your age could ever fake (though you do have to remind yourself, repeatedly, to redirect blood flow to your brain for at least a few more minutes).

He radiates competence, emotional intelligence, a steadiness you’ve never touched before, the kind of gravity that makes you feel like you could stop spinning out of orbit if you just stood close enough to him.

With Aaron, it isn’t about chasing chaos or flinging yourself into the arms of the wrong men for the thrill of the disaster, it’s about the terrifying possibility of something that could actually last.

The cruel joke, though, is that once you peel back the layers, Aaron isn’t a safe fantasy at all. He’s a very troubled man. And yet, that only makes you want him more.

You’d love to tell yourself there’s no one else like him, but since the start of your shift you’ve mistaken at least six dark-haired men in three-piece suits for him from behind.

Which is ridiculous.

You don’t even know why your brain entertained the idea in the first place. It’s not like he’d be dropping in on Valentine’s Day to check up on you.

He’s a busy man, for one thing.

And for another - you’re nothing. A distraction, maybe. A bad habit at best. You shouldn’t even be expecting him.

Still, you find yourself wandering past the pastry lab backdoor more times than necessary, circling through the staff room just to glance at your phone, hoping for a notification.

Maybe he feels as alone on Valentine’s as you do.

Maybe he’s texted, asking if you’re free, so you could meet up and trade war stories about your day… before inevitably ending up pressed against each other, doing the usual.

Or maybe he’s drowning in paperwork, too responsible to even look at his phone.

Maybe he’s found an actual date, someone who wasn’t too scared shitless to be direct and take a ride on his thick- well.

But no. Nothing. Not even the green light of him being online.

And your eyes start to betray you so badly that every man with dark hair becomes him. Then even that flimsy requirement collapses, and suddenly every man reminds you of him.

Every profile. Every flash of shoulders and jawlines in the crowd.

Every voice pitched low enough to rattle your ribs sounds like his, every passing accent with that faint, posh cadence becomes his.

Even silence begins to sound like him.

Even the nothingness, somehow, holds the echo of his presence. Which is cuckoo bananas, because the café has never been so suffocatingly overcrowded, and yet there he is, threaded through it all, standing right in the middle of the absence.

In every single few square feet of linoleum, he lingers.

He’s there.

For real. (FR! No, not France.)

Tangible. Matter and bone. On the other side of the counter. Not some hallucination, but him: all suited up, shoulders cutting the crowd, that disarming, unexpected smile tugging his mouth open just slightly as the line spits him out at the register.

“What can I do for you?” you ask, smiling - leaning into the double edge of the words, savoring the way he glances down, mouth still parted, shaking his head once before he finally drags his eyes back up to yours.

“Hey… uh. Hi. Just a Black Americano. No sugar, please.” The most basic order in existence… and yet somehow the most painfully awkward thing either of you has ever managed to say.

You scramble for the next step (payment? He does have to pay, right?) but his stupidly earnest eyes knock you so off-balance you almost forget capitalism still applies, even to sexual tension. (Definitely not an alpha move.)

“Um… cash or-”

“Card, please.” (Oh, he’s so pretty.)

Too pretty, really, to be digging around in a wallet, but here he is, taking his sweet time with a sleek leather one. He keeps eye contact as he thumbs through the slots, and you feel… warm. Uncomfortably warm.

He pulls out the first card, hesitates, quickly pushes it back in, checks the one behind (driver’s license), then the one even behind (library card, adorable), raises his eyebrows at himself in self-disappointment, and finally circles back to the original card - all with the composure of a man who clearly hopes you didn’t notice his clumsiness.

(And indeed, you don’t notice… you’re too busy staring at his hands.)

That’s when he spots the stack of Valentine’s matchmaking cards at the register. His brow furrows, leaning closer to read the tiny print.

…Right. Payment. Suspended. You almost forgot that tiny capitalism detail.

“To place an order, you have to fill-” (‘the barista,’ aka you, who now wants to die, preferably at the hands of those thick fingers) “-this card…”

You can’t even bring yourself to explain the rest of the drill, you just jab a finger toward the cutesy poster of instructions and pray he can read.

Still, the idea of Aaron Hotchner actually participating in a speed date within spitting distance of you feels like the kind of humiliation that would officially cement this as the worst Valentine’s Day in recorded history.

“You know there are better ways to harvest people’s personal data, right?” he says flatly, head tipped, brows arched in that unmistakable Disappointed Dad way. (Which is hilarious, really, because his eyes go wide and soft when he does it even while he’s busy lecturing you about petty larceny with customer info.)

“Scared no one will pick you?” you fire back, already sliding toward the pastry case like the world’s most reckless hypocrite.

Because it’s Valentine’s Day, you’re a feminist, and if your crush isn’t even bringing you flowers, then fine, you’re not bitter. Not at all. In fact, you should totally be the one showering him with freebies.

(Aka “picking him.” Aka immediately contradicting yourself in deed if not in word. Man… Aaron Hotchner can’t even enjoy the humbling experience of worrying what it might feel like not to be picked for once in his life, because here you are, doling out princess treatment. This is busted.)

And yet… there’s that hope. That flicker of idiocy whispering that maybe he’ll clock the gesture, tuck it away somewhere in that brain, and think twice before handing his matchmaking card to some random woman. Or man.

(Not that it matters. He’s free to do whatever he wants… you’re not together. You have no claim. You shouldn’t care. You could do the exact same thing. Totally. Hypothetically. You won’t, obviously. But you could.)

Just for him, you plate a tart you’re obnoxiously proud of: glossy pastry cream, a scatter of fresh raspberries, that faint blush from strawberry powder folded into the base (all-natural, no fake dye, because you’re ethical even in your hypocrisy).

“You really don’t have to do that,” he says, completely oblivious to the fact that this tart (this pastry masterpiece) is literally his entry ticket into the whole stupid matchmaking circus.

(Meaning it’s thanks to you he even gets to play the game at all. Was this the single dumbest move of your life? Quite possibly.)

“No shit.” You even tuck a cookie into a bag, right there in plain view. Hell, make it two - one for Jack, one for Jack’s infuriatingly handsome father.

He finally decides to shut the fuck up and, with visible reluctance, slides his card into the reader. You’ve never wanted to be a slit more in your life.

Most importantly: those thick fingers, struggling to stab a PIN into buttons designed for toddlers.

(Not that you sneak a peek at the code… he shields it with his other hand.)

(And anyway, you’re far too occupied with the gleam of his eerily smooth, hairless knuckles. Entire palm, shaved down to baby-soft nothingness. A crime against nature, really. At least the veins bulge thicker, defiant. Still, you mourn the furry paws. Justice for the furry paws.)

Fun fact: you almost never pay with card yourself, mostly to avoid the weird little purgatory where you’re forced into a staring contest with the cashier while the bank decides whether or not you’re trustworthy enough for capitalism.

Now multiply that by Aaron Hotchner.

It’s torture. The eye contact is nuclear, more dangerous than any you’ve shared since the first time you locked eyes.

The silence stretches until it feels scripted, like you’ve stumbled into the middle of a slow-dance montage no one warned you about, two leads locked in a wordless smize-off. For a suspended moment, it’s absurdly peaceful - as if the café has collapsed into just you and him - and suddenly all that “you and me against the world” garbage pop songs keep spewing doesn’t sound like garbage at all.

It sounds… plausible. Terrifyingly plausible.

His lips part - at least you think they do, or maybe you just keep staring at them so hard your brain invents it - and he looks like he might actually say something. Something important.

But then unfortunately the card machine shrieks its approval, vomiting out the receipt with all the bureaucratic joylessness of the IRS, slicing the moment clean in half.

“So can I-” he nods toward the stack of Valentine’s cards.

“Yeah… sure!” You both step toward it at the same time, him plucking a card, you fishing out a pen from the holder. “Here’s your pen…”

He takes the pen - but his hand is big enough that it engulfs your fingertips too, like he meant to catch more than plastic. And you don’t let go. Which makes him glance up at you, puzzled, but not quite calling you on it either.

“Just… make sure to give it back when you’re done,” you say, too quickly. “We don’t have that many.”

His hand is warm. You already know it’s warm (especially when it’s wandered to very specific real estate on your body), but today it feels explicitly warm.

Aaron clears his throat. “Of course…” Still not releasing your hand. Then again, you’re not releasing his either. “…You have my word.” (What the- for stationery?!)

Finally he juggles the pen, the card, and the bagged cookies with the grace of a man trying very hard not to drop evidence. “Um… thank you again for the cookies. Jack will be… elated.”

“Of course…” you echo, and yeah, you’re 90% sure you’re drooling.

Which is why you’re ready to murder your coworker for not letting you “table service” his order - i.e., personally deliver his coffee, hover like a lovesick bat, and snoop on whatever the hell he’s scribbling on that stupid matchmaking card.

Instead, you’re stuck behind the register, watching your FBI crush seat himself at a table for two. And not just any table for two. He’s across from a man who looks like he crawled out of his third divorce: orange-tinted skin, long hair, goatee, too many shirt buttons undone. Greasy aura.

Definitely older. Definitely trouble. Definitely… smiling at Aaron.

You can’t get it out of your head.

You’ll never be employee of the year if Aaron Hotchner is across the room, smiling at some stranger, talking to him like you don’t even exist - on the most romantic day of the year, no less.

There’s a weird, charged energy to it that knots your stomach, and you keep sneaking glances over, unable to stop.

His left hand scribbles on the card.

His face is focused… dangerously focused, the kind of face you wouldn’t mind sitting on.

The man across from him looks exactly like you feel: rapt, transfixed, probably wondering if he’s hallucinating.

Then Aaron takes a bite of the tart. Closes his eyes. Tilts his head back just slightly, licks his lips. He… likes it?!

You nearly faint.

His hand drifts, thumb rubbing across his index finger - a tell, you’ve learned, for when he’s nervous.

A few minutes pass and he’s doing it too often now, scratching his hand, taking deep breaths. Oh shit. He’s nervous. Aaron Hotchner, seasoned federal agent, absolute unit, is nervous about reentering the dating pool.

And then - he sets the pen down. Picks up the card. Your heart slams itself against your ribcage so violently you wonder if the polyester puppies can hear it.

He stands, pushes his chair neatly back into the table, and flashes the man-

-flashes the man one last smile!! (You might actually be having palpitations.)

He takes a few steps, looking down, unreadable. Your brain races. Where’s he going?

Sexy woman at table four? No. Must be the elegant lady at table three, perfectly age-appropriate.

Nope.

The philosophy professor at table two? God forbid. (If Spinoza’s right and there’s a little bit of God in everything, then surely He wouldn’t be cruel enough to let Hotchner flirt with a philosophy professor in your line of sight.)

(Who cares about Spinoza. Who cares about philosophy?)

What matters is that Hotchner keeps moving - past table two, murmuring polite apologies as he slips by table one - until he’s right there, mere inches away from you, standing at the cash register.

And he’s handing you the card.

He looks… red.

Red as in flushed, flustered - cheeks faintly pink, color creeping down the line of his throat where his collar doesn’t quite cover the skin.

Sweet. Wholesome.

Like maybe you, of all people (against all odds), finally managed to embarrass Aaron Hotchner, and now he’s standing here blushing like a schoolboy while silently declaring feelings.

But then your eyes catch on his hands.

The card trembles just slightly in his grip, and his palms look… wrong.

Not just the unsettling baldness of them - though that, perversely, makes it worse, accentuating the mottled patches, the angry red stippling, the rash blooming across his skin. The same flush climbs unevenly from his jawline, spilling down the exposed slice of his neck in a scatter of raised welts.

“Um,” he clears his throat, shifting, “by any chance were there strawberries in that tart? I might be… allergic.”

Strawberry powder.

You don’t think. You just grab his hand and tug, steering him through the chaos of the café as he keeps muttering “I have an EpiPen in the car” (like he’s going to make it that far) and behind the staff-room door.

It’s almost romantic if you forget the part where his throat might close in six minutes.

Anyways, you’ve trained for this. The way he can probably assemble a rifle in under ten seconds - you can save his life.

Step 1: Establish Dominance.

“Take your pants off,” you deadpan, already rifling through the cabinet. Orange tip down, blue safety cap off, your fist wrapped around the injector (like a pro!!! You’ve got this!!!)

“I’m sorry?!” His voice breaks halfway, startled and ragged… much like his breathing pattern (or maybe he’s into being bossed around? Not the time.) “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

Oh, fantastic. He doesn’t trust women.

Step 2: Remove Obstacles (Pants).

He doesn’t have time to activate his reflexes, because you’re already unfastening his belt. The buckle clinks. The zip slides down. (Do not give yourself bad ideas. Focus.) You drop to your knees, dragging his slacks down with you. He gulps audibly. You glance up.

“Are you seriously wearing Superman briefs? You go to the FBI every day dressed like that under your suit?”

“Yes, okay?!” He shushes you, flustered (which is rude considering you’re literally saving his life.) “But could you - quiet down a little? I can explain-” he involuntarily hisses as your fingers graze the inside seam.

Step 3: Insert Hero Juice.

Decoy successful.

He’s still sputtering about the Superman underwear - how he only wears them because his six-year-old has the exact same pair, and it’s their thing. A father–son tradition that makes no logical sense (but then, isn’t that the whole point of children?) - matching silly underwear, or “very cool” ones if you ask Jack, to get through the day not taking it too seriously.

(Not that his father has ever been good at that. Exhibit A: look where not choosing his pastry got him.)

You take advantage of the ramble to jab the injector into the upper outer thigh, right at the line of his (very cool!!!) briefs.

No reassuring click yet.

Also, to keep him still, you clamp your other hand around his opposite thigh - eloping him in place - dangerously close to forbidden territory. One inch higher and you’d have a handful of cake. (Pancake, more like… the man is devastatingly flat.)

“Is it in?” you ask, tilting your head up at him.

Sure, you’re no doctor - but you do know this much: being on your knees with one hand basically cupping his ass while driving a needle into his thigh isn’t exactly standard medical practice.

And the way he’s looming above you - with his skin flushed, eyes wide, and breaths shallow and uneven - you’re starting to suspect his hyperventilating isn’t just from the anaphylaxis.

He fumbles, swallows, shakes his head, then finally croaks out, “Um… yes.”

Step 4: The Longest Ten Seconds

Wait. Hold. Count to ten.

In ten seconds he could say nothing, could just breathe and let the medicine do its work. In ten seconds he could thank you, or - God forbid - flirt. Instead, out of the entire emotional buffet available, he serves you the worst dish.

“You didn’t have to take my pants off,” he murmurs, breath catching. “The pen can pierce through… very thick fabric.”

“Yeah, well, excuse me for wanting to actually see what I was doing,” you snap back, which feels defensive but also entirely justified, considering you just saved his life.

“It’s alright,” he says, heartfelt. Which, unfortunately, lands with a subtext you cannot ignore. Oh, yeah, I actually liked you pulling my pants off. Please do it again. Preferably slower next time.

Which is how you both end up marinating in two full seconds of unbearable silence, trading glances, the tension thicker than-

He cracks first. “I-I think we should do something.”

(Wow. Stunning clarity. “Something.” Could mean sex, could mean Scrabble.)

“Sex?” you blurt, because honesty is still the best policy.

He laughs and suddenly your impulsive guess doesn’t sound so insane. “No.” He shakes his head. (How dare he?) “I mean- I wouldn’t be opposed to that. But I was thinking… more of a date.”

And then it hits you: the smile. Rare. Unscripted. A little crooked. Prince Charming in an FBI badge. It detonates something in your chest, leaves you standing there half-kneeling, needle still in hand, absolutely cooked. (Speaking of which… you should probably go rescue the Lover’s Cheesecake from the oven…)

A date. He said a date. A DATE. On Valentine’s Day, while his pants are around his thighs. A DATE???? WHAT THE FUUUUUUUUUU-

“I… am not opposed to that either,” you stammer. “Yes.”

Step 5: You’re alone in the staff room, already kneeling between his thighs, one hand on his ass. You are, quite literally, in the ideal position to either suck him off, propose marriage, or skip both and immediately elope - new surname, new city, new life. You’re positive there’s a sitcom about this exact setup. Something about a neurotic, Type-A lawyer and his chaotic, overly earnest free-spirit wife who marry after, like, one date. WHO CARES?! AARON HOTCHNER ASKED YOU OUT ON A DATE FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK

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(Not that you’re trying to shame him. He’s probably been thinking about it every night since - alone, full of regret. And lotion. Hopefully.)

well… he’s escalating things legally. I might need your help.

(It’s giving: You haven’t texted since, but I’m desperate and legally vulnerable now. Help me, Obi-Wan.)

But also - are you really desperate? Or are you just responding logically when he replies - immediately (thirty minutes later) - with:

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): Sure. Here’s the number of the best housing lawyer I know. - A.H.

Which is clearly a move. That’s not “don’t bother me.” That’s “please bother me, but I’m terrified I’ll embarrass myself by creaming my pants again the second you make eye contact.”

That’s basically textbook damage control.

Because you are his biggest problem (no pun intended - except, yes, exactly that. The kind of problem that causes a very noticeable shift in his posture. The kind he has to hide behind file folders and moral codes and Section 12B of the FBI conduct manual.)

So no. He’s not pushing you away. He’s playing hard to get. Bureaucratically.

Hence why you followed up with:

it’s very veeery urgent

Because what is urgency, really, if not the slow, unbearable throb of two mutually sexually repressed adults - one of whom hasn’t fucked since dial-up internet - desperately trying not to desecrate government-issued upholstery?

And sure enough, he responds:

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): I’m still at work. Buried in paperwork. Even if I want to help, I can’t right now. I’m stuck. -A.H.

Ah. The ‘I’m-still-trying-to-play-it-precious’ act.

Naturally, it leads you to reasonably reply with:

how can I help you come unstuck?

And that is what finally gets you the invitation of the century:

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): You could come into my office. -A.H.

Yeah. He wants you. Desperately. And he’s so bad at hiding it.

Especially because from the moment you utter the magic words - “I’m looking for Agent Aaron Hotchner’s office” - there’s this weird little ritual of welcome that kicks into gear.

The receptionist visibly straightens her spine, picks up the phone, nods a few times before politely redirecting you to the correct elevator so you can reach the Prince’s Tower without too many obstacles.

It’s all so seamless, so orchestrated, the man is practically leaving breadcrumbs to his office.

You half expect rose petals. Or armed guards. Instead, when the elevator doors glide open on the sixth floor, you’re greeted by one of his minions - clean-shaven, suited, radiating “I’ve been briefed” energy - waiting to escort you to the throne room.

Aaron is clearly pulling every Type-A string in his alphabetized folder of delusions, doing everything in his power to maintain an air of federal professionalism - probably to intimidate you.

Probably to get you to forget the fact that he once came in his pants for a couple of grinds.

Nice try, Commander Creamsicle. You’re not exactly impressed.

Especially when you have to pass desk after desk, climbing a bureaucratic Mount Olympus - one, two, three… definitely more than ten steps - until there it is. His door.

Aaron Hotchner.

Gold brassy nameplate in – shockingly - an almost friendly rounded serif (DIN, maybe.) Soft. Wholesome. Kind of like his moans.

You knock. Twice. (You don't want to jump-scare the Supreme Leader.)

Nothing.

"Hotch will be right back...” the minion says.

(Hotch. Oh, no. That’s what he goes by? A cutesy diminutive of a last name carried by maybe twelve people in North America? For fuck’s sake. You’re dealing with a man whose entire personality hinges on being a limited edition. A cry for individuality wrapped in a kevlar vest.)

“…He’s in a meeting with the Section Chief,” the minion explains, professional but pitying. “He’ll be back as soon as possible. You’re welcome to wait inside.”

So you wait.

Long enough for everyone else to pack up and leave.

Long enough for the lights in the bullpen to go dark one by one.

Long enough to steal bandwidth from his federal office so you can stream ten-minute commentary videos on hyperspecific topics you’d never admit to caring about. All without touching your sacred monthly data.

You sit in his chair. Then on his desk. Then back in his chair because it swivels and you’re a simple creature with no impulse control. You spin once. Twice. Kick off the floor and make yourself dizzy just to cope with the fact that you’re here.

In his space.

Alone.

…Unsupervised.

You snoop. Obviously.

You poke around his perfectly aligned fountain pens and - because you were put on this Earth to create chaos - you tilt each one just slightly off its original axis. You test them out on a sticky note (which, for some reason, is bright pink - another unspeakably erotic detail).

You start doodling. Then you try cursive. Then you try writing your name next to his like a middle schooler.

You look at everything.

The picture of his ex-wife (RIP). The photo of him and his son. The solo picture of his son he keeps right on the desk.

The drawings - so many - lined up like a proud museum of fatherhood on the bookshelf.

The bookshelf itself, housing an ungodly collection of law texts you don’t even pretend to open.

The plaques. The trophies. The commemorative papers he felt the need to frame with words like “commendation” and “valor” and “outstanding service” printed in fonts that scream male validation.

His diploma from Georgetown Law (summa cum laude, of course). And the notation of academic kiss - because God forbid this man gets through any institution without someone formally rewarding him with affection.

You take it all in, every shiny, sterile, perfectly arranged detail. Anything to distract yourself from the fact that the last time you were alone with him the only sounds were the wet friction of desperation and the humiliatingly gorgeous groans he tried (and failed) to smother.

Like the low creak of the door hinges cracking open now.

“I thought it was obvious I was being ironic when I told you to come all the way here,” says Aaron - no, Hotch now, Unit Chief in full (Terrifyingly light on his feet. You didn’t even hear him coming. [No pun intended.]),

(…No comment on the irony thing. If you open your mouth you might cry, and you still need to keep up the illusion that you’re cool. Chill. Unbothered. Unflappable.)

(You don’t know why he’s earned the privilege of you pretending to be someone you're not just to impress him - but here you are. Still doing it. Still hating yourself for it, a little.)

You shoot up from his chair like you’ve been caught committing a felony (which, in his eyes, sitting in his chair might as well be), and the motion actually makes him chuckle.

(Great. That’s why you’re doing this. That sound. That exact sound. That’s your motive. You want to be the kind of person who gets that sound out of him.)

Back into the designated guest seat you go - grinning, sheepish, trying to play innocent (or at least get away with charm) like you didn’t just defile his sacred leather throne.

Aaron Hotch lingers in the doorway a moment longer, eyes on you with what you - very generously, possibly delusionally - choose to interpret as fondness.

He shrugs off his suit jacket - holding eye contact the entire time (um. okay?) - and drapes it neatly on the coat rack by the door.

Now it’s just the crisp white shirt. No undershirt, from what you can tell (and you are, in fact, trying to tell), and that $200+ navy tie still perfectly knotted, deliberately untouched. A little too perfectly.

Over the sound of your rushed heartbeat and the crushing silence between you, something small clinks to the floor - a pen, slipping from the inner pocket of his grey jacket and landing just inches from your seat.

Before you can even flinch in the direction of helpfulness, he’s already bending to retrieve it - smooth, efficient, depriving you of the gallant honor of playing his humble page.

Which means you’re left with only one option: bear witness.

To the controlled, scoliosis-free descent of his seasoned federal spine. The unmistakable flex of triathlon-earned muscle beneath a white shirt that was absolutely not designed to contain this level of upper body storytelling.

Fabric straining. Shoulder seams threatening to revolt.

His tie swings forward as he leans down - a small, ridiculous pendulum momentarily distracting you from the sight of his thick fingers closing around what might be the daintiest pen ever engineered (literally just a standard BIC pen.)

His neck angles, and his long-ass nose dips perilously close to brushing your thigh.

You’re frozen. Outmatched. Possibly hallucinating.

Especially when his grey slacks pull taut over his thighs - shapely, is a word that unfortunately comes to mind - and for your sins, you’re treated to a clear silhouette of what can only be described as... the topography of his [REDACTED].

(Do not ogle. Do not ogle. You're not strong enough for this.)

And when he rises – slowly and cruelly moving at half speed - you’re left nose-to-crotch, with nothing in your cone of vision but the aggressively unholy outline of everything.

Only once he’s confirmed the sacred feng shui of his office has been restored does he glance at you - just once, just briefly - after the bend-and-snap that may or may not have triggered a pelvic floor event.

Then, and only then, he crosses the room. Sits across from you like nothing happened. Back straight. Hands folded. Brows slightly drawn.

(Okay. Now he looks scary again. Sort of. If you ignore the ghost of his dickprint still burned into your retinas.)

Well… shit.

“I’m sorry,” you both say at once.

You blink. He… doesn’t (not a surprise) - just stares at you, visibly thrown, like he can’t quite fathom what you could possibly have to apologize for.

“For-“ staring at your crotch “-sitting in your chair,” you offer quickly, just as he says, “For what happened the other day…” (Oh. So Mr. Thirty Seconds wants to talk about why he earned that title. Immediately. Bold.)

A smile tugs at his mouth. “It’s alright,” there’s something so gentle in his voice. Affection, perhaps. (You choose to interpret it as affection.)

“And about the other day… I owe you an apology for-” (creaming my khakis?) “-what I said. It was unwarranted. And unkind.”  

Oh, right… that little moment (before the disaster) where he told you - flat-out - that your advances are the most obvious thing in the world, but you hide behind irony because real rejection would annihilate you. Or something along those lines.

(Not that you think about his exact words every night before falling asleep.)

And it’s definitely not because he only said all that while practically foaming at the mouth with jealousy over a guy he sent you on a date with. (One of his subordinates, no less… so-)

“I want you to know,” he continues, a stick up his ass, while reaching into the top drawer of his desk. He retrieves a leather case, unclasps it in full view, and pulls out - oh no. Wireframe glasses.

“-that none of what happened has impaired my judgment. My decision to help you with your landlord is entirely separate.” He slips the glasses onto the bridge of his nose, adjusts them with one finger then looks back up at you through the lenses.

You don’t say anything. Not because you’re speechless - okay, maybe a little - but because you’re busy… trying to decode his choice of words. Yes. That.

By “none of what happened.”

By “impaired.”

By “separate.”

Separate from what, exactly? His ethics? His self-control? His rapidly crumbling ability to pretend he hasn’t been mentally edging since the last time you touched?

Because let’s be honest - fuck the landlord. That’s just the excuse you both agreed to rehearse. Everyone knows it. He definitely knows it.

This is not about helping you deal with your landlord-

But helping himself deal with the fact that neither of you has stopped thinking about what it felt like to be pressed together, mouths reckless, hands worse, bodies one sigh away from a full-blown catastrophe.

Helping you? Please.

He’s trying to repress round two. You’re just here to speed up the inevitable.

“I’m… mortified about what occurred afterward. Between us.”

77777777777777777233332444444444444444>q6666666667

Re………………yhhhhhhhh______________________________________________________________________ [my cat typed this… honestly #same]

And he does, indeed, look mortified - at least in the very specific way he rolls his shirt cuffs back, one meticulous turn at a time. Slowly. Painstakingly.

Mathematically leads you to ponder for what practical reason could there possibly be for baring those veiny forearms except to flex them directly in your line of sight?

To let the dim overhead lighting graze over the glint of his Submariner Rolex. A glint you might call obnoxious - if it weren’t mostly swallowed by the amount of dense, fluffy arm hair he's somehow made look distinguished. (Is this supposed to intimidate you? Seduce you? Declare tax bracket superiority?)

“It’s fine,” you say.

It is, objectively, not fine.

Especially not when he leans forward to grab a stack of files from the desk, one inch from where your hand rests.

As if you wouldn’t notice the vein curling down from the bend of his elbow, branching toward the base of his palm.

As if you wouldn’t clock the faint dent where a wedding band once lived.

Or the black ink smudged across his palm, streaked through with the fading chaos of blue, pink, and yellow marker.

Or the two wonky little smiley faces on the pads of his index and middle finger. One of them has a moustache.

Or the way your brain short-circuits the moment he starts actually listening to your increasingly incoherent ramble about your landlord, because suddenly all you can focus on are his unnaturally natural Barbie-pink lips.

How they purse, ever so slightly, when he’s thinking. How he licks them - absently - like he’s preparing them for a sentence that never quite finds the courage to leave his mouth.

He adjusts his glasses.

Then slides them down to the very tip of his nose so he can look at you properly, directly, the full weight of his attention leveled just above the frames.

He nods slowly as he listens, scribbling notes in that looping, elegant cursive of his.

Repositions the glasses back up with one finger, clears his throat, and offers apologetically, “Forgive me. Just a moment.”

Hotch rises from his chair and steps toward the bookshelf, reaching his left arm across the full span. His back arches (beautifully, by the way), and the fabric of his shirt pulls tight across his shoulder blades.

The cuff at his elbow slips back, casually scandalous, revealing the sharp cut of his forearm, the tension blooming beneath his skin as he flexes (not unnecessarily, but undeniably) to grasp one specific legal tome teetering on the farthest edge of the shelf.

He could’ve taken one step to the left and saved himself the whole burlesque routine.

He hasn’t.

Peculiar.

Even more peculiar is the way he splits the tome open (you next), right at the middle, licks his thumb, and starts flipping through the pages.

When he finds what he’s looking for, he sets the book down between you, slides it forward, plants his finger firmly on the page - then recites the passage aloud, straight from memory.

Legalese, in his voice, sounds like poetry.

Not the kind you slap onto Facebook captions next to a blurry sunset-

The real kind.

Archaic.

Written by dead men for other dead men, and yet somehow still breathing when it leaves his mouth. It’s dense. Impenetrable. Sacred.

You don’t understand a single fucking word.

But he understands you, and that’s worse.

Because he sees exactly where your eyes land - on the way his finger holds the line, on the stark contrast between the neat, delicate typeface and the breadth of his fingertip.

Between the thin, trembling page and the solid weight of his hand. Between the line he's pointing to - and the one you desperately want him to cross.

So he pauses. Looks up. Smiles. Then translates it into plain English, even though you (both – hopefully) know that’s not the language your body’s speaking right now.

And still, he makes it sound simple.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxz A cx>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> [My other cat insisted on joining too. Ermetic. He’s two months old and already knows how to write. I’m sending them both off to Yale. I fear their potential.]

So simple that everything he’s been saying - whether for five, fifteen, thirty minutes, an hour? - boils down to something similar to:

“Your landlord is the dumbest fuck on the face of the earth, yada yada *legalese*, yada yada. If he’s dumb enough to take this to trial, it’ll be the biggest mistake of his pathetic career, *legal jargon*. I know everyone in the justice system and the very few I don’t know are terrified of me, so even if you were in the wrong, you’d still come out on top - because I’m the hammer of God, and I’ve decided you’re worth protecting.”

Ah, the American justice system.

Broken, terrifying, occasionally kind to you if you’ve got a Hotchner in your corner.

Of course, he can’t just say any of that plainly.

Because Commander Creamsicle cannot speak on any subject without circling it three times, lacing it with a vocabulary that makes you question your grasp of the English language, and probably inventing two or three Latin words on the spot just to make sure you know he scored higher on the SAT than you.

And yet - after all that legal tap-dancing - he finally rounds it out with a good old-fashioned, glasses-tuck-accompanied:

“I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that man pays the maximum penalty available to me under the law.”

And somehow… you actually feel calm. Safe.

Safe enough to stop being hypervigilant for once in your goddamn life - and as a reward, the universe punishes you by letting you miss the moment the room shifts. Something settles in the air between you - not quite tension, not quite relief. Something heavier.

Like finality.

Or closure.

Or maybe just the AC finally kicking in.

(Though, to be fair, the AC is doing its job a little too well.)

(It’s cold as fuck.)

(You can see his nipples through the shirt.)

(Sharp little distractions, twin North Stars peeking through cotton, stolen from the night sky and the firmament just outside the window, guiding absolutely none of your moral compass.)

You try – earnestly - to redirect your gaze, because objectification is bad and you’re not trying to be a fake feminist, but he’s making it impossible (those peaks have gravitational pull. [This is your excuse.])

The moment Hotch says your name, you realize-

yep, your eyes are very much locked on the constellations instead of the conversation.

“...What?” you blurt, very coolly, very calmly, in your most convincing display of composure. (Which is to say: absolutely none, given the way he chuckles immediately afterward.)

Then, without comment, he stands and moves to lean against the desk beside you, effortlessly invading your personal space like he owns both it and the federal building you’re sitting in.

“I asked if you want some coffee before you head home. It’s a long drive. I’d rather not risk you falling asleep at the wheel.”

It’s shockingly natural for him to sound so concernedly paternal.

(In a good way!! Like- concerned. Like- in a caring way. Instinctively protective.)

(You’ll return your feminism books to the library next week. You promise.)

It doesn’t help that, standing like this, he’s towering slightly - just enough that you’re forced to look up (at that perfectly filled-out A-cup shirt.)

“Um. Yeah. Why not,” you mumble, smiling. (Did he offer coffee just to flex his in-office espresso machine? Absolutely. Are you complaining? Absolutely not.)

After all, what could possibly go wrong with him playing sexy barista - busy hands and naked forearms flirting with domesticity as he wrestles an industrial-grade coffee pod into place?

(You’re not thinking about it. You’re definitely not imagining him doing this in sweatpants and nothing else.)

He turns, casually. Half a smile curling at his lips, steam rising from the cup in his hands. Ceramic meets tabletop.

You open your mouth to say thank you-

-but don’t make it that far.

Because you're already wrapped – caught - by the overwhelming heat of his hand, his calloused fingers brushing your jaw, guiding your face toward his.

Lips collide.

The kiss doesn’t even pretend to be romantic. It’s rushed. Hot. A little desperate. (And after being edged for hours by his whiplash professionalism, you’re not in the mood to make it sweet.)

Your hand, once politely resting on his shoulder, drifts down the broad plane of his chest- maybe lingering, maybe teasing, maybe giving his A-cup a curious little squeeze in silent appreciation.

(Not that either of you acknowledges it. Because, apparently, it’s still socially weird to worship a man’s body like that. Which is unfair. Because look at him.)

Then your fingers find the knot of his tie - and you yank him down, hard, into the gravity of where you’re still perched in the guest chair.

Apparently, he’s very into that. Because the next thing you know, he’s deepening the kiss - mouth fuller, hungrier, less controlled - just as something that’s unmistakably a whimper slips from his throat.

(A sound he tries [and fails] to bury in the kiss.)

His hands move fast - one guiding you up from the chair, the other slipping down to cup your ass, anchoring you against him. (Okay. Wow.)

And for some reason - a reason you definitely can’t name right now - you feel the urge to break the kiss.

Not because you want to.

Definitely not because you’re overwhelmed.

And absolutely not because you’re starting to feel something stupid - like the hot guy with huge hands just squeezed your ass, grazed your breast, kissed you like he genuinely gives a shit, and now you’re hearing the chime of direct-struck idiophones inside your skull.

No. It’s because (obviously) you’re just not built for this level of cardio. Unlike him, you haven’t spent your life training your lungs for high-speed chases, chronic emotional repression, and three recreational sports.

That’s clearly why. It has nothing to do with wanting to look at him.

Not to see the flush rising on his cheeks. Not to watch his lips part, kiss-drunk and panting.

Not to see his hazel eyes, darker now - wide and wrecked.

(Nope. This is about oxygen. 100%. Definitely not about the soft, terrifying thing blooming between your ribs.)

So you ask, “Is the door locked?”

Even though you already know it isn’t. But it’s something to say. Something to break the silence before it starts meaning more than it should.

“No,” he replies, then crashes back into you, pulling you in even closer than you already were. In fact, he manhandles you backward until your spine meets the door with a thud.

(Problem solved. The door’s now locked - courtesy of your combined body weight. A tactical solution. This is why he’s Unit Chief. Strategic. Efficient. Excellent under pressure. Fuck, he’s great.)

As a token of appreciation for his outstanding thinking skills, your hand abandons its usual post at his tie, sliding down, unapologetically, to cup the obvious situation straining against his slacks.

He exhales sharply at the contact, hips twitching forward but somehow still manages to keep it together. At least enough to start removing your most prized emotional support object (read: his tie) with that pesky, showy precision.

One inch from your face.

(Unit Chief by day, burlesque performer by instinct. Truly, a man of range.)

He stares straight at you as his fingers work the knot loose - you wish those fingers were working your waistband instead, but alas, budget cuts.

His gaze drops to your mouth as he slides the tie free, undoes exactly one button of his shirt and moves your very enthusiastic, very busy grabby hand off his crotch (rude).

(Was he about to come again? You may never know.)

Then he pins both your wrists above your head with one hand and leans in, mouth dragging down your neck.

You're not prepared for it.

You're really not prepared for how accurately this man is fulfilling every half-baked adult novel fantasy you've ever privately entertained on a walk home, in a waiting room, during a particularly boring grocery trip.

So much so that a breathy, involuntary cry slips from your lips before you can catch it.

He chuckles - fucking delighted - his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You need to keep quiet, or else we’ll both be in trouble,” then seals the warning with a kiss pressed exactly where his words just burned - and he’s back in front of you, eyes locked on yours. “Can you be quiet?”

(Hell no.)

“I hope so-”

Another smirk from him. And then you hope absolutely nothing the second his hand slides down, past your waistband, and straight into your underwear.

Because suddenly, it’s just him and his fingertips sinking into soaked heat like he already knew exactly where to go. (Basic human anatomy, sure. But still- impressive. For a man.)

He doesn’t even glance down. His eyes stay locked on yours, hungry through thick lashes, as one finger finds your clit-

(A man! A man locating and engaging with the clitoris! In this economy!)

-and starts circling with just the right pace.

No frantic button-mashing and hoping for the best. No guesswork. He knows exactly how to move. (Thank you to the ex-wife - smiling sweetly in that framed photo on the bookshelf behind his desk, posed between him and their son - who clearly put in the hours and trained this man like a goddamn service dog.)

And he keeps watching you. Watches the way your face scrunches. The way your lashes flutter. The way your lips part around a breath you forget to take.

Watches the little hitch in your chest, the twitch of your hips when they instinctively chase more friction.

Watches the exact moment you have to pull against his grip just to keep yourself from making a sound.

And he loves it. You don’t need him to say it. You can feel it. (And you can see it too - clear as day. The thick, unforgiving outline in his slacks doing absolutely nothing to hide how much he’s enjoying the show.)

“You’re soaking my hand, you know that?” he murmurs, deadpan brilliance.

(Okay, Sherlock. Edged for hours. No shit you’re wet as fuck. Totally unnecessary observation... and yet - please say it again. That was so hot.)

Then he gathers the wetness with lazy satisfaction, fingers dragging through the mess between your thighs without slipping in - just enough to make you feel it. To make you hear it. The slick sound of your own arousal echoes off the walls of a federal office.

(Shit.)

And only once his smug, unbothered, power-drunk ass is satiated - then - he slides one thick (-very thick. Like, three-times-the-bullshit-Bic-pen-he-uses-to-sign-federal-paperwork thick.

A full goddamn inch of “how the fuck is this just your finger” thick.) finger inside.

You’re so wet he barely has to try. It sinks in effortlessly, your walls fluttering helplessly like they can’t decide whether to pull him deeper or push him out just to miss the feeling and beg for it back.

And then he starts to move.

Each thrust is deep just enough to make your stomach clench with every slow grind of his fingers. Slow enough to make you ache for more, controlled enough to make you feel every second of it.

Every withdrawal is precise, angled so his finger drags right across your clit - just the right pressure, just the right speed. And every curl on the way back in finds that soft, swollen spot inside you like he’s memorized it.

Like he’s practiced this.

With you. (Of course.)

Dreamed it - maybe just as often as you have - idly, hungrily, while filing taxes or running out for just one pack of noodles, while he’s maybe on the next aisle buying some miserable all-natural, unsweetened, preservative-free cereal for his son.

(Hopefully his son wasn’t next to him while he had these thoughts.)

Just… everyday errands, haunted by the thought of this exact scenario:

Your cunt wrapped tight around his fingers. Your breath catching against his mouth. His hand working you exactly the way it’s working you now - expert, relentless - while his mouth drifts wherever it can reach: your neck, your collarbone, the hinge of your jaw.

He’s everywhere.

And you-

you’re dizzy.

Struggling to stay upright, to stay quiet, to stay even vaguely human as he drags you closer to- (calculus, you try, math, equations, something-) but all your brain can manage is: one finger = 1.7 of yours.

(...Almost two.)

(...holy fuck.)

Mr. Magic Ladyfingers apparently comes with built-in precognition, because just as your self-control teeters on the edge of total combustion - he cuts it off with a kiss.

Like it’s nothing. Like he’s your boyfriend. (He’s not. But it’s romantic. And you’ll take it. Fuck, you’d take all of him if he let you.) His mouth claims yours – overwhelmingly tender - right as he eases in a second finger.

“Shit,” you pant against his lips, because the stretch - fuck, the stretch is unreal, it burns in the best way, it’s so much-

“I know.” (You hate him. What kind of answer is that??) “Just keep quiet, I got you.” (And just like that, he’s got your daddy issues wrapped around his finger[s] too - congratulations, Agent Hotchner.) “Bite my shoulder if you need to.” (Okay. Better. Hot. You’ve been waiting for an excuse to do exactly that since the very first time you saw him. hallenge accepted.)

He pushes in deeper, faster - fucking into you with enough force and precision that your knees actually start to buckle.

Effortlessly, his free hand slides around your waist, pulling you in tight - anchoring you to his body, to the warm, steady press of his well-defined A-cups, holding you upright.

You’re so, so close. Clenching around his fingers with every pulse, every thrust, every curl that lights you up from the inside out.

“God,” (Hotch mentions God count: 1. You were starting to worry he’d forgotten to name-drop Him.) “I can feel you dripping down my hand,” he murmurs. “Shit - feel what you’re doing to me.”

So you do. You try - through the fog of overwhelming, fucked-out pleasure - to get your hand back down between you. Fumble your way to his crotch.

Shit.

It’s a miracle his pants haven’t burst at the seams. Or maybe it’s worse - because the second your thumb presses against the unmistakable wet patch, hot and damp through his slacks, you realize he’s already halfway gone.

Soaked in his own precome. Cock straining hard against the fabric, twitching under your palm -and the second you press into it, he falters.

And that’s what does it. That noise. That sharp, guttural, involuntary fuck of a sound he tries to swallow.

You snap.

You hate yourself for it - hate how the orgasm hits not with fireworks, but like a tide, pulling you under. It’s not cinematic, it’s inevitable - and it shatters you anyway. The way his fingers fill you, the pressure, the stretch, the filth of it - he’s just too fucking big, too fucking good, and you’re just… weak.

Weak for him.

A broken, half-annoyed “shit-” spills from your lips as you come, thighs shaking, forehead pressed to his shoulder.

But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t rush. He just slows his thrusts, dragging each one out - making you feel every twitch, every aftershock, every unbearable second of overstimulation that sends your body spasming around him again.

And again.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes. “You’re- God, you’re gorgeous.” (Hotch mentions God count: 2)

You’re fluttering.

(And - poetically, of course - so are your walls.) It’s ridiculous.

It’s absurd. This should be just fingering. Just an impulsive fingering in a federal office. Just you, post-orgasm, wrecked, barely upright, trying not to collapse against a goddamn filing cabinet that probably holds national security secrets.

But it’s not. Not even close.

Because somehow, he’s still there.

Not rebuttoning his shirt in a panic. Not fumbling for a tissue or retreating behind polite avoidance. Not slipping his tie back on like this was a temporary lapse in judgment to be buried under paperwork.

He stays. Still holding you. Still watching you like you haven’t just ruined something. Like he hasn’t.

And now… what? Do you just grab his jaw and kiss him like it means something? Or like it doesn’t?

Do you say thank you? (God, no - except maybe you will, because you’ve never been touched like that in your life and he deserves something, doesn’t he?)

Do you keep holding his gaze like this while he looks at you like you’re not a mistake? Like you’re not just a late-night regret he’ll shove into a drawer and lock up tomorrow morning?

Do you lean in again? Just to see what he does? Do you run? Do you crack a joke? Do you cry?

Or do you say nothing and wait for him to break first?

You could ask him to stay. Or ask what happens next. Or - God forbid - ask if he felt it too. If he feels it now.

His eyes are saying something, but they’re hard to trust - too soft, too open. They might as well be lying.

“Are you okay?” he asks and unknowingly deepens the dangerous sense of emotional attachment you’ve somehow managed to form around his fingers. You nod - half-hearted, dazed - and he takes it as enough.

He excuses himself, opens a drawer, and returns with a packet of wet wipes. Then - giddily, somehow, like he’s just remembered something sweet - offers, “Jack’s been drawing a lot lately. I usually show up here with crayon masterpieces all over my hands.”

(A cute story. Definitely real. Also, definitely told to clarify that the wipes aren’t… y’know… for this kind of thing. That he doesn’t do this. Here. Ever. Not that you’re together or anything, but still. The accidental monogamy of it makes you feel safe.

Special.

God, you’re disgusting.)

He checks his watch, sighs. “Oh. It’s getting late. I should… I should be getting back.” (Never mind.) “Let me walk you to your car. Or - down to the lobby, at least.”

Add a little awkward “Oh, no, don’t worry - I mean… yeah. Okay. Sure.”

And suddenly you’re just… standing there. Beside him. Watching the mighty prince reassemble himself like a Victorian widow preparing to re-enter society.

He starts with the tie, of course - God forbid he be seen in the wild without one. (Scandalous. The Unit Chief with his throat exposed. Think of the headlines.)

“Sorry to keep you,” he murmurs, as he loops the knot into place. Straightens his collar. Apologizes again. Grabs his suit jacket and slides some folders into his briefcase. Apologizes a third time.

You focus on the rhythm of your steps as you walk beside him, trying to block out every small, gallant thing he does - each one a little more lethal than the last. You know you’d fall blind, stupid, hopelessly in love (With. A. Cop.) if you gave yourself even a second to think.

He even presses the elevator button for you. Lets you step in first. And then-

Doors close.

Just you. Just him. Six floors to the lobby. Five square feet of sealed-off space.

“We’ll be down in about thirty seconds,” he reassures you.

Thirty seconds. What couldn't you do in thirty seconds? (Make out against the mirrored wall. Drop to your knees. Get your hand down his slacks again just to check if the wet spot’s still there-)

…Oh.

Right.

There’s a camera.

Never mind.

SORRYYYY SORRYYYYY

You blink. And then you blink again.

Because he’s looking up at you, bastard, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. Tilting his chin just so, raising his eyebrows the tiniest bit so the light catches on his stupidly delicate bottom lashes like a goddamn siren song for your libido.

He’s weaponizing his face.

A full-blown visual seduction attempt under the guise of ordinary eye contact, and you’re meant to say no? You’re meant to resist that? Put that face away, Aaron.

“...What?”

“Dave’s hosting a dinner tonight.” Ah. Dave.

You shouldn’t be jealous of a man at least ten years older than him who is possibly the only person Aaron could realistically call a friend. But you are. (Aaron being on nickname terms with someone? When he still calls you by your full name half the time? No. Illegal. Shut it down.)

But you know better by now.

You’ve learned to stop wasting time on the obvious - like surface-level red flags disguised as male ””friendship”” - and start paying attention to the quiet little tells.

Because when Aaron wants something but can’t bring himself to ask - when the feelings start piling up under that buttoned-down emotional straightjacket - he gets… clingy.

Case in point: he takes the hand you’ve got resting on your hip and brings it to his lips. Slowly. Still looking up. Still keeping eye contact. (Thankfully, the Disney Princess didn’t flutter his lashes… small mercies.)

He kisses your knuckles and doesn’t let go - just laces his fingers through yours, thumb stroking the side of your index finger with that soft, absentminded tenderness that would be sweet if it weren’t for the fact that those same fingers were knuckle-deep inside you less than an hour ago.

It’s definitely a trap.

“We’re supposed to have a date tonight,” you remind him. Wine, dine, and get fucked on a mattress that isn’t his orthopedic concrete slab disguised as a bed.

Your roommate’s finally out, the stars are aligned, the gods are merciful, and this man wants to-

“We could have a date at Dave’s place,” he says, like that is romantic. Like Rossi’s Tuscan fuck-palace of mahogany and trauma is somehow a better plan.

He tries to sell it with another knuckle kiss. (Sneaky bastard.)

“Aaron. Honey. We’re not fucking in the car agai-”

“Shhh... honey, we’re in-”

“Last time your hips made that weird noise…” (Like something popped. You thought he dislocated something. You were halfway to calling 911 before he groaned again. Horrifying.)

“-public.” An overly erotic sigh follows to strengthen his case “And you’re working,”

Oh. Right. Thank you so much for the reminder, Aaron. If it weren’t for his sanctimonious little warning, you might’ve forgotten you’re currently in a slutty apron and have a cheesecake in the oven that needs pulling out in - what, 16?

No, 15… 14 minutes. Great.

So considerate of him to be scandalized by the idea of being overheard in public, when he’s blissfully unaware (you don’t have the heart to tell him. He’s delicate.) that your friends already know his inseam. And his full birth chart. And the precise length and circumference of his-

Oh… speaking of which-

“If you’re so scandalized people might hear,” you murmur, saccharine-sweet, leaning in just enough to melt a few IQ points off him (man’s too smart sometimes), “you could always come to the back with me. I could show you the pastry lab... there’s a fresh batch of cookies that desperately need your very professional, very, very, very thorough feedback.”

(Hands-on feedback. Mouth-on too.)

He chuckles, “You’re not fooling me twice.” Fair. It's already a small miracle he believed the croissants were real the first time and not just- well. A metaphor. “I’m serious. Come with me tonight.” (You plan to. Multiple times. Preferably on a mattress, not the gearshift of his billshit car.) “I know it’s scary,” he adds, all earnest and soft. “But I’ll be there. And you’re a much more likeable person than I am anyway.”

He’s still stroking your thumb.

It’s unsettling.

He’s just so sweet. So natural with it. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s touching you like that. Like a lover. Like someone who’s held you through things and made you breakfast and maybe even deserves to be held back.

It makes you want to stroke something else in return.

Just to be even. (Obviously.)

“I think they’d like me more if I were the reason you actually gave them a weekend off, you know?” Honestly, it’d be a win for everyone. You’d get your sleepy, clingy morning sex. The team would get to touch grass.

It’s not even the first time you’ve tried to convince him to sleep in. You’ve tried multiple angles. Some of them very persuasive.

And yet… no.

Fuck him and his iron will.

“I’ll think about it…” He brings his coffee to his lips to hide the smirk, but it’s no use. He’s giddy. Blows gently across the surface, all while holding eye contact. (Unnecessary.) “What do I get in return?” he asks, all faux-coy, like he isn’t already picturing it.

Oh. That’s how we’re playing.

You don’t even hesitate. “A sloppy wet blowie card redeemable anytime you wa-”

He chokes. Immediately. Coughs. Splutters. Spills half the coffee across the table, his lap, the floor you just cleaned. A full dramatic scene. Everyone turns to stare.

So much for being subtle.

You would laugh at him but instead, you’re crouched over a fresh coffee spill with a mop in hand for the second time today, while your deeply apologetic, painfully handsome boyfriend (being 46 and still calling him “boyfriend” feels like a crime punishable by jail time) paces in the background as if he’s just committed a felony.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting - sorry - are you okay? I mean, I know you’re okay, but – sorry - are you sure you’re okay?

“It’s okay.”

“-I didn’t mean to-”

“I know.””

If he weren’t hot and genuinely pathetic about it, it’d be annoying. Like that cursed 30-minute Christmas playlist they loop during December shifts, the one that somehow drops to 0.5x speed the second you're six hours deep, dead-eyed, and one sleigh bell away from crying into the espresso machine.

“I’ll clean it-” he begs.

“You won’t.”

He reaches for a stack of tissues, trying to be helpful - which only pisses you off more, because he can’t not be helpful.

It’s pathological. It’s baked into his DNA. Helpfulness as a compulsion. He’s incapable of simply letting a mess exist without trying to fix it, even if he is the one who caused it.

You need to shut him up or you won’t survive the rest of this shift. “What do I have to wear tonight?”

He perks up instantly. “So you are coming to Dave’s?” Eyes wide. Hopeful. An overgrown bipedal golden retriever who just heard the leash jingle and realized it’s walk o’clock.

You barely get the “yes” out before he’s already yanking out his teeny-tiny iPhone and furiously typing with his index finger something that probably reads:

“hi dave <3 my unconventionally young girlfriend just agreed to come tonight <3 she is the first person I’ve dated or touched since my ex-wife (mother of my child, deceased, rip forever) <333333 she still has a roommate and sometimes thinks she’s a rebound or a novelty item so she overcompensates by being hypersexual (50% is just genuine devotion tho don’t worry) <3 can’t wait for you to meet her!!! she doesn’t speak in full legalese like I do but she’s trying her best <333”

No… actually, more like:

“Good morning, Dave. Confirming that both my girlfriend and I will be attending dinner tonight at [insert overly precise timestamp] p.m. I’m looking forward to everyone meeting her. Let me know if there’s anything you need me to bring. Best, A.H.”

…Which, yes, is overly composed, pompously formal, and emotionally sterile. And yet he’d reread it three times. Hesitate over the word “girlfriend,” maybe delete it, maybe add “my” in front of it. Add a period. Delete the period. Add it again.

Because what he’d really be saying is:

“I’m bringing someone who matters more than I know how to put into words. Please don’t scare her. Please don’t embarrass me. Please, for the love of God, don’t make her feel like this was a mistake.”

You watch, dissecting every micro-expression, every digital breath, awaiting the subtle ping-

And then he finally looks up from his phone and says:

“The weather app says it’s going to be a bit windy… but we’re staying inside, so we’ll be fine. Just make sure you bring a jacket for outside.”

Oh. Okay. So he wasn’t texting DaVe. He was just… checking the weather. Never mind.

“You’re, like, actually 1000% sure I don’t need to wear anything fancy? Like… dress code-wise? You pinky swear?”

“Wear what you’re comfortable in. You’ll look beautiful no matter what.” (Ugh. Gentleman nonsense. Regency-era I-shall-fetch-your-glove-m’lady bullshit.) “There’s a cooking competition at Dave’s, by the way, so… wear something you can move in...”

(And when, exactly, was he planning to share this extremely vital piece of information? Was he just going to let you show up blind - no context, no warning - and then judge your outfit?!?!)

“…Preferably not too many buttons.”

“What?”

“There’s usually wine. And I doubt I’ll have the patience to unbutton all that if I’m tipsy.”

(Did he just-)

(Is that dirty talk? In public?!)

Small step for Aaron Hotchner. Giant leap for mankind.

“OOOOH, I like you,” you laugh, swatting his arm. Filthy, filthy man. You’re keeping him. (You were keeping him anyway. This just signed the lease and laminated the contract.)

“Well,” he deadpans, “that’s a relief.”

His humor. He seriously needs to stop or you’re going to uno reverse him straight into cardiac arrest just so he knows what it feels like to be the one left gasping.

And he is – somehow - worse than expected when you open the door at Mr. “Pick you up at 7:20” but actually shows up at 7:00 o’clock sharp.

Big, dumb googly eyes. “You’re… you’re perfect.” (Perfect??? Okay, bro. Be serious.) He says it a little breathlessly, too.

Which - alright. This is coming from a man who’s seen you in pajamas and week-old (okay, not week-old) mascara smudged down to your collarbones and still had the audacity to call you beautiful.

But this time? This time he stutters. Just a little. Which means - yes. You’ve done one hell of a job.

Although… he’s… he’s…

“You’re not so bad yourself, Hotchner…” you’re trying - really trying - not to engage with the obscene display that is his forearm vein, pulsing under the rolled cuff of a shirt that’s…

Well, textured.

You don’t know what fabric it is, but it looks expensive (though, to be fair, you've yet to catch him wearing anything that isn’t). It’s not his usual no-nonsense blend - it’s something... different.

Almost illicitly nice.

By his standards, borderline scandalous. Sensual. Not quite silk, but it’s definitely texting silk at 2 a.m. Smooth, a little structured, a little (very) transparent.

His version of lingerie, probably. And it’s working.

Especially because he’s holding a slim paper bag - wine, presumably - gripping it just tight enough to make the tendons in his hand flex, veins popping like they’re sending you a personal invitation you absolutely cannot leave on read.

Not when they’re practically pulsing your name in Morse code - perfectly normal heart rate for a man his age, maybe a little faster than usual but nothing to worry about.

(You want to eat him.)

(And you want to eat him even more because he’s still blushing at your compliment.)

(Still ducking his head toward the damn doormat - the same one he always stares at every time you say something nice on the threshold like it's suddenly going to save him.)

(Still pretending he isn’t doing any of this on purpose.)

(He is. He’s a slut. And you’ve broken the encryption.)

You’re dangerously close to asking him to cancel dinner altogether so you can crawl into his lap and trace those veins and flushed cheeks with your mouth.

But - no. You’ve come this far. You’re wearing your good shoes.

“Is that for me?” you ask, nodding toward the incriminating wine bag he’s holding.

You already know the answer. You’ve seen the label peeking out - the same wine he asked you about months ago when he still needed excuses to talk to you. The one you recommended. The one you both got tipsy on that night you-

God. So romantic. Remembering something so small just so the two of you could reminisce together…

“That’s for Dave,” he says. (Awesome. Love that. Feeling super special right now.) “But this-” he leans in, suddenly, and you can already tell he’s doing mental calculus on what to do with his free hand.

Aaron’s a face-grabber kind of kisser. You know this. You love that he’s a face-grabber kind of kisser.

There’s nothing (and this is unfortunately not hyperbole) you crave more than having your face completely eclipsed by those huge hands.

To feel his hot palms cradle your jaw, his thumbs press into your cheekbones while the scent of that wrist cologne (that he definitely sprays on purpose) clogs your lungs and your will to stand upright.

But not this time.

His hand falters mid-air. Hesitates. Probably because his internal probability matrix is running a risk assessment on smudging your makeup.

He can’t tell if you’re actually wearing any - unsure whether the godlike glow you’re currently emitting is foundation, highlighter, or just you being hot and terrifying by nature - so he aborts the face mission.

Redirects, sliding around your waist instead. And when he pulls you in, at least you can get drunk on the sprays of his cologne clinging to his clavicles.

“This,” he says, right before his lips find yours, “is for you.”

The old this-then-kiss technique. Vintage (prehistoric.) Sooooo corny. But somehow it’s adorable when he does it - because he says it with that barely-there smug little smile, like he thinks he just pulled off the smoothest move in cinematic history.

He thinks he’s being so cool.

Bless his delusion.

You need to bless something in this man or you’ll feel guilty for cursing the fact that if Aaron hadn’t been raised with the emotional bandwidth of a teaspoon - thanks to Mommy Dearest and a father who’s, oh right, dead (you keep forgetting; trauma’s the subscription box that just keeps on delivering)-

Then this “meet the parents” moment would’ve involved a couple of awkward silences, maybe a tense pause after his mom casually mentions that your uterus technically belongs to the U.S. government.

Instead, you’re standing in what can only be described as a psychological war room disguised as a kitchen.

The kind of kitchen that’s the exact size of your entire apartment, if your apartment had mood lighting, marble counters, and a temperature-controlled wine fridge that probably costs more than your entire year of rent.

And in it:

A battalion (six) of government-employed behavioral analysts, each gripping the correct wine glass for the correct varietal.

And - one guy. (JJ’s… husband? No ring. Fiancé? No. Boyfriend? Oh, fuck this. Babydaddy. That’s what he is. The babydaddy of their son.) What is he, a detective? Fed-lite? Badge-adjacent? Whatever.

Basically, you’re surrounded by cops.

You've betrayed every principle you hold dear because some old man with courtroom diction and bottom lashes that could sweep the floor said your name once like it hurt him to feel something.

And now he’s gone.

Aaron steps away just to hang your jacket like the soft-handed gentleman he occasionally remembers to be - and Dave, yes that Dave, the one currently looming behind a granite island the size of a mid-range yacht, immediately peels off to follow.

They start murmuring to each other in that cryptic, chesty man-code hum and somehow, despite the noise, your hyper-attuned ears still manage to isolate it:

Aaron’s laugh.

Light. Private. The one he saves for people who’ve known him long enough to earn it.

Physics insists there’s more space without Aaron taking up your peripheral vision and stealing half your air. Your lungs disagree.

You’re standing alone, still mentally half-hovering in the doorway like someone’s plus-one who wasn’t technically invited, every sense on high alert, spine locked, tracking everything at once just to stay one step ahead of the judgment you’re absolutely sure is coming.

The sound of his footsteps on the flooring slowly getting closer. The rhythm of his voice.

Who’s looking at you, how long, what it means.

Whether someone’s already profiling you. (They definitely are.)

You don’t feel unwelcome, exactly. You just feel… scanned.

And then comes Emily Prentiss.

(You recognize her from the Facebook deep-dive you did two hours before Aaron picked you up. 41. Speaks a gazillion of languages. Has a cat named Sergio. [Regrettably did not bring Sergio to dinner.])

Emily: the agent who - until very recently - everyone thought was dead.

Everyone except Aaron and JJ.

(Mother to one boy named Henry - you think he’s a few years younger than Jack? - and chronic reblogger of that one women’s soccer team whose name always escapes you but she clearly has beef with their coach.)

Anyway. Back to Emily.

Messy story.

Something-something faked death, interagency yada-yada, undercover stuff and maybe betrayal?

Aaron never told you the full thing. (Probably because he knows damn well you’d immediately stop siding with him the second you found out how shockingly bad he is at communicating literally anything important.)

Emily looks at you. “You’re-”

His what?

His young?

Too young?

His young little sister? (Half-sister, technically. His dad’s dead. Right. That’s the second time you’ve forgotten. In a row. What kind of girlfriend does that-)

His daughter?

His granddaughter?

“-real.”

Oh. “Yes. Yes, I’m real… I guess so???”

So he’s considered a loser at work too. Interesting. That’s definitely not what he told you.

“Mama, if y’all girls weren’t so hungover you would’ve seen her at the triathlon too…”

That’s Derek. (Age: not specified, hometown: Chicago, emotional support dog Clooney: deceased, tragically. Retired service dog. Heart of gold. 10/10)

He pats Emily on the shoulder mid-sentence, barely getting the words “Hi, I’m-” out before he’s completely steamrolled by JJ and your soon-to-be favorite oversharer: Penelope Garcia.

(Penelope - recently single [sad for her, unfortunately sad for you], extremely online, chronically committed to rhinestone accessories - has posted enough Facebook statuses in the past three weeks to warrant a digital intervention.)

(If you weren’t technically tied to her unit chief, you’d absolutely hit on her. But let’s be real. She’s way out of your league. Like... celestial tier.)

(Not that Aaron isn’t too… but he’s - he’s a loser. That’s what he is. A hot, competent loser. Your loser.)

(Your hormone cycle would like to formally request that you marry him. But that’s just hormones. Obviously. You don’t really think that. Marriage is a scam.)

Behind them stand two more additions to your ever-expanding social anxiety spiral: Will - Will! You finally remember his name! (The detective. The stay-at-home wife. The babydaddy!)

And Dr. Spencer Reid.

(No Facebook. No digital footprint. You only know him through Aaron’s scattered mentions, mostly about how he keeps forgetting his hotel room keycards. Multiple times. Like, compulsively. He’s probably only a few years older than you. Which – honestly - is the closest thing to comfort you’ve gotten all night.)

From a distance, they don’t seem too terrifying.

Not at first glance.

Not until Dave steps back into the room.

And not to be territorial, but-

You clock the way his arm is slung a little too familiarly around your sad-looking man’s shoulders.

“This man wouldn’t have asked you out if it weren’t for me,” Dave declares.

First words out of his mouth and he’s already claiming credit like he coached the whole thing.

Aaron grimaces. “Dave-”

Doesn’t matter. He’s unstoppable.

Dave gives Aaron’s shoulder a condescending little pat - dominance disguised as affection - and flashes the room (…a smile. He flashes the room – a smile.)

“Now that we’re all finally here…”

He side-eyes Aaron. Passive-aggressive. You clock it immediately.

Aaron, bless his rigid, rule-following, bureaucratic soul, steps in. “You said 8 p.m. We’re not late.”

And that’s when Dave really sinks his claws in. His hand tightens on Aaron’s shoulder - subtle, practiced, like a predator with a working knowledge of social cues - and he laughs.

But it’s not a casual laugh. It’s a loaded laugh. A you’ll never have power here laugh.

“Exactly. It’s 7:30, Aaron. Last time you showed up half an hour early, I had to change the time so you wouldn’t walk in on me in my robe.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. Aaron’s blushing. And you really hope it’s not for the reason your brain keeps whispering.

(That reason being: They’ve seen each other in robes before. Multiple times. Maybe fewer robes. Maybe no robes. Maybe-)

(You’re not saying there’s something going on. You’re just saying there’s energy. A lot of history. A suspicious amount of comfort. A shoulder grip with a little too much thumb.)

“Anyway, now that that’s all clear,” Dave chirps, but somehow his hand is… lower? Is that-? No. That’s not- It is. No, no no-

Dave’s palm is now resting on Aaron’s tit pec. Is he cupping it? Is this real?

“Alright! You’re all coupled up, right?” Dave claps, winks, and moves along like he didn’t just get to second base with your boyfriend in front of you.

Aaron smiles at you. Smiles. Unbothered. Unbothered and getting fondled by his best friend.

“You’ve got one hour! Chop chop- I’m starving!” Dave calls out, punctuating it with not one, but two enthusiastic pats.

On Aaron’s…

Right boob.

You see red.

And as Dave finally releases his hostage - who strolls back to you all smiley and suspiciously unfazed about being publicly groped-

Dave, yet again (because of course it’s Dave, the world absolutely curves around that manipulative little Italian man’s will), tosses over his shoulder with far too much satisfaction for a straight guy with three ex-wives:

“Damn, Aaron! That triathlon training’s really paying off, huh? Look at that chest!”

“Agh- Dave,” Aaron groans half-mortified, but then, he looks down at himself and chuckles.

Oh no. Oh no no no.

You’re no profiler, but if Dave is making detailed commentary on your man’s chest gains with the kind the kind of confidence that implies historical data-

Then it’s because he has historical data.

That man has groped your boyfriend’s tits before.

More than once.

Enough to compare progress.

And suddenly, you're not so sure you're the only one in this relationship who’s been getting a handful.

Speaking of handfuls-

A warm, very specific hand lands on your shoulder.

“Hey”

Aaron. Of course.

You should’ve known just from the size of it. Or the temperature. There’s something unsettlingly distinct about the way he touches you - like no other object, fabric, or living creature has ever graced your shoulder with that much… heat.

Except maybe his mouth. When it stops there. Briefly. On its way down to your-

“Something’s wrong,” Mr. Profiler’s far too perceptive as he hands you an apron so you won’t get your outfit (the one he called ‘perfect’) dirty.

He steps behind you just as you’ve already tied it, clearly having intended to do it himself in that gentlemanly, let-me-wrap-my-arms-around-you-for-no-reason kind of way.

What a fool.

You don’t need help tying a fucking apron. You don’t need his affirmation coded into every little gesture.

What is that, anyway? Chivalry? Control? Is he worried you’ll somehow mess it up without him? Or is it just that he can’t handle you doing things alone – competently - without needing his federal male approval stamped on it?

You’re here to cook. To participate. To prove-what? That you belong? That you're not a tourist in his life?

You shake it off.

“Are you sure it’s enough eggs for the amount of pasta we have to make?” you frown at the sad, lonely little pile sitting by your –right, Dave’s - cutting board.

“Honey, you asked me to take eight-”

“Yeah. One per person...”

Ah.

You didn’t count yourself.

You stare at the eggs.

Count them again, maybe they’ll rearrange and make more sense this time. But no - there are eight.

For everyone else. Everyone but you.

Aaron steps to your side, looks down too, and you’re still doing mental math, because now you don’t even remember how much fucking flour you dumped in that bowl. Did you even measure it? Did you eyeball it??

There’s no scale in sight. Shit.

If the pasta doesn’t turn out perfect, it’ll just confirm what everyone’s already half-smiling to themselves about: Ah. Of course.

The decorative girlfriend. The midlife-crisis sparkle to distract from how lonely he’s been. A little proof of life.

No respectable job. No remarkable backstory. Just here to stand beside him and prove he can still fuck someone half his age without taking the blue pi-

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

His hand lands on your lower back, rubbing slow circles. Not lazy. Just… frustratingly kind.

The kind of touch that isn’t trying to lead anywhere. Doesn’t want anything.

(…Would he want something more if you were Dave?)

Just exists there, warm and grounding. (You immediately regret not wearing something backless. Why would you not want to feel that hand directly on your skin? Fool.)

It’s infuriating. And really, really nice. Which is more annoying.

He steps into your line of sight, casually body-blocking the rest of the room (which may or may not currently feature a half-floured Spencer Reid flailing near the sink yelling, “Emily. Emily, please stop. She’s going to think we’re – Emily - no, seriously - what is she going to think about us - Emily, that we’re unprofessional? - Emily. No. No, Derek. Not you too.”)

But you wouldn’t know.

Because you can’t see a damn thing past the entire 6’2” anxious boyfriend now standing directly in front of you.

All you get is the gentle forehead creases of a man who probably cares more about your emotional stability than his own cholesterol, and those Barbie-pink lips tugged into that soft, earnest little frown.

He’s trying to emotionally disarm you in full HD. (Also? Slightly misogynistic. Forcing eye contact like that. Yeah… that’s what it is. Sure.)

“Hey, hey,” he chases your eyes. “It’s fine. I’m stealing one egg from Morgan, and we’ll add the flour slowly, adjust the texture as we go. How does that sound?”

It sounds like something he’d say. Like he thinks everyone functions like he does - just bury the panic under logistics, swallow the feeling whole and chew on the task instead.

A plan. A loose, improv-based, easy-to-fuck-up plan. And you can’t afford to fuck up. Also-

“You? Stealing?”

“Yes.” He admits it too... God you’re such a bad influence on him. “I’ve got a lot of tricks up my sleeve you’re still not aware of.” Sure thing, flirt. (Say that again with your little smug voice and see if you don’t get jumped behind the wine fridge.)

He kisses the side of your head - quick, perfunctory. Blink and you’d miss it.

If you were Dave, he’d take his time. He’d cup your jaw, linger, maybe drop a “I’ll have to slip away for a moment to steal that egg, darling” in that perfect baritone.

But sure. A kiss is a kiss.

He seals the success of his noble egg-heist with another swift press to the same spot, then pushes his sleeves up higher - back to business, like nothing happened.

(You’re not looking. You’re absolutely not watching. You are, in fact, turning away to start on some kind of sauce. Your years in the service industry kick in and your body moves on muscle memory- meanwhile, your eyes... oh shit-)

He covertly pulls out a perfectly folded neon pink sticky note and - just as discreetly - his glasses from the pocket of his pants. (God forbid someone catches him using them.)

To his visible surprise, there’s a massive ink smear across the middle (he’s a leftie - everything he writes eventually morphs into smudged abstract expressionism), so he lifts the note off the table – squints at it – holds it even closer to his face – pauses – and then lets out a victorious:

“Aha.”

That soft exhale of understanding that tells you the giant black blob in the center used to mean something like: “Arrange flour into a cone, add beaten eggs and a pinch of salt in the center, and mix.”

(Groundbreaking stuff. Genius-level culinary insight. Next he’ll discover fire.)

And so he does. (Not the fire. Sadly, that was discovered already. But the mixing. He starts the mixing.)

Flour catches on his forearms, clings to the hair dusted across them. His sleeves are rolled to the brink - one more fold and they’d legally be classified as short sleeves.

And those forearms.

Obscene, if you really look. (You’re really looking.)

You can practically hear the veins dilating under the strain of physical effort.

Jaw clenched. Brows drawn in tight, serious lines. All that elite, laser-sharp hyperfocus, typically reserved for, like, hostage negotiations, now directed at a stubborn, crumbling ball of dough.

He probably sticks his tongue out. Just a little. A sliver. For half a second. You imagine it. You know it happens.

At first, the dough resists. Frays. Crumbles. But he’s relentless.

He plants one forearm down to pin it - veins, tendons, shirt pulling tight around his biceps, fabric threatening to give out under the stress - while the other hand folds, presses, rolls into it.

Over and over, and over again.

You want to be that ball of dough.

You want to be folded. Pressed. Pinned. Kneaded into - God, you hate to say it - absolute fucking submission by those hands.

Those hands that are currently manhandling gluten but could so, so easily be doing the same to your thighs. (Your ass. [Your throat.])

You hope you’re not drooling in front of his coworkers. You casually touch your jaw to check if it’s hanging open.

It is.

You shut it. Immediately.

Even though all your jaw wants to do right now is go wide. Wide enough to take that meaty, vein-lined, dexterous-

“Good arm work, Aaron,” Dave comments. From right next to you.

Oh shit.

You flinch like you’ve been caught mid-crime (which, honestly, you have. Horniness in the first degree.)

“You okay there, cara?” he taunts, as you seriously consider pretending you don’t speak English. “Relax,” he chuckles. “It’s cute. I’ve seen that face before... on him.”

Then he winks and tilts his head toward his boyfriend. Your boyfriend.

“Aaron?”

“Oh yes. Aaron,” he says, far too smug for someone who probably still uses a landline. “Back when you texted him back, one of those early times - you were still…” he waves a hand vaguely, probably hoping to reach for a descriptor that won’t get him slapped. “I don’t know. Whatever it was you were doing.”

(Scared shitless you might accidentally become a six-year-old’s stepmom overnight. That’s what you were doing.)

“Anyway,” he continues, “it was right before your first date.”

“What?”

“Yeah. We were driving back from some crap consult in Delaware. Just the two of us. You texted. I swear to God, I thought he was gonna drive us straight into a cornfield.”

Dave even pauses to reenact it - mouth half-open, eyes wide, looking as if he’s just seen Jelena walk into his kitchen uninvited.

(Which is impressive, considering the man almost definitely doesn’t know what a Jelena is. That’s how shocked he looks.)

“He didn’t think you’d reply,” Dave says, shaking his head with a look that’s almost pitying. “Said it out loud. ‘She’s probably just being polite.’” He drops his voice into a pitch-perfect imitation of Aaron’s broody monotone. It’s eerily accurate. Almost disrespectfully good.

“And he was gripping the wheel, doing that thing - you know, the thumb thing he does when he’s overthinking? Like he’s trying to knead the anxiety out through his own damn cuticles?”

(You do know. You’ve probably picked up the same nervous tic by now, just from proximity.)

Thinking about it makes you want to glance at Aaron.

He’s still laser-focused on his dough. (One of his ears is a little fucked up, sure - but not that fucked up. He hears everything.)

(And yet, he’s not looking up.)

“He wanted to text back, but he didn’t want to seem too eager. So I said, ‘Go on. Dictate it. I’ll type it. He made me edit it three times before I could send it. Then made me sign it with his initials, like it was a legal briefing or some classified FBI memo or whatever the hell that was about.”

“I didn’t want it to sound informal,” Aaron mutters, somewhere in the vicinity of his kneading.

“Oh no,” Dave says, grinning, “you wanted it to sound cool. Like you weren’t already smitten. Like every word out of your mouth didn’t already sound like please love me back.”

You are trying so hard not to laugh you might rupture something.

“He even took the wrong exit – twice - while I was typing ‘Sounds great, what day works for you?’”

“Dave,” Aaron groans. “I told you the GPS was-”

“OH NONONONO. Don’t do that. You called me for weeks just to talk about her. You’d send me screenshots and ask if your texts sounded ‘approachable.’ She deserves to know how miserable-”

“Dave.”

You’re frozen. Wide-eyed. In awe. Possibly hallucinating. Then, just to twist the knife, Dave leans in and says: “You know what else?”

There’s a “Dave, no-” from Aaron that gets totally ignored.

“We were forty minutes late. I told the team the GPS glitched. But the truth is… your boyfriend was too busy falling in love in the driver’s seat.”

You glance at Aaron. He doesn’t look up. But his ears are red.

“Just thought you should know,” Dave adds, giving your shoulder a paternal (unsexual) little pat. “Next time you’re eyeing his forearms like they’re your last meal - remember he used to make the exact same face every time you texted back. Poor guy looked like his heart was about to crawl out of his tie.”

He pauses. Smirks. “And he still does it, by the way. Not sure what you’re texting him these days but-”

“Dave,” you and Aaron snap at the same time.

(Oh wow. You’re officially on nickname basis with your man’s man-besties now. Adorable.)

Too synchronized. Too defensive.

Which is juuust a bit telling.

Dave raises his eyebrows. Doesn’t press. Doesn’t have to.

Because now you’re the one stuck picturing Aaron blushing at his phone - except it’s not over some sweet little “can’t wait to see you” message.

It’s over the stuff you’ve been sending him lately.

And it’s definitely not lunch plans.

Aaron still signs them with his initials, though.

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