[insert cool blog name]

He rolls you over with fluid strength. You straddle his hips, knees sinking into the mattress. The sheet falls away, leaving you bare to the cool morning light. His body sprawls beneath you, powerful and ready.

You rise up and guide him to your entrance. Hot, blunt heat against slick skin draws a sharp moan from you both. You sink down, taking him inch by excruciating inch until you sit flush against his lap.

Simon groans, hands gripping your waist like a lifeline. His head falls back, jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck standing out in sharp relief.

You begin to move; a slow, sinuous roll of your hips. Hands braced on his chest, you feel the firm muscle and the soft, solid power of him beneath your palms. Your hair falls forward, shutting out the world. You lean down, taking his mouth in a deep, languid kiss. A share of breath and taste.

The pace gathers heat. The bed creaks softly, a steady cadence beneath the sound of your mingled breathing.

"You're so beautiful, Si," you whisper against his lips.

He opens his eyes, raw and hungry. "Look who's talking," he growls, one hand moving up to cradle your face, thumb stroking your cheek. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Riding me like this... Christ."

A whimper escapes you as the pleasure coils tight. You sit tall, changing the angle, and he hits deep enough to make sparks dance behind your eyes.

“Ohhh fuck, Si…”

"Shhh," he hushes, his grip on your hips guiding you, setting a pace that makes you see stars. "Gotta be quiet, doll. Johnny's right outside."

The threat of being heard sharpens every sensation. You bite your lip to muffle the moans tearing at your throat. Simon’s hand rests at your neck—a grounding, possessive weight. His hips drive upward to meet every downstroke, each movement devastatingly precise.

"I love you," you whisper.

His response is a choked groan. He pulls you tight against his chest, crushing you to him. "I love you," he breathes, his voice breaking. "My girl. My whole world."

The orgasm hits like a rolling wave, crashing over you from the inside out. You clamp down around him, a silent scream locked in your throat as shockwaves ripple through your body. He holds you through the tremor, whispering low praises until the shaking stops.

Before you can cool, he rolls you over, pinning you beneath him without ever slipping out. He braces himself on his forearms, caging you in, his iron composure completely shattered.

"Where...?" he pants against your skin.

"Inside," you whisper, fingers laced in his hair. "Always inside."

With a few hard, erratic thrusts, he follows you over the edge. The thick pulse of him fills you, a primal groan muffled against your shoulder. His body shudders against yours, then settles, heavy and warm.

You lie together as your heartbeats slow to a shared measure. Outside, the soft sounds of the kitchen continue, distant and irrelevant.

You kiss his temple. You feel his lips curve against your skin.

"I think I smell coffee," you murmur.

One who’s already grown far too accustomed to doing whatever the hell he wants after years spent presiding over his own allegedly successful traveling spectacle.

Or, at least, that is what it feels like when SSA Aaron Hotchner - the Unit Chief of the FBI’s glorified guesswork-and-astrology division, otherwise known to the public as the BAU - is assigned to the most important undercover operation of your career.

The very operation that was supposed to be the final stepping stone toward the recognition and political capital you’d need to earn a White Collar Unit of your own - but which could now be effortlessly commandeered by him through the combined power of seniority and whatever manifest-destiny complex seems to be bestowed upon agents with enough cronies higher up the chain of command.

After all, one phone call from His Royal Majesty Aaron Hotchner was apparently all it took to convince those same people that Gerard Nash’s murder might be connected to a serial killer the BAU has been chasing for years.

Never mind that Nash was bludgeoned to death in the very study where he kept Bella Simonetta - a Botticelli painted around 1485 and worth a modest one hundred and fifty million dollars - on the exact same night the painting disappeared.

Never mind that the bronze statue sitting on his desk is not only the obvious murder weapon, but also a perfect match for the forensic evidence.

Never mind that every detective, forensic analyst, the medical examiner, probably Hotchner's own mother if anyone bothered to ask her, and just about everyone else involved in the investigation with a functioning frontal lobe agrees that your art thief simply stumbled across Nash at home when he was supposed to be attending a work conference all the way in Athens, panicked, grabbed the nearest heavy object, and inadvertently turned an art heist into a crime of opportunity.

Hotchner, for his part, remains "confident" (he talks like a moron and looks like one) that the entire scene was meticulously staged by a far more sophisticated unsub - because apparently suspect or offender isn't sufficiently self-important terminology - who has resurfaced after a five-year absence.

Based on what, exactly? Pseudoscience?

A five-year cooling-off period is already improbable enough to make that level of certainty seem idiotic in the first place, and you don't even spend your working life immersed in severed-heads-in-freezers, Mercury-in-retrograde serial-killer bullshit to feel that confident.

(Pun intended.)

Still, you are prepared to extend him a limited amount of mercy, if - emphasis on if - he remembers his place and, more importantly, allows you to lead an operation for which you are objectively far better prepared.

You do not expect him to.

He is, after all, a man. Worse, a man with more than a decade of experience commanding one of the Bureau’s most expensive vanity projects. Worst of all, accommodating His Royal Majesty SSA Hotchner meant the undercover specialists had to dismantle your meticulously planned solo operation at the eleventh hour and rebuild it around the two of you.

Not even in some merciful arrangement that might have afforded you the basic dignity of conducting parallel investigations - preferably from opposite ends of the ship, with your paths crossing only when absolutely unavoidable and neither of you acknowledging the other beyond whatever minimum professional courtesy federal employment requires.

Ideally, you could have gone the entire operation without looking him directly in the face and returned to Quantico afterward pretending you had never met the man in your life.

A woman can only dream.

“You know what would be much more believable?” were the famous last words spoken somewhere during that redesign, shortly before you found yourself reassigned as his devoted wife.

You suppose that, if the Bureau is going to saddle you with a husband you never asked for, the least you can do is take inventory of the arrangement and establish exactly what you’re getting yourself into.

Pro: the circus tent in which you are trapped with Aaron Hotchner happens to be an obscenely luxurious, all-inclusive cruise touring Italy and Greece - complete with a twenty-four-hour open bar you are already certain will prove indispensable.

Con: the entire itinerary is built around a bastardized, grotesquely commercialized imitation of the Grand Tour - that centuries-old rite of passage popularized by writers, poets, artists, and assorted wealthy Europeans with enough time and, most importantly, obscene amounts of money to spend months drifting through France, Italy, and Greece in pursuit of classical ruins and Renaissance masterpieces. Goethe even managed to get an entire book out of his.

Which is to say, what was once a journey lasting months - sometimes years - undertaken in the belief that sustained exposure to ruins, landscapes, languages, and works of art might genuinely transform a person has now been compressed into a ten-day package holiday for tourists who want to return home sounding cultivated without sacrificing the four o’clock water-aerobics session.

In one word: tacky as fuck.

That’s three words, but the point stands.

Pro number two: again, open bar.

Con number two: once the ship leaves port, there is nowhere to escape Aaron Hotchner in the middle of the Mediterranean.

Assuming, of course, you ever make it to the Mediterranean in the first place.

At present, there is every possibility that these are your final hours on this sweet Earth, spent standing just within the limits of Aaron Hotchner’s personal space beneath an afternoon sun vicious enough to turn the entire passenger deck into a griddle, while what appears to be the population of a small town attempts to board the gaudiest cruise ship ever permitted to float.

Ten thousand people between passengers and crew, to be precise.

The line moves so slowly that minutes begin to mirage themselves into decades, and Hotchner appears to spend at least five of them - minutes or decades, who can say; Einstein was right, time is relative - debating whether conversation with you, the woman he is supposed to be convincingly married to for the next ten days, is strictly necessary.

“I still don’t understand how he got away with the painting,” Hotchner says at last. “Our technical analyst recovered every usable frame from the cameras in Nash’s private study and examined them one by one, but he never appeared in any of the footage before the feed went black.”

At least this particular burst of conversational genius occurs only once the two of you are safely six feet beyond the reach of any potentially interested ears on the passenger gangway.

“They,” you correct him. Only a man could refer to the most accomplished active art thief as male with such effortless certainty, as though no alternative had ever occurred to him. “What makes you so sure it’s even a man?”

“I apologize.”

That’s it? Really? No argument? No defensive little lecture on statistical likelihoods? Nothing?

Hotchner simply lifts his left hand to his face, and the pristine wedding band catches in the golden light. It’s strange how such an absentminded gesture can remind you so abruptly that an identical ring circles your own finger, too.

“You’re right,” he says. “We don’t know.”

He accepts the correction so readily - and with so little defensiveness - that it irritates you more than if he’d fought you on it. You had been fully prepared to resent him for at least another few minutes.

“The Magpie’s ability to avoid appearing in a single usable piece of footage over ten years of activity is remarkable,” he continues, apparently deciding to salvage himself by sacrificing one of his own sacred little principles in the process.

Everyone had warned you about this particular Aaron Hotchner quirk: do not refer to criminals by the nicknames bestowed upon them by the press unless you feel like discovering exactly how much disapproval one man can communicate through a single glare.

For reasons known only to him and whatever sacred commandments govern the BAU (Thou shalt not dignify thy unsub with a catchy nickname?), he apparently despises the practice. And yet… look at him now. The Magpie.

Whether the concession is supposed to impress you or simply prove his newfound commitment to this whole teamwork business, you have to admit he’s at least done enough homework to familiarize himself with the details of your side of the investigation, too.

Impressive? Not particularly. It’s simply more preparation than you expected from him - which, again, is an exceedingly generous assessment when your expectations began somewhere below zero.

“The Magpie,” you repeat, unable to keep the irony from your voice.

Their talent for forgery and evasion is undeniable, but choosing the bird most commonly associated with stealing shiny objects as a public alias is so painfully on the nose that it irritates you almost as much as the fact that the White Collar unit - and countless others - have spent years failing to catch them.

Why even choose it?

“There may be a certain elegance in its simplicity,” Hotchner offers, apparently treating a question you never actually voiced as though it deserves a genuine answer.

Perhaps this is one of those rare occasions when all that behavioral-analysis tea-leaf-reading bullshit happens to land on something useful by accident. Worse, his answer is far more thoughtful than the question deserves. Who does he think he is, Wordsworth?

“Oh, come on...”

The amusement already tugging at the corners of his eyes deepens at your huff of laughter, which should be enough to inform him that whatever tortured-poet moment he thought the two of you were sharing has been firmly rejected.

“The name is so obvious that it discourages anyone from taking it at face value,” he explains. “The genius lies in the fact that it invites overanalysis. People can’t help but assume there has to be something more behind it... like a clue or a hidden meaning.”

“And you don’t think there is one?”

“I think persuading investigators to spend time searching for meaning where there may be none would be entirely consistent with their methods.”

You don’t particularly appreciate the way his sarcasm carries the underlying assumption that you’d be exactly gullible enough to waste your time doing... all of that.

You already miss investigating alone.

Fun fact that will become relevant later: contrary to what common sense might suggest, the release of the infamous Titanic in 1997 did everything except send the cruise industry into decline. One would reasonably assume that a three-hour film culminating in the ship sinking - and roughly fifteen hundred people freezing to death in the North Atlantic - would serve as a more than adequate deterrent against voluntarily boarding one yourself.

Nothing, apparently, could have been further from the truth.

Cruise bookings skyrocketed to levels the industry had never seen before. Even more impressively, according to the promotional pamphlet you’re absentmindedly flipping through in the customer service lounge, the film helped introduce an entire generation of tourists in China to ocean-liner travel and reignited interest in transatlantic cruising.

Which, to your mind, proves a remarkably simple truth about capitalism: you don’t always have to seduce people into spending money. Sometimes you can scare the living shit out of them first - provided, of course, you package the trauma inside a sufficiently convincing love story.

At least that’s how it seems to work on cruise passengers.

And your husband for the next ten days, Aaron Hotchner (or, as you’re apparently supposed to get used to calling him, Richard Burke. Dick Burke? The jokes practically write themselves) has merely become the latest victim of that much larger machine.

Or perhaps it’s just some fucked-ass karma finally catching up with him.

Unlike the principal person of interest himself, however, you see absolutely no reason to panic.

He has paced the length of your suite what must be three thousand times by now - an approximation, admittedly, since you surrendered any attempt at keeping count several laps ago - barking into the phone to a certain “Dave” (lover?), insisting that the entire operation is compromised, that this has to be deliberate, that all my files and notes were in there...

...and somewhere along the way, you simply stop listening.

It’s all bullshit, anyway, if you know even the basics of retail.

A luxury cruise “accidentally” loses a passenger’s luggage before embarkation from London International Cruise Terminal. The passenger is left with nothing but the clothes on their back and no choice but to shop onboard, where - what an astonishing coincidence! - every boutique is conveniently stocked with designer clothing, luggage, toiletries, and every other necessity modern civilization has ever devised.

You’ve already tried explaining the obvious economics of the situation to him.

If Hotchner refuses to defer to your extensive reading on the subject - which, unlike whatever behavioral-analysis voodoo he’s currently performing, actually involves understanding how people are persuaded to part with their money - then you sincerely fail to see how his inability to recognize that he is very obviously wrong becomes anyone’s problem but his.

After all, no criminal attempting to sabotage an undercover investigation can guarantee that the suitcase they’ve supposedly stolen will miraculously reappear the moment the ship docks in Rome three days from now - much less provide real-time tracking updates of its precise location in the meantime.

If anything, overhearing the customer service representative calmly walk him through the recovery procedure does wonders for your own investigation. Between the genuine concern in her voice and the complete absence of anything even remotely suspicious in her behavior, you’re more than comfortable striking her name from the suspect list.

Only 9,997 passengers and crew members to go.

“So there’s no way to retrieve it before then?” Hotchner asks Amery, the customer service representative. “I had some important work documents in there.”

You can usually tell a great deal about a person by the way they treat service workers. To his credit, Aaron Hotchner doesn’t become the entitled asshole he very easily could have. He could, however, stand to loosen up.

“You always think about work, honey...” you murmur, resting a hand lightly in the hollow between his shoulder and the long line of his neck.

The fact that he immediately stiffens beneath your touch is, frankly, a far greater threat to the operation than the missing suitcase. His hand eventually finds your waist, but only after what looks suspiciously like a conscious internal debate. Even then, it’s so rigid that it does very little to sell the newlyweds act.

You’re left with no choice but to do some damage control.

“Not that I mind,” you continue sweetly. “But all your clothes are in there... though I suppose you won’t really be needing them.”

“Honey, please,” he mutters through gritted teeth as the apples of his cheeks paint themselves rouge. “I’m... sorry.”

“No offense taken.” Amery laughs. “Mrs. Burke’s right.”

Apparently, even a complete stranger finds it difficult to sympathize with a man who has just hypothetically spent upward of seven thousand dollars per person on a luxury cruise and still insists on remaining stubbornly preoccupied with work while his considerably hotter, smarter, infinitely better company - and, if you insist on preserving some degree of objectivity, much younger - wife, who is of course not fake in any legally or operationally relevant sense, is standing right beside him making it abundantly clear she can think of several far more enjoyable ways to keep him occupied in bed.

Not that there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that’ll ever happen.

“To apologize for the inconvenience,” she continues, “I’m authorized to offer you an additional twenty-five percent discount in all the boutiques on the shopping deck.”

“I read in today’s program there’s already a forty-percent sale,” you say, sounding perhaps a little too interested.

But is there really such a thing as being too prepared for an undercover operation? Perhaps he should have studied the daily program half as carefully.

Then he’d know the ship is hosting a black-tie welcome dinner tonight, which presents a problem unless he intends to attend in the same dark green short-sleeved polo he’s wearing now.

Sure, it’s hugging his biceps a little too well for your peace of mind - you do have eyes and, judging by the number of people who keep letting their gaze linger on him before visibly deflating at the sight of his wedding ring, so does everyone else - but that still doesn’t mean you’re willing to spend the next three days watching those more-than-respectable arms remain quite so snugly outlined by the exact same sleeves.

Especially not when they’re paired with the same white khakis he’s been wearing since he showed up at your house to pick you up this morning - if two in the morning even counts as morning.

“Honey, we should hurry before everything’s gone...” You sincerely hope that’s enough for him to catch the implication. You certainly can’t - and absolutely do not intend to - explain yourself any further. “...And I need a new handbag.”

You bat your eyelashes at him.

This is so stupid.

To his credit, he tosses the ball right back. He exhales through his nose with the weary resignation of a husband who has apparently endured this exact manoeuvre countless times before, his hand settling more securely at your waist as his thumb brushes idly over your skin.

“You can’t keep getting away with this,” he says, the corner of his mouth curving into an enamored smile so convincing it actually catches you off guard, “just because you look at me like that.”

Was that almost believable?

“Aww...” you coo, reaching up to pinch his cheek.

His eyes fall shut for half a second, as though he’s making a valiant show of tolerating the public affection - a performance that, mercifully, requires very little acting on his part . while secretly enjoying every second of it.

The secretly enjoying it part, unfortunately, is where the acting begins.

You can only hope cheek-pinching doesn’t earn itself a place on the growing list of non-negotiable physical contact once you’re safely back in the suite.

“That’s why I love you so much, sweet pea.”

The tiny twitch in his expression suggests you may have finally found his limit.

“Honey-”

You’re having entirely too much fun watching him fight the urge to wince.

“One more question.” You turn back to Amery. “Is the additional twenty-five percent applied to the original price, or to the discounted price?”

“The original price,” she replies with a professional smile. “The discounts stack.”

Your head snaps toward Hotchner, but he beats you to it.

“In that case, you deserve a new dress, too.”

“Two.”

“Three,” he counters without missing a beat, that infuriatingly fond smile returning to his face.

Didn’t this man literally write the book on hostage negotiation? What kind of negotiation is this supposed to be? You ask for two and he counters with more?

Disgusting.

Disgustingly sweet, given the circumstances.

Disgustingly picky when it comes to clothes.

This is the third shop you’ve dragged yourselves into, and you’re beginning to regret the confidence with which you volunteered to help.

Volunteered being an admittedly generous interpretation of events. You had very little choice in the matter, but your psychological well-being currently depends on maintaining the fiction that you magnanimously chose to shoulder this burden of your own free will.

Pretending you know which colors suit him best when the salesmen ask - a wife should know, or at least have some preferences - and which shades make his eyes pop is difficult when, in reality, you’ve barely managed to keep your attention above his shoulders for most of the afternoon.

He does fill out these shirts tolerably well, after all.

So, no, you have absolutely no idea what color his eyes actually are beyond... brown?

That’s the best you can do.

More distressing still is the discovery that Hotchner has very specific opinions about how everything is supposed to fit.

There is something unexpectedly attractive about how knowledgeable he is about all of this.

You may be biased - the last man you could loosely describe as someone you “dated” considered sweatpants appropriate attire for virtually every occasion - but watching Hotchner move through the racks of a store he has never set foot in with the ease of a regular customer, already knowing exactly what he likes, what to look for, and precisely how he expects everything to sit on his body is...

Intriguing.

That is the first word that comes to mind, anyway.

He has a very precise image of himself in mind, and absolutely no intention of settling for anything that fails to match it.

The cut is wrong. The jacket pulls when he buttons it - not that you particularly object to watching those poor buttons strain for their lives across his frame. The trousers break too much over the shoe. Or not enough. Apparently there is, in fact, a correct amount of fabric that should gather where the hem meets the top of the shoe, and Aaron Hotchner has opinions about every last inch of it.

“This is one of the easiest adjustments to make,” the salesperson assures him. “I have a few pairs unhemmed in the warehouse. If you like the cut, I can place an order and have them altered for you.”

Hotchner gives the trousers another critical once-over in the mirror.

“There’s no need. I always hem my own.”

Sure...

Still, he appears to have forgotten that he’s shopping aboard a cruise ship, not being fitted for a bespoke suit on Savile Row - and that, somewhere beneath all this fabric discourse, the two of you are technically supposed to be conducting an investigation.

The redeeming quality of this particular boutique, at least, is the complimentary champagne.

Hotchner turns toward the mirror again, smoothing one hand down the front of the jacket.

“What do you think of the cut?”

“I believe it looks magnificent on you, Mr. Burke,” the salesperson answers immediately. He’s delivered some variation of the same sycophantic, pretentious bullshit every single time Hotchner has emerged from the fitting room and taken up his customary position in front of the mirror beside your chair.

Hotchner’s eyes find yours in the reflection, apparently dismissing the salesperson’s opinion without a second thought.

“Sweetheart?” he prompts again. (Is he having fun with the pet names now?)

Oh. Right. He’d been asking you in the first place. The cut. Do you like the cut?

“It looks similar to that suit you already have...” you offer, aiming for neutrality. Whether repetition is a selling point or a deal breaker seems like the sort of thing he can decide for himself.

It would be considerably easier to form an opinion if he’d stop distracting you long enough to let you look at the actual suit - and stop touching himself.

Not like that.

Still.

He flips his collar up, pinches the lustrous fabric between two fingers, then smooths it carefully back into place. He adjusts the waistband. Turns sideways. Tugs the trousers a fraction tighter across his thigh to inspect the line, apparently oblivious to the fact that every minor correction only gives you another excuse to watch the fabric shift over a figure that is nowhere near as unfortunate as you’d prefer it to be.

You take another sip of champagne. “Is it comfortable?”

Hotchner extends one arm, frowns, then gives an experimental tug at the cuff of the black worsted-wool jacket.

“See?” He angles his wrist toward you. “It’s too short here.”

You stare at the offending sleeve. “By what, a millimeter?”

“The shirt cuff should show.”

“It does.”

“Not enough.” He pushes the jacket sleeve back slightly. “The rule is about half an inch of linen visible beneath the cuff.”

His mouth twitches as he glances down at the shirt. “Linen being the traditional term, obviously. This is silk.”

Obviously.

He runs one thick finger along the narrow strip of shirt peeking out beneath the jacket sleeve, indicating a discrepancy so microscopic you genuinely cannot understand how it has managed to become a problem at all.

You lean forward despite yourself.

“Oh...” Your gaze drifts back over the jacket. “That’s a pity. It fits you really well across the shoulders.”

Which is perhaps an understatement. It’s the first jacket you’ve seen all afternoon that appears capable of accommodating the full breadth of them without either pulling across his chest or hanging strangely everywhere else.

His gaze catches yours in the mirror, and that carefully performative, fond-husband smile slips back into place.

“You’re right.” He rolls his shoulders once, testing the range of motion. “You know how difficult it is for me to find something comfortable through here.”

Your eyes drop to his chest (look how far you’ve fallen) then return to his face so quickly you’re willing to insist the entire lapse was imperceptible.

Is he bragging about having a DD cup now?

In the end, the rare miracle of a jacket that actually fits across his shoulders may be the only reason he agrees to take the set - provided, of course, the trousers can be ordered unhemmed, exactly as promised.

“In all five years I’ve worked here, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite as particular as you, Mr. Burke,” the salesman remarks as he swipes Hotchner’s card.

Five years.

Hotchner smiles pleasantly at him, but beneath the counter his pinkie brushes against the side of your hand - a touch so deliberate, coming from a man this chronically constipated about physical contact, that there’s no mistaking it for an accident.

You catch the implication immediately. Five years is also exactly how long the BAU’s unsub has been inactive.

You turn your hand just enough for your little finger to graze his in return, then offer him your sweetest marital smile. Message received. He’s considerably less full of shit when he keeps his mouth shut and lets all that supposedly legendary profiler intuition communicate for him.

“Doesn’t it ever get repetitive?” Hotchner asks conversationally, turning his attention back to the salesman. “Five years of visiting the same cities over and over again?”

“Oh, never.” The salesman hands the card back with an easy smile. “You always find new ways to keep yourself occupied.”

No name tag, you notice.

Then Dave looks at him with a raised brow and a small smile, so he simply turns his phone upside down as he clears his throat and returns his attention to what’s being said. That move, though, draws the attention of the rest of the team, especially Morgan’s, who tries to fight back a laugh, and even Garcia stops speaking to find out what’s going on. 

His phone stops buzzing, so he lets out a sigh of relief and nods towards the technical analyst to prompt her to go on. 

Despite his relief, though, his mind can’t stop thinking, working overtime, because he desperately wants to know what you want from him. Maybe he should have left to answer after all, that would have ended his misery sooner, because now the buzzes again, just once, telling him there’s a new message. 

This makes Dave shake his head before he leans closer. “This seems important, why don’t you talk to her?” he asks with a knowing smile. 

“It’s okay, she can wait,” he lies. 

It’s not okay, though, and he’s the one who can barely wait. You didn’t just work together there, there was something between you, something fleeting but meaningful, and you matched oh-so-perfectly in his eyes, so it’s a tragedy that you don’t have the chance to build something together back home.

Although, what if? What if you’re calling because you’ve changed your mind about this? What if you’ll permanently stay here, working in Langley Falls? 

With a barely audible groan, he picks up his phone and reads the message. ‘Can you call me when you’re free for a moment? Thanks.’ Now, that’s ominous. What could that be about? 

After the briefing, he tells the team they have half an hour until take-off, so he rushes into his office ‘to get his bag,’ but let’s be honest, a group of profilers probably already know he’s going to call you back in the privacy of that room. But he couldn’t care less about what they know, what they think, his brain is laser-focused on you alone now. 

He dials the moment the door closes behind him, and he counts the seconds after hitting the call button. One. Two. Three. Four. God, when will you pick up? Seven. Eight. And then, finally, he hears your voice. You don’t sound panicked, but you don’t sound entirely calm either. You’re nervous, which is new, he always assumed you were always calm and collected, no matter the situation. 

You tell him that you’d like to talk to him, voice shaking a little from the uncertainty, but you want to meet in person, because it’s a topic you’d rather not discuss over the phone. So, he tells you to come over to his place, deep down hoping he will have the chance to help you calm down, that maybe you can be together one last time before you disappear from his life again. 

──── ୨୧ ────

By the time he gets home, you’re already waiting for him in front of his door, and he guesses you sneaked into the building after someone arrived or left. He doesn’t mind, you’re a welcome guest in the building in his eyes, but seeing you in person isn’t as cathartic as he expected it to be. Not because he suddenly realizes he doesn’t like you anymore, but because you look exhausted, and nervous as you’re fidgeting with your ring, and he’s worried something’s seriously wrong. 

“Hi,” he says with a small smile before he opens the door of his apartment. 

You nod, but don’t say anything, although at least you try to force a smile on your face. You follow him inside, and while he tells you to make yourself at home and sit down, you refuse to do that, instead you stand in the middle of the living room, nervously tapping your foot on the floor. 

For a brief moment, he thinks you’re on drugs. But then, out of the blue, you start talking. 

“I’ll be quick, I promise. I just… felt like you should know what’s going on, because you’re almost just as involved in it as I am,” you begin, sounding a little too serious to his liking. 

What could that be? The case they worked on back in Pakistan? Are they targets now? He doesn’t say a word, he can tell you need the time to pull your thoughts together, so no matter what he says, you’re just gonna wait until you know what to say. 

“Okay, there’s no easy way to say this, I have to rip this band-aid off, so here you go: I’m pregnant.”

Now he understands your behavior. You’re on the pill, but that’s not a hundred percent effective, and there was that one time when he was stupid enough to leave the condom in his bag when you had sex somewhere else, somewhere semi-public when neither of you could keep your pants on. 

But deep down he’s not mad, not even close, on the contrary, he’s surprisingly happy to hear that. He doesn’t let it show just yet, though, he wants to know why it’s bothering you so much – is it because you’re worried about his reaction, or because you decided not to keep the baby? 

“What do you want to do now?” he wonders, trying to keep a neutral tone. 

You blow out the air from your lungs, then shrug. “I don’t know. I’m eight weeks in, so we have time to decide what to do. I don’t want to force you to do something you don’t want, but you’re the father, I can’t make the decision alone,” you explain. 

“You don’t want to keep it?” 

“I don’t know, it depends entirely on what you think about this.”

Hotch finally lets his smile show as he steps closer to you and takes your hands. “It’s unexpected, sure, but I don’t mind. And maybe Jack will be happy to be a big brother too,” he adds. 

For the first time since you arrived, you finally let out a real, happy laugh, and he loves that sound. When he sees a stray teardrop falling down your face, one that’s probably the result of your relief, he reaches out to wipe it away with his thumb, then leans closer to place a kiss on your forehead. You let out a shaky breath when he kisses the tip of your nose. 

So, he goes on, and finally kisses you, not holding back at all, he’s just as passionate as was back in Pakistan, because he wants you to know he’s been thinking about you since you parted ways, and now he loves the chance to keep you forever. As much as he loved Haley, she wasn’t so happy about him traveling that much, which led to a divorce, but you do the same, so you will understand that he’s doing it while you’re home with the baby. 

And God, he can’t help himself, he subconsciously reaches for the hem of your shirt to pull it over your head, moving forward until your back hits the wall. You seem just as desperate for his touch as he is for yours, and he genuinely believes that he’s been starving ever since he came home. He missed you every day, he missed everything about you – your quirks, your sense of humor, and your good looks too, as shallow as it is. 

“Bedroom?” you ask when he pulls away for a moment to look you in the eye, silently asking for your permission to go further. 

Maybe it would've been easier if you hadn't overheard Morgan in Hotch's little office within the precinct. Maybe if you hadn't heard him ask for Spencer to take the assignment instead. Maybe then you wouldn't feel so much on pins and needles around Derek, the man you've been crushing on for near a year. Ever since you'd joined the BAU anyway.

Hotch had overriden Derek's reasons.

You'd listened to each one of Hotch's counter-reasons, taking them to heart. Almost as much as you'd taken the very reasons Derek didn't want to work with you.

The latter shouldn't have hurt as much as it did.

It's not like you two were more than work colleagues with some pretty blurred friendship boundaries. It didn't matter that the two of you spent a lot of time together outside the office. The fact was you'd had to assure Penelope on multiple occasions that you could never replace her as Derek's 'Babygirl', but you had wormed your way into becoming his 'Sweetheart' and 'Pretty Girl'. You didn't want to give those up, even if it seemed like Derek now wanted to.

Hearing him ask for Spencer to be your partner on this op had hurt worse if you were being truthful.

At least it did until Pen snuck up on you, having joined the team for this latest case.

"He's up to it again," she said in such a disappointing tone. Sparing her a glance showed you just how deep that disappointment and a flare of anger had sparked within her. Yet, all she said when she met your gaze was, "He's an idiot. Don't worry. I'll talk to him."

After that, everything seemed to line up.

Derek and you were set to play the bait.

Everything had been lined up based on the profile the team had created about the unsub. No detail was left undone from the suite booked at one of the main hotels to the ring shop and more.

The two of you would make an appearance at them all.

Spencer and Emily had done their homework and laid out each couple's itinerary. They'd even gone so far as to have them all dotted across the map that took up almost an entire wall of the precinct's conference room. Not a single stop was left out, allowing you and Derek to see the overlaps.

There were quite a few of them, surprisingly.

You hadn't expected that with the town being such a newlywed destination.

None of them stayed at the same hotel, yet they'd found some way to have almost everything else in common. So there had to be some type of overlap that your team was missing. That the police had been missing.

Hence, the undercover op.

Now, you were sitting beside Derek in a borrowed higher-end vehicle from the police impound. Everything about the car had been dummied to make the vehicle appear as a rental rather than something confiscated. Nobody would question it as long as they didn't dive in too deep.

The same could be said for the gold bands now adorning both your fingers alongside a simple diamond ring on your left hand. The slight weight shouldn't have been really noticable, yet you couldn't help but feel it.

Your quiet didn't go unnoticed, either.

"You okay?" Derek asked, his gaze leaving the road for a second to meet yours. "You're never this quiet in the car. Worried about this assignment?"

You shook your head.

Of all the things you worried about, the assignment itself was pretty straightforward. No, it was all the tangled emotions that were sure to arise from it. The aftermath even. Now, those were what had you concerned.

Not that you could tell him that.

Instead, you offered him a small grin, making sure your teeth peeked through. Profiler and best friend, Derek would be sure to pick up on your microexpressions, so you made sure they didn't give anything away. At least you hoped they didn't as you said, "Just thinking. That's all."

"About?"

"This and that."

It wasn't your intention to remain vague, but you also weren't ready to speak words you couldn't take back. To voice feelings that might not be returned. Now, that would've been too much to bear, especially when the two of you had barely begun this assignment.

Besides, you'd had enough practice over the last months to keep those words in check.

Thankfully, he didn't get the chance to push you further.

The hotel where you two would be carrying out this assignment came into view.

Morgan pulled into the guest parking lot and soon found a place closest to the main doors.

It's during these final moments alone that you decide to make the most of this undercover op. If you couldn't show Derek how you felt on a normal day, then maybe you could get away with showing him during this small period of what's ultimately pretend. Maybe it'll be enough to get it out of your system, slow the daily pining that's slowly grown from crush to full-blown love.

You could hope, right?

*****

Your hastily put-together plan worked well in the lobby.

It was rather easy in the expectation to play the role of doting, clingy newlywed with the front desk staff. What newlywed couple didn't play up that they were newlyweds and showcase a bit more PDA than usually acceptable in polite society?

As much as Derek tensed briefly, he rolled with it just as quickly. His smile and amusement at your antics actually spurred you on a bit more. His arm even tightened around your waist when you might've pulled away. It was almost as if he wanted you as close as possible. Almost like this wasn't necessarily all a show for the benefit of drawing out an unsub.

Almost.

The short elevator ride provided a small refuge from the public showing.

Stepping back, you flashed Derek a quick grin before sinking against the back wall of the elevator car. "Think we convinced them?"

"Oh, yeah," he chuckled. "I have no doubt they'll be gossiping about us for a while."

"Think the unsub's among them?"

He shrugged. "Would almost be nice if he was. Make our jobs easier if he showed himself sooner than later."

"Already ready to get rid of your bride?" you teased even as nerves skittered at the thought.

The last thing you wanted was for this to be already over, even as temporary as it was. A tiny part of you wanted at least the weekend to continue this charade. Another larger part of you hated that you wanted this time. The longer this unsub ran loose, the greater the chance another couple was taken, tortured, and tossed like garbage as the others.

He shook his head, his grin sliding still in place. "Nah, she's one of my best friends. Couldn't ever see myself wanting to get rid of her."

Well, now that was something you didn't expect. Especially not having overheard his conversation with Hotch and wanting to switch with Spencer. Was he playing with you? Did he know you'd overheard and hoped to make up to you in some way? That, you seriously doubted. If he'd known, he would've confronted you about it already. He wouldn't be playing like he didn't know.

Or would he?

Derek was a master of keeping his deeper feelings to himself. He was also a master of pushing away people who got too close to meaning something to him. You'd learned that not long after joining the team, and you'd seen it in action with the few relationships he's had. When things got serious, he found someway to force a fight, force a breakup. Not in a mean kind of way, but in a way to show he wasn't right for that person. In a way he could still walk away a hero in his own right.

Why these thoughts hit you right then, you couldn't say.

Or could you?

That short ride on the elevator ended your thoughts before they could delve any further.

It was just as well, too, as you quickly nestled into his side. You couldn't be too prepared in case someone stood on the other side of the opening doors.

Giggling as if he'd said something funny or perhaps a bit scandalous, you leaned into him. Your face rested in the crook of his shoulder and neck even as you scanned your surroundings quickly.

When it was clear no one was around, you pulled away, not far but enough to give you both some space.

At least, you tried to, but Derek's arm, which had returned to your waist, tightened again. It was enough to keep you next to him as you two moved towards your room. Your steps remained in sync as you soon located your room and Derek, chivalrous as ever, unlocked the door and shoved it open to allow you in first.

A soft giggle escaped you at his antics.

You even rewarded him with a bit more genuine kiss on his cheek, something that wasn't meant to be pretend at that moment. Something real shared between friends, even if one friend longed for more.

Unknown to you both, a door further down the hall opened and caught sight of you two.

The unsub watched you both for the few seconds it took you both to enter your room. To decide you two were perfect as their next selection. To start figuring out their next moves to get you two into their snare where they could play with you both at their leisure.

No, you two moved into the room, blissfully unaware and even grinning foolishly at each other.

It was clear the two of you enjoyed each other's company to anyone passing by. Even if they didn't clock you as newlyweds, those same would believe you two loved each other, cared about each other.

Thankfully, your room's door had shut quickly behind you.

Otherwise, your ruse might've been discovered, especially when you both spotted the problem at the same time.

You both might've been playing newlyweds to draw out an unsub.

Yet, that didn't prepare either of you for the room having only one bed.

Your eyes burned. The white background of the document was blinding. By your side, Aaron looked as pristine as he had at four in the morning, jacket off, sleeves rolled neatly twice to his forearms, dark hair completely unaffected by gravity or exhaustion. He was reviewing case files, his pen moving in methodical, precise strokes.

You blinked once. It lasted three seconds. You blinked twice. The next thing you registered was the subtle shift of the plane tilting into a gentle bank, and the sudden, grounding warmth beneath your cheek. You weren't leaning against the cold window anymore. Your head had fallen sideways, resting squarely against the firm, tailored fabric of Aaron’s shoulder.

You stiffened immediately, your eyes snapping open. You were ready to scramble backward, pull together a hurried apology about muscle fatigue, and scramble for your seat. But before you could even lift your chin, you felt a slight, deliberate pressure against your arm. Aaron hadn't moved an inch. His shoulder was held perfectly steady to support your weight, and his left arm was rested along the back of your seat, keeping you anchored so the turbulence wouldn't jostle you awake.

"Stay still," he murmured, his voice low and rich, not even looking up from the paper in his hand. "We have forty-five minutes before we land. The report can wait."

You held your breath for a second, then let out a slow, quiet exhale, letting your eyes drift shut again. He didn't shift. He didn't move away. He just kept reading, his breath a steady, comforting rhythm right above your crown.

2. The Briefing Room ( 11:42 PM )

The rest of the team had cleared out an hour ago. Piles of red-labeled folders were stacked in neat towers along the long oak table, waiting for the morning shift. You were sitting in the swivel chair at the end of the table, holding a lukewarm mug of black coffee that had long since lost its potency.

Aaron was standing by the glass wall, a phone pressed to his ear, his back turned as he handled the administrative fallout of a closed bureau audit. His voice was a calm, low baritone, filtering through the quiet room like a lullaby you hadn't asked for.

You rested your elbow on the table, propping your chin in your palm. Just five minutes, you told yourself. Just while he finishes the call.

Your palm slipped. Your head dipped forward, coming to rest not on the hard wood, but on something soft and woolly.

Aaron had walked over silently while wrapping up his call. Spotting you on the verge of collapsing forward onto the table, he had pulled his dark suit jacket off and folded it twice, sliding it right beneath your cheek just before your head landed.

When you jolted awake twenty minutes later, the jacket was still acting as a pillow, smelling faintly of sandalwood, and early morning rain. Aaron was sitting in the chair right next to you, silently reading through a thick stack of requisitions by the light of a single desk lamp.

"I was going to wake you," he said softly, turning a page without looking at you. "But you looked like you needed the rest more than I needed my coat."

3. The SUV (Interstate 95, Rainstorm)

It was pouring. The windshield wipers were sweeping back and forth in a hypnotizing, rhythm. Aaron was driving, his hands steady on the wheel at ten and two, his gaze fixed on the slick, dark highway ahead. You were in the passenger seat, tasked with navigating, but the GPS voice had been muted, and the heater blowing against your feet was a trap. Every time the car rolled over a smooth patch of asphalt, your chin would drop to your chest. Eventually, fatigue won out completely. You didn't just nod off, you fell sideways like a falling tree. Your head thudded lightly against his upper arm.

Aaron didn't flinch. With one hand on the steering wheel, he reached down, caught the edge of your coat, and pulled it up higher over your shoulders. Then, very carefully, he adjusted his driving posture slightly, leaning subtle weight into the door so you had more room to rest against him without sliding toward the gear shift. Every time he had to change lanes, he signaled far earlier than necessary, turning the wheel with painstaking smoothness so as not to disturb the warmth of you settled against his side.

4. The Office Couch (After a 36-Hour Dragnet)

It was four in the morning. The bullpen was pitch black, save for the emergency lights near the exits. You had walked into Aaron's office to drop off a final stack of victim profiles, only to find him sitting at his desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers, looking thoroughly spent.

"You should go home, Aaron," you had said quietly, leaning against the doorframe.

"Ten more minutes," he’d replied, though his voice sounded raspy. "I just need to finish signing off on these travel vouchers."

You walked over, sat down on the leather sofa along the side wall to wait for him, intending to offer him a ride home so he wouldn't have to drive tired. You leaned your head back against the leather cushions, crossing your arms over your chest. Ten seconds later, you were under. When you woke up, it was six-thirty in the morning. The faint gray light of dawn was filtering through the blinds. You weren't sitting upright anymore, you were lying down on the couch, your feet tucked onto the cushions. A thick, dark fleece blanket, the one Aaron kept in his lower desk drawer for emergency overnights was pulled all the way up to your chin.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, with his thigh underneath your head, was Aaron. He had his elbow resting against the arm of the couch, holding a hot paper cup of tea, watching the bullpen outside his glass walls. He hadn't left his office. He had just stayed there, sitting quietly on the corner of the leather sofa, guarding your sleep until the building started to wake up.

"Good morning," he said softly, turning his head to offer a faint, genuinely warm smile. "You snore when you're completely exhausted."

"I do not," you grumbled, pulling the blanket over your nose.

"You do," a hint of a smile curving his lips. "It's fine. I didn't mind."

5. The Suburb Case (Safehouse Porch)

It was a rare moment of downtime during an active surveillance detail in rural Virginia. The house was quiet, the local authorities were handling the outer perimeter, and you and Aaron were stationed on the covered back porch, watching the treeline through night-vision optics.

The air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of damp pine and autumn leaves. You were sitting side-by-side on an old wooden bench, wrapped in matching heavy canvas coats. The silence between you was comfortable, the kind built over years of shared trauma, unsaid understanding, and a quiet, simmering affection that neither of you had ever explicitly named. Your head began to droop. You fought it, snapping your eyes open twice, but the cold air and the heavy silence were overwhelming. Without thinking, you tilted sideways, resting your temple against his shoulder again. This time, Aaron didn't just hold still. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his arm and slid it around your shoulders, pulling you in closer against his side to block the wind. He rested his chin lightly against the top of your head, his thumb stroking smooth, rhythmic circles into the fabric of your coat sleeve.

"I've got the treeline," he whispered into your hair, his voice vibrating softly against your temple. "Go to sleep." You didn't fight it. You pressed deeper into his shoulder, falling asleep to the steady, comforting beat of his heart beneath his chest.

The One Time You Fell Asleep Next to Him

The case had ended with a pile of tedious paperwork and a collective sense of relief. To celebrate the end of a six-week stretch that had taken the team through three different time zones, Rossi had practically dragged everyone to a quiet, dimly lit dive bar three blocks from the Quantico building.

What was supposed to be "one quick drink" rapidly devolved into rounds of cheap whiskey, loud laughter, and heavy releases of built-up tension. You, usually a moderate drinker, had vastly underestimated the impact of two double scotches on an empty, overtired stomach. By midnight, the world was spinning in cozy, warm loops. Aaron had knocked back his fair share, his tie loose around his unbuttoned collar.

When you stumbled slightly coming out of the booth, his hand was immediately at the small of your back, steadying you with practiced ease.

"Alright," Aaron said quietly, his lips brushing near your ear so you could hear him over the jukebox. "Time to get you home."

"I'm fine," you giggled, leaning back against his chest as he guided you toward the door. "I am a picture of professional composure, Agent Hotchner."

"You're slurring the word 'composure,'" he murmured, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward in amusement.

The cab to his apartment was a blur of streetlights and soft jazz playing from the car radio. You don't quite remember walking up the stairs to his front door, but you remembered the feeling of his front hallway, quiet, clean, and smelling of him. You ended up in his kitchen, leaning against the counter while he brought you a tall glass of ice water.

"Drink all of it," he ordered gently, standing right in front of you.

You took a sip, set the glass down, and looked up at him. The suit jacket was gone. His tie was loosened, his top two buttons undone, revealing the warm skin of his throat. The warm, alcohol-induced courage took over before your brain could filter it.

You reached out, catching the edge of his open collar, and pulled him down to you. Aaron caught his breath, his hands instantly resting on your hips to steady you. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice suddenly thick, his dark eyes searching yours with absolute seriousness. "You've had a lot to drink, and you're exhausted-"

"Hotch," you interrupted, stepping closer so your chest pressed against his. "Aaron. I've been waiting for you to look at me like this for three years. Please."

The restraint that Aaron Hotchner had cultivated for decades seemed to snap in a single, quiet beat. He didn't answer with words. His mouth came down on yours, deep and heavy and desperate, lifting you easily off your feet and onto the kitchen counter. You gasped into his mouth, your hands sliding into his hair, pulling him as close as physical law permitted.

The transition from the kitchen to his bedroom was a chaotic, beautiful haze of discarded clothes, heavy breathing, and skin burning against skin. It wasn't gentle, not entirely. It was the desperate release of months of quiet yearning, heavy glances across briefing tables, and deliberate, excruciating professionalism finally collapsing under its own weight.

Aaron was meticulous, reverent, and surprisingly intense. He held your wrists pinned lightly above your head, his eyes never leaving yours as he moved inside you, driving you to a shattering, breathless peak that left you sobbing his name against his neck. When he finally let go, his own release came with a low, ragged groan into the crook of your shoulder, his heavy weight pressing down on you in the best possible way.

Afterward, the room was silent save for the sound of your synchronized, heavy breathing. The sheets were tangled around your waists. The air in the bedroom was cool, but the heat radiating off Aaron’s bare skin was suffocatingly wonderful. He rolled onto his side, pulling you back against his chest, his strong arm wrapping tightly around your waist, anchoring your spine against his stomach. He pulled the heavy comforter up over both of your shoulders, burying his face into the back of your neck.

"Aaron?" you whispered into the dark room, feeling a soft wave of liquid exhaustion settling deep into your bones.

"Hmm?" he murmured, his lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss against the delicate skin just behind your ear.

"I'm not on your shoulder this time."

You felt him smile against your skin, a real, unfiltered, genuine laugh that vibrated straight through your body.

Your eyes burned. The white background of the document was blinding. By your side, Aaron looked as pristine as he had at four in the morning, jacket off, sleeves rolled neatly twice to his forearms, dark hair completely unaffected by gravity or exhaustion. He was reviewing case files, his pen moving in methodical, precise strokes.

You blinked once. It lasted three seconds. You blinked twice. The next thing you registered was the subtle shift of the plane tilting into a gentle bank, and the sudden, grounding warmth beneath your cheek. You weren't leaning against the cold window anymore. Your head had fallen sideways, resting squarely against the firm, tailored fabric of Aaron’s shoulder.

You stiffened immediately, your eyes snapping open. You were ready to scramble backward, pull together a hurried apology about muscle fatigue, and scramble for your seat. But before you could even lift your chin, you felt a slight, deliberate pressure against your arm. Aaron hadn't moved an inch. His shoulder was held perfectly steady to support your weight, and his left arm was rested along the back of your seat, keeping you anchored so the turbulence wouldn't jostle you awake.

"Stay still," he murmured, his voice low and rich, not even looking up from the paper in his hand. "We have forty-five minutes before we land. The report can wait."

You held your breath for a second, then let out a slow, quiet exhale, letting your eyes drift shut again. He didn't shift. He didn't move away. He just kept reading, his breath a steady, comforting rhythm right above your crown.

2. The Briefing Room ( 11:42 PM )

The rest of the team had cleared out an hour ago. Piles of red-labeled folders were stacked in neat towers along the long oak table, waiting for the morning shift. You were sitting in the swivel chair at the end of the table, holding a lukewarm mug of black coffee that had long since lost its potency.

Aaron was standing by the glass wall, a phone pressed to his ear, his back turned as he handled the administrative fallout of a closed bureau audit. His voice was a calm, low baritone, filtering through the quiet room like a lullaby you hadn't asked for.

You rested your elbow on the table, propping your chin in your palm. Just five minutes, you told yourself. Just while he finishes the call.

Your palm slipped. Your head dipped forward, coming to rest not on the hard wood, but on something soft and woolly.

Aaron had walked over silently while wrapping up his call. Spotting you on the verge of collapsing forward onto the table, he had pulled his dark suit jacket off and folded it twice, sliding it right beneath your cheek just before your head landed.

When you jolted awake twenty minutes later, the jacket was still acting as a pillow, smelling faintly of sandalwood, and early morning rain. Aaron was sitting in the chair right next to you, silently reading through a thick stack of requisitions by the light of a single desk lamp.

"I was going to wake you," he said softly, turning a page without looking at you. "But you looked like you needed the rest more than I needed my coat."

3. The SUV (Interstate 95, Rainstorm)

It was pouring. The windshield wipers were sweeping back and forth in a hypnotizing, rhythm. Aaron was driving, his hands steady on the wheel at ten and two, his gaze fixed on the slick, dark highway ahead. You were in the passenger seat, tasked with navigating, but the GPS voice had been muted, and the heater blowing against your feet was a trap. Every time the car rolled over a smooth patch of asphalt, your chin would drop to your chest. Eventually, fatigue won out completely. You didn't just nod off, you fell sideways like a falling tree. Your head thudded lightly against his upper arm.

Aaron didn't flinch. With one hand on the steering wheel, he reached down, caught the edge of your coat, and pulled it up higher over your shoulders. Then, very carefully, he adjusted his driving posture slightly, leaning subtle weight into the door so you had more room to rest against him without sliding toward the gear shift. Every time he had to change lanes, he signaled far earlier than necessary, turning the wheel with painstaking smoothness so as not to disturb the warmth of you settled against his side.

4. The Office Couch (After a 36-Hour Dragnet)

It was four in the morning. The bullpen was pitch black, save for the emergency lights near the exits. You had walked into Aaron's office to drop off a final stack of victim profiles, only to find him sitting at his desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers, looking thoroughly spent.

"You should go home, Aaron," you had said quietly, leaning against the doorframe.

"Ten more minutes," he’d replied, though his voice sounded raspy. "I just need to finish signing off on these travel vouchers."

You walked over, sat down on the leather sofa along the side wall to wait for him, intending to offer him a ride home so he wouldn't have to drive tired. You leaned your head back against the leather cushions, crossing your arms over your chest. Ten seconds later, you were under. When you woke up, it was six-thirty in the morning. The faint gray light of dawn was filtering through the blinds. You weren't sitting upright anymore, you were lying down on the couch, your feet tucked onto the cushions. A thick, dark fleece blanket, the one Aaron kept in his lower desk drawer for emergency overnights was pulled all the way up to your chin.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, with his thigh underneath your head, was Aaron. He had his elbow resting against the arm of the couch, holding a hot paper cup of tea, watching the bullpen outside his glass walls. He hadn't left his office. He had just stayed there, sitting quietly on the corner of the leather sofa, guarding your sleep until the building started to wake up.

"Good morning," he said softly, turning his head to offer a faint, genuinely warm smile. "You snore when you're completely exhausted."

"I do not," you grumbled, pulling the blanket over your nose.

"You do," a hint of a smile curving his lips. "It's fine. I didn't mind."

5. The Suburb Case (Safehouse Porch)

It was a rare moment of downtime during an active surveillance detail in rural Virginia. The house was quiet, the local authorities were handling the outer perimeter, and you and Aaron were stationed on the covered back porch, watching the treeline through night-vision optics.

The air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of damp pine and autumn leaves. You were sitting side-by-side on an old wooden bench, wrapped in matching heavy canvas coats. The silence between you was comfortable, the kind built over years of shared trauma, unsaid understanding, and a quiet, simmering affection that neither of you had ever explicitly named. Your head began to droop. You fought it, snapping your eyes open twice, but the cold air and the heavy silence were overwhelming. Without thinking, you tilted sideways, resting your temple against his shoulder again. This time, Aaron didn't just hold still. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his arm and slid it around your shoulders, pulling you in closer against his side to block the wind. He rested his chin lightly against the top of your head, his thumb stroking smooth, rhythmic circles into the fabric of your coat sleeve.

"I've got the treeline," he whispered into your hair, his voice vibrating softly against your temple. "Go to sleep." You didn't fight it. You pressed deeper into his shoulder, falling asleep to the steady, comforting beat of his heart beneath his chest.

The One Time You Fell Asleep Next to Him

The case had ended with a pile of tedious paperwork and a collective sense of relief. To celebrate the end of a six-week stretch that had taken the team through three different time zones, Rossi had practically dragged everyone to a quiet, dimly lit dive bar three blocks from the Quantico building.

What was supposed to be "one quick drink" rapidly devolved into rounds of cheap whiskey, loud laughter, and heavy releases of built-up tension. You, usually a moderate drinker, had vastly underestimated the impact of two double scotches on an empty, overtired stomach. By midnight, the world was spinning in cozy, warm loops. Aaron had knocked back his fair share, his tie loose around his unbuttoned collar.

When you stumbled slightly coming out of the booth, his hand was immediately at the small of your back, steadying you with practiced ease.

"Alright," Aaron said quietly, his lips brushing near your ear so you could hear him over the jukebox. "Time to get you home."

"I'm fine," you giggled, leaning back against his chest as he guided you toward the door. "I am a picture of professional composure, Agent Hotchner."

"You're slurring the word 'composure,'" he murmured, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward in amusement.

The cab to his apartment was a blur of streetlights and soft jazz playing from the car radio. You don't quite remember walking up the stairs to his front door, but you remembered the feeling of his front hallway, quiet, clean, and smelling of him. You ended up in his kitchen, leaning against the counter while he brought you a tall glass of ice water.

"Drink all of it," he ordered gently, standing right in front of you.

You took a sip, set the glass down, and looked up at him. The suit jacket was gone. His tie was loosened, his top two buttons undone, revealing the warm skin of his throat. The warm, alcohol-induced courage took over before your brain could filter it.

You reached out, catching the edge of his open collar, and pulled him down to you. Aaron caught his breath, his hands instantly resting on your hips to steady you. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice suddenly thick, his dark eyes searching yours with absolute seriousness. "You've had a lot to drink, and you're exhausted-"

"Hotch," you interrupted, stepping closer so your chest pressed against his. "Aaron. I've been waiting for you to look at me like this for three years. Please."

The restraint that Aaron Hotchner had cultivated for decades seemed to snap in a single, quiet beat. He didn't answer with words. His mouth came down on yours, deep and heavy and desperate, lifting you easily off your feet and onto the kitchen counter. You gasped into his mouth, your hands sliding into his hair, pulling him as close as physical law permitted.

The transition from the kitchen to his bedroom was a chaotic, beautiful haze of discarded clothes, heavy breathing, and skin burning against skin. It wasn't gentle, not entirely. It was the desperate release of months of quiet yearning, heavy glances across briefing tables, and deliberate, excruciating professionalism finally collapsing under its own weight.

Aaron was meticulous, reverent, and surprisingly intense. He held your wrists pinned lightly above your head, his eyes never leaving yours as he moved inside you, driving you to a shattering, breathless peak that left you sobbing his name against his neck. When he finally let go, his own release came with a low, ragged groan into the crook of your shoulder, his heavy weight pressing down on you in the best possible way.

Afterward, the room was silent save for the sound of your synchronized, heavy breathing. The sheets were tangled around your waists. The air in the bedroom was cool, but the heat radiating off Aaron’s bare skin was suffocatingly wonderful. He rolled onto his side, pulling you back against his chest, his strong arm wrapping tightly around your waist, anchoring your spine against his stomach. He pulled the heavy comforter up over both of your shoulders, burying his face into the back of your neck.

"Aaron?" you whispered into the dark room, feeling a soft wave of liquid exhaustion settling deep into your bones.

"Hmm?" he murmured, his lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss against the delicate skin just behind your ear.

"I'm not on your shoulder this time."

You felt him smile against your skin, a real, unfiltered, genuine laugh that vibrated straight through your body.

Throwing your head back, you groan silently. “Alright, I’m on my way.” You take a deep breath in and pull yourself off the floor like you weighed a ton. “I’m sorry, I’ve been called into work, gotta go.” You say, giving the poor guy a sad smile while pulling up your jeans and your very not work appropriate top. It was a dark red, covered in rhinestones, a deep v neck that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. A pathetic wave comes from your wrist, and the cold air hits you quicker than expected, climbing into your car.

The elevator ride up to the BAU floor took an eternity, each floor button lighting up as you pass it. It slows on floor four, and you shuffle over as the doors slide open. Your eyes don’t leave your shoes as one of the guys from cyber crimes steps into the space. Finally, getting to floor seven, you give him a tight lipped smile before stalking into the bullpen.

You hear him before you see him, Derek laughing at something dorky Spencer had said. Then, a loud whistle comes from him as you walk into view. “Wow, I guess someone had a good night.”

“Not even close.” You laugh, rummaging through your desk and yanking out the go bag, throwing it over your shoulder.

“Bad date?” He pipes, his eyebrows pulling together, concerned.

“Great date.” You sigh, giving a pointed look to Emily, Pen and JJ. All of them leant on Emily’s desk and she shakes her head.

“Again?” She asks, a disbelief in her tone.

“Again!” You exclaim, throwing your hands up before walking to the bathroom to get changed into your work clothes.

“Is this one of those girl’s night things I don’t understand?” Derek asks, a sassy hand on his hip.

“You don’t even know the half of it sugar.” Penelope shakes her head, the feathers she had stuck in her buns swaying back and forth.

“Round table!” Hotch barks to the group from the catwalk, his head nodding towards the conference room.

Everyone filters into the room, all taking their usual seats around the table. The projector screen pulls down slowly, and Penelope stood awaiting her go.

“Where’s-.” Hotch started, but was quickly silenced by your light jogging into the room, pretty much throwing yourself down in the chair.

“Good night?” Dave asks with a smirk. You glare at him darkly, like ice shooting from your eyes, a scowl forming on your face. “Ok!” He turns away from you to the screen.

Penelope clicks on the remote, and the projector whirs. Three photos of brunette woman pop up on the screen, and then gruesome ones follow up. “Here’s our victims, Lila Grey, Jess Jones and Kira Walker. All found slaughtered in alleyways, necks cut.” Pen squeaked, looking away from the screen.

“The Glendale police department want our help in locating the killer, they can’t figure out where in the city he is or who he is.” Hotch says, “Wheels up in 20, debrief on the jet, he’s escalating.”

-

The jet was warm, a stark comparison from the runway, that was biting cold and climbed through the fabric of your shirt. It was still a marvel to you that you had a private jet, it was smoother than an economy plane.

Magnolia files were plopped down in front of you, the back of Hotch’s suit comes into vision and he sits down in his regular seat, back to the small kitchenette. His eyes didn’t even cast you glance but that gets pushed to the back of your mind when your eyes are filled with puddles of blood.

“Seems pretty cut and dry right?” JJ calls, “Middle-aged, probably single, woman hating.”

You were all in agreement, “What did the women do for work?” You ask, staring at their photos.

“They all worked in finance, behind the scenes.” Derek says, “So maybe financial incentives?”

“They have a list of suspects for us to look at once we get there, two of them can’t be located so that’s our priority.” Hotch commands, “But rest till we get there, I know I interrupted your sleep.”

“Well most of us.” Emily jokes, nudging you with her shoulder and a catty smile spreads across her lips.

“Shut up.” You say with gritted teeth, and a light slap to her shoulder and you couldn’t help the bright red heat that spread across your face. Catching dark eyes across the jet, you somehow think you turn more red and focus on the file in front of you.

It’s early when you land, the sunrise just peeking through the clouds and shrouds everything in a bright orange hue. You stare out of the window of the police precinct, a cup of strong black coffee. Spencer was drawing on the whiteboard figuring out a geographical profile for the two missing suspects while the rest of the team checked on the others already interviewed, just to double check.

You stare at the map, the huge circles not making any sense. “What have you marked?”

“Where they were killed and their addresses.” He stated, stroking his straight tie.

“Add in their workplaces.” You say, Spencer adds the dots to the whiteboard. Connecting each women’s three points into a triangle and he circles it in a bright red. “Call Pen!” You instruct Spencer and he pulls his flip phone out, refusing to succumb to modern technology.

“You’re on speaker.” He tells her as soon as she picks up.

“Pen! Look for previous offenders in a three mile radius of Davis street.” A stressed hand pulls through your hair. “Look for previous assault offenders, battery, bar fights, domestic.” You list off, a nod from approval from Spencer.

“Sorry pumpkin! But there’s no one with a previous history in this area.” She says, deflated, before apologising and leaving the call.

“Stupid geographical profile.” You scoff, shoving yourself into the chair.

“Maybe we could add.” Spencer starts but you cut him off, tone harsh and sharp.

“We’re not gunna find him!” As it came out you felt the unneeded venom. “Sorry. Just frustrated.” You give him a weak smile and the rest of the team appear in that moment.

“Everything ok?” JJ asks, looking between you and Spencer.

“No result from the geographical.” You shrug with a sigh. “I’ve also looked over lots of people work priors. They either don’t normally branch to women or are back in prison.”

Morning turned to evening and you hadn’t left the same position from earlier, the whole team looking over files upon files. Hope was slowly dwindling as a large pile of takeaway coffee cups piled into a mountain.

“Alright, let’s call it a night.” Hotch says, leaning back and standing up. “Unfortunately for the hotel two people have to share. They were fully booked for the night, no cancellations.”

A collective groan comes from the team, that’s the last thing you all wanted to hear after a long day. The short ride to the hotel was a quiet one, silent prayers hoping, wishing to have a room to yourself.

-

“Ok, let’s draw draws.” Derek says, pulling out the straws he kept in his go bag. You all had decided when Strauss wanted to stiff you with sharing rooms, you’d draw straws, keep it fair and by chance. This led to Spencer rambling on about probability and how it wasn’t really fair due to preconceived notions on picking. “It’s bossmans turn to share so whoever draws the short straw, get cozy!”

Derek pulls his first, long. He sighs and holds them to Dave, long. His smile was brass and unwavering and he heads off to bed before anyone else had pulled theirs. Spencer pulls his, long. Derek finally gets to you, putting them in front of you.

You cast your mind back to Spencer’s rant about preconceived notions. You knew you were privy to picking straws on the right, due to being right handed. A leap of faith, you pull one on the left. It stops a second after you grab it and you shut your eyes in disappointment.

Everyone else releases the deep breaths they were holding. You tried to not show Hotch your face, trying to not deeply offend him.

Begrudgingly, you drag your feet behind Hotch, not missing the sympathetic looks from the rest of the team, waving them off weakly.

“Well there goes her nightly plans.” Emily snorts to JJ, tapping shoulders as they walk away with a snicker.

Hotch’s ears prick up at that, her hushed tone knowing that whatever that was wasn’t meant for his ears, especially because you shoved an aggressive middle finger in their direction. That only made Emily and JJ laugh more.

He leads the way to the room, carefully checking behind to make sure you’re still trailing behind him. You were, you looked exhausted. Feet dragging, bag dragging and rubbing your eyes. Holding the key card up to the censor, it beeps loudly and he pushes open the door.

One bed, he strode in the hotel room, putting his go bag on the small couch. “Sorry you have to share with me. I’ll take the couch.”

You rolled your eyes, you knew he was trying to be chivalrous. “It’s fine, and no. You won’t fit on that couch.” You shake your head. “You’re not the first man I’ve shared a bed with.” You joke, he doesn’t find it funny.

“I’ll take the side near the door.” He states seriously. You nod.

“Fine, you can have the first shower, I prefer to shower in the morning.” Your tone is harsh. He nods and you stare at his back, glaring daggers into his back hoping he’d bleed out and die so he couldn’t interrupt another one of your orgasms.

The shower turns on and rushes loudly. You pull on your pyjamas and slip into the sheets, staring longingly at your go bag, desperate for the release that was hidden away in a deep pocket.

He came out of the shower in just a towel. He was sparkling in the shitty LED light of the hotel room, he doesn’t look at you as he quickly rummages through his go bag, pulling out his pyjamas and muttering a “Sorry” then disappearing back into the bathroom.

Then he climbed into bed next to you, it was awkward and the two of you were ridged. Him because of the unwavering professionalism that suffocated his every move, and you still ever so frustrated of your lack of getting off. Realising the two of you had never shared a room before, you wondered what kind of sleeper he was. Emily was a wriggler, JJ a kicker, Spencer a mumbler and Derek a snorer. Rossi somehow had never shared a room with anyone on the team, you were convinced he rigged it.

He sat with a case file open and you sighed. “It’s getting late, can I turn the light off?” You ask, frustrated after thirty minutes of tossing and turning, the white bright hotel light hindering you.

“Yep.” His brows scrunch at your harsh tone. You look into his eyes, he’s profiling you, a deep breath sucked in and you flipped over.

“Night.” Your tone is clipped as the room is covered in a thick layer of darkness, you fall asleep quickly and set a quiet alarm for far to early in the morning.

You awoke to the first shrill ring of your alarm. Eyes pulling open into pure blackness. Sitting up, you take a couple moments to breathe, staring at your phone and reading a text from Pen.

‘How’s the boss?’

‘Ridged like a corpse.’

Your eyes gloss over him even though you couldn’t see him, you hadn’t woke once in the night to any movement or snoring, it was so… Hotch.

Wandering to the shower with your go bag, it spurts on, sputtering until it comes to a steady stream. You step in and the shower, it’s warmer than the hotel showers you were used to. An involuntary sigh pulls from you, hands running through your hair, washing out the shampoo. Your cheap body wash also being ran down the drain.

Before you knew it, your hands and slipped down south. Lightly touching, ghosting over yourself and you bite your lip. One of your fingers grazes your clit and a louder sigh crawls from you, you bring a hand to your mouth as you start moving in frantic circles.

Images of Hotch from the night before cloud your mind, his back muscles glistening in the hotel light and the faint glimpse of chest hair you’d seen when he hid away back in this very room. Before you could debate the morality of wanking to your boss who was one thin hotel wall over, two of your fingers slip inside of yourself and you bite a lip so hard you draw blood.

Your chest heaves and you lean against the shower wall. The white tiles were cold against the heat radiating from you, the contrast making everything more intense. Your mind filled with Hotch, arms, back, chest. That ten second glimpse was enough to send you spiralling. The warmth of him next to you in the bed had your legs trembling. Wandering, your mind jumped to what he would be like as a lover, would the strokes be deep or rough, you hoped rough. Teetering, closer and closer to the edge you were panting, deep in your fantasy you could almost hear his voice.

Except you could hear his voice, and he was pounding on the door.

“Hey! We need to get going and I need to brush my teeth.”

The shower turned cold, and you gasped loudly, jumping out.

A film reel plays in your head, there’s no way this is happening again. Every date, you finally get to the edge, the phone rings. No matter what time, nine am, two am, his voice always pulled you out of the deepest pleasure.

“Are you ok?” He shouted through the door, wrapping a towel around yourself you open the door to him standing right there.

“Yeah, there’s no more hot water.” You pull your lips together into a line, pushing past him so he can’t profile your flushed face. The bathroom door locks behind him.

You imagined taking an axe to the door psycho style, but then came to your senses, scrambling into your work clothes and running out of the room before he could finish up in the bathroom.

-

When you get to the precinct, Emily is already there. She’s pouring over case files and you sit down next to her, coffee already in hand.

“What have you got?” You ask.

“There’s this guy, lives just outside the geo profile and has a prior of car damage. Before you say unrelated, it was his ex’s car and she was in it.” You nod along and point to the very small yes pile.

“Somebody didn’t get a good night sleep.” She laughs looking at the tiredness on your face.

“He has a sixth sense.” You hiss quietly, looking around to make sure no one else was in earshot. “I was mid shower.”

“Yikes.” She grits her teeth and looks at you sympathetically. Then her sympathy turns to that sly grin she would get, when she was about to suggest something incredibly stupid. “You know.” Her voice is low, “There is one way to fix his sixth sense..”

“You’re crazy.”

“We all know you have a thing for him.” She tilts her head knowingly, you shake your head and look to the door.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Swallowing thickly, you refuse to meet her eyes.

“The rest of the team might not be able to profile you well, but I can.” She teases and nudges your shoulder.

You roll your eyes and scoff. Eyes staring at the file in front of you, swiftly moving on from Emily’s brash accusation. Fingers tapping on the wooden table, a smooth rhythm.

The rest of the day goes slow, dragging by, each second like pulling teeth. Spent pulling files and cross checking.

You hum and grunt all day, dozens of trips to the coffee machine, gulping them down. Derek catches Emily’s eye across the table, he nods towards you with a raised eyebrow. She waves a hand dismissively as you come back in, mug full to the brim. It’s five when you finally get a hit.

“Don Forbes.” Penelope states. “Has a matching record with Emily’s car guy, and his face suspiciously matches the one from the mugshot. He changed his name, that’s why we couldn’t find him.”

Hotch stands straight at that, pulling on his blazer he’d haphazardly shoved off during the day. You all follow suit, pulling on your vests and triple checking the gun was settled in your holster.

“Prentiss.” He states as she appears next to him, pulling her to a small corridor away from the team. “Is she ok to be in the field?” He nods towards you.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” She nods, “She’s just..” She takes a pregnant pause. “Frustrated.”

Hotch furrows his eyebrows, “At the case?”

“She’s going to kill me.” Emily mutters and checks over her shoulder, seeing you strap Spencer into his vest. “You keep interrupting her, private moments.” She widens her eyes intentionally.

“Ah.” He responds flatly. Nodding that stiff nod he always did. “Let’s go then.”

-

“Don Forbes, FBI!” Derek calls through the door, banging on it loudly.

No answer, JJ peers through the window. “He’s running!” She shouts, and you and Hotch immediately run to the back of the house, Derek kicks down the door and the rest of the team file in.

As you round the corner, he barrels through his own back door and tries to barge through the back gate and into the woods that lined his home. But, Hotch grabs the back of his collar, yanking him back and throwing him down into his shed wall. Pulling his arms behind him and clinking the cuffs on.

Everything turns into a blur, the heat crawls up from your legs, up your torso and to your neck. It’s like the world goes silent, only focused on Hotch and how his biceps made the fabric on his shirt pull tight.

-

Finally, Don had been questioned, confessed and checked, to be kept in holding to his trial. Breathing a breath of fresh air, the team stands outside of the precinct.

“Let’s stay the night, It’s too cloudy for the jet now.” Hotch nods, glancing up to the sky.

“Alright! Who wants to hit a bar?” Rossi rocks back on his heels, throwing his blazer over his shoulder. An echoing chorus of yes’s and please’s come from everyone.

“I think I’ll give this one a miss, I’m exhausted.” You smile and wave, quickly walking over to the car, ready to drive off.

A knock comes on the window just as you put the key in the ignition. Hotch is stood there, and you nod. He pulls open the door and climbs in.

“Not feeling it?” You ask and drive out.

“No. I’m also feeling tired.”

You glance out the corner of your eye, “I must be great in bed huh?” You joke and your eyes widen. “That’s not what I meant.” Bright red flush covers your face and you are thankful to be pulling into the hotel car park.

“I don’t doubt it.” He says smirking, climbing out of the car.

Following him to the room, he clicks open the door and you flop down on you flop down on the bed face first, you sigh, the cheap hotel mattress feeling like a cloud after a whole day of ridged plastic chairs. “Could you grab my pyjamas?” You mutter to Hotch.

“Sure.” He laughs and shakes his head at you, your head pressed into the pillow.

Pulling through your bag, he grabs your pyjamas, they were long sleeved and had a pattern of small forest animals dotted all over. Underneath, there was a pink vibrator, staring at it.

“You always bring this with you?” You hear Hotch ask and you lazily turn your head.

He’s stood there, holding your vibrator in his hand taking steps towards you. You scurry up, and sit on the edge of the bed. And he was walking towards you slowly, clicking it on. You wanted the ground to open and swallow you up. The embarrassment consumes you, your mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

“I know about your little predicament.” He smiles, it’s teasing and tantalising. He’s now towering in front of you, taking your jaw in his hand and’s forcing you to look up at him.

“Oh god.” You didn’t think you could get redder, but the heat on your cheeks becomes burning.

He clicks off the vibe and throws it to the side. Pulling you up, and putting a stabilising hand around your back. “This ok?” He checks in, you nod furiously.

Then, he kisses you. His lips are warm, and you already squeak, his arms hold you close, his chest was hard, solid, his muscles flexing as one of his hand snakes to the back of your head. You grab his bicep, fingers digging in. He groans into the kiss now, catching your bottom lip with his teeth.

Your hands wander, the cotton shirt smooth under your fingers. The top button pops open easily, the next one too. You hadn’t stopped kissing, his tongue dips into your mouth and your fingers fumble with the buttons. He was warm, everywhere.

Finally, the bottom button pops open, the shirt flows open. Pulling away from Aaron’s kiss, your eyes drag down his naked chest. Unable to control yourself, your lips attach to the base of Aaron’s jaw, and your hands feel him up. He’s breathy, you suck on his neck, not caring about the consequences tomorrow.

Pulling you off, he looks down at you, those pools of dark brown hypnotising you. He bends down, now focusing on your neck, in between teasing kisses he whispers, “I’m sorry for interrupting your fun.” His nose drags up the side of your neck.

“How about I make it up to you?”

You’re sure you melt at that, your legs turning to jelly. His strong, sturdy arms hold you up, sweeping your legs up, he throws you down onto the bed. The old springs of the hotel bed creak as you bounce. Sliding up to the pillows, he moves.

It’s predatory, the way he crawled up to you. Him the lion, you the helpless deer. His fingers popped open your slacks, yanking down your legs, coming face to face with your red underwear.

“For me?” He smirks, pinging the elastic back into your hip, it makes you jolt. It’s a light stinging pain, you don’t mind.

“You wish.” You cut back, a flashy smile on your face. He doesn’t like that, the deep, serious unit chief spreads across his face.

“You’re going regret that.” He growls, pulling the panties down your legs, leaving you bare to him. Before you even suck in a breath, his mouth is on you.

Licking a deep stripe up you, entrance to clit, a deep shudder pulls from your body. Landing on your clit, his tongue flicks softly. Sparks of pleasure shoot through your pelvis, and your hands grip onto the pillow surrounding your head.

“Oh fuck!” You cry out, your head shoving back.

He smirks against you, big, thick hands pulling your thighs apart, leaving you wide open, to his mercy. His licks turn into sucking, taking your clit into your mouth and your thigh muscle tenses. His teeth graze it, and you’re sure you saw stars.

Legs trembling through his tight grip, your eyes squeeze shut as you cum. He’s relentless, licking you through your orgasm, making your hips jump.

He looks up at you, his eyebrows peaked, chin shiny with your juices. “God.” You sigh at the sight.

“Not God baby, just me.” He smirks and dives back in. Going back to the rough licks and pokes he was using before. He licks another full stripe up you, pulling back and blowing cool air over your clit.

Your hands jump into his hair, it’s softer than you thought it would be. You claw at his scalp and you feel your abs tense. One of his hands snakes down, sliding up from the bottom, catching your wetness as he goes. His finger slips inside of you and you moan out. “Sir!”

You don’t even think about the title, but you feel him groan against you, the vibrations travel up you.

“You can give me another?” He asks, and another finger pushes in. He pushes up and brushes your g spot. You swear you feel your brain turn to mush, the constant stimulation, his tongue flicking your clit and fingers pumping in and out you. The tension builds in your abdomen and you nod furiously, the front bits of your hair fall in front of your face.

Through your hair you meet his eyes, “Use your words.” He instructs, non relenting.

“Yes, Yes! Yes!” You scream out, sure the dirty looks you were going to get from the receptionist tomorrow morning would be scorning. You cum on his face again, your body going limp and you spread out, chest heaving up and down, sweat clung to the shirt you hadn’t removed yet.

That came off in quick succession, Aaron crawling up your body, hands grabbing one side each, he yanks. The buttons fly everywhere and he pulls it off you, snaking his hands around your back and unhooked your bra, also pulling that from your body.

“My shirt!” You whine, “That’s my favourite one.”

He kisses you softly this time, a look of fake sympathy in his eyes. “Aww, I’ll buy you three more, in different colours.”

He’s back on your neck, sucking the skin in, giving you a deeper hickey next to the lighter one he’d left earlier. Your hips jump up and brush against his cock, and you gasp. His teeth scrape along your neck as you push up against him.

He undoes his slacks, pulling them down and his boxers with them and your eyes wander down.

“Woah.” You say before you can think about it, your eyes become as wide as saucers.

He drags his cock up and down you, covering the tip of his cock in your wetness. Your teeth clamp down on your lip, as it catches on your entrance and he pushes in ever so slightly.

“I’m gunna rip you open.” He says breathlessly, his voice deeper than you’d ever heard it.

Before you can even formulate a quip, he pushes into you, the stretch making your eyebrows pull together and a begging look in your eyes.

“Oh!” You moan, and he pulls out and slams back in, the sudden fullness sending you into a deep pleasure spiral.

He lowers himself down to his forearms, his head right next to yours, his thick forearms flexed and the veins popping out. His thrusts are uniform and rough.

“You going to cum again for me?” He asks, knowing he won’t last long in tight warmth you had surrounded him in. It felt like every time he pulled out, you sucked him back in.

“Yea.” You whisper breathlessly, and you sink your teeth into the flesh on his forearms. Mumbling the constant string of moans pulling from your throat.

Feeling like you’re floating, you’d never felt this amount of pleasure as his cock dragged deliciously against your g spot. “So-so full.” You squeak out, eyes rolling back.

“Where’s all that annoyance now huh?” You could hear the smirk and his thrusts get faster, transporting you into another world.

“Ah- ah! Aaron!” You suck in a deep breath. You’re sure your brain goes black, not capable of a competent thought. Your whole body trembles this time, the coil in your pelvis just begging to snap.

“Cum for me baby.”

That’s all it takes, you tighten around him, nails digging into his back and a silent cry comes from your throat. He slows slightly, however, still thrusting and bringing himself over the edge.

Pushing to the hilt, he releases inside of you. He places his forehead against yours and he slips out of you.

“You ok?” He checks in, stroking your hair.

“Yeah.” There’s a satisfied smile on your face as he quickly darts off to the bathroom, coming back with a wet rag and cleaning his cum off of your pussy and inner thighs, you shiver, still sensitive.

Once you’re clean, he clambers into bed next to you, pulling the covers over you, neither rod you bothering to get dressed.

“You know, I might have to make a complaint to HR,” You joke. “I’m sure that my boss cumming in me might come under sexual harassment.”

“Hmm.” He hums. “Well I think my subordinate rubbing herself in the shower while imagining me naked also comes under sexual harassment.” He jokes back.

Horror pulls over your face. “I’m gunna kill Em-”

He cuts you off, “Emily didn’t tell me about the shower, but she did tell me about you not coming for a while, well she implied it.”

“Then how?” Your jaw is slack and that familiar redness lights you up like a christmas string.

“I am a profiler.” He smiles. “Your face was very, very red.”

“Oh shut up. You’re the one who came out here in a towel and decided to just show me those back muscles.” You roll your eyes.

“My back muscles?” He smirks, smugness all over his face.

“Fuck off.” You huff, “Sir.” You add slyly.

It’s now his turn to turn bright red.

-

“Is anyone going to address the elephant in the room?” Derek asks after everyone is a couple drinks in, looser from the alcohol.

“Or do you mean the elephants that aren’t in the room?” JJ snorts, taking another sip out of her drink. Her and Emily make eyecontact across the circular table and start giggling manically.

“What? What did I miss?” Spencer tilts his head in confusion. “There’s no elephants in the room.”

“Hotch and y/n sitting in a tree.” JJ starts.

“What you think they’re kissing?” Spencer exclaims, pushing up his glasses in shock.

“Oh they’re doing a lot more than kissing. I can’t wait to tell Penelope.” She finishes, typing furiously on her phone.

-

an: heyy party people, thanks for reading this!! this idea was a long time coming so please please like and reblog it! i need that fbi agent so baddddd. comment if you want to be added to a tag list!!

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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“We watched them kiss how many times? You’ve moved on?”

You flip open your file, “You’re welcome for the obsession.”

Hotch doesn’t look up, “Focus, please.”

You look up and glance around at everyone in the room. Rossi’s eyes are already studying you with a small smile. 

He taps his fingers on the table before speaking, “Let’s profile a hypothetical.”

This cannot be good. 

Morgan perks up instantly, “Oh, this I like.” 

“Two coworkers,” Rossi continues, “Highly disciplined. Private. Excellent compartmentalization skills.” 

The team begins looking between you and Aaron in a curious way.

Emily laughs, “No way. Not with this unit. Impossible.”

“Is it?” Rossi questions. 

Hotch doesn’t look up from his file, and you take a sip of your coffee. No reaction. 

JJ leans forward, joining their hypothetical, “Okay, so what was the trigger event?”

“Undercover assignment that required intimacy.” Rossi gestures between you two. 

Morgan grins, “And boom, they’re both suddenly very convincing.”

“We’re right here.” You finally set down your file.

“Yes,” Garcia grins, “That’s what makes this fun!”

“That level of physical ease doesn’t come overnight.”

You don’t dare cut a look to Aaron, that would not go unnoticed right now. They go back and forth continuing to debate if Hotch was faking uncomfortability the first day undercover or if he was just uncomfortable under their eyes. 

“At the risk of my job,” Garcia meekly raises her hand, “After the Flagstaff case I did look into their schedules-”

“Garcia!” Hotch warns. 

She unsurprisingly barrels on anyway, “Their access badges have had the same arrival time since Halloween.” 

“Lots of people arrive at the same time.”

“Y/n and Hotch also leave within three minutes of each other on non-field days.” Spencer states. 

Hotch finally exhales one through his nose. You look up to the ceiling and fight the urge to just close your eyes. 

“And they have the same gym sessions blocked out every Tuesday and Thursday, but their badges are never scanned in.”

“Oh my god!” JJ gasps.

Rossi squints, “Why are you so calm right now?”

“Because,” You keep your voice even, “this is entertaining.”

Emily’s eyes widen and she smacks your shoulder, “Oh my god.”

You look over to Aaron finally, the corner of his mouth twitching up barely. 

“Hotch.” Morgan notices it too and calls him out. 

No denial. Just silence.

Morgan leans back slowly, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

The realization sinks in over the rest of the team. They no longer shout their ideas and evidence over each other, instead they look between you two eagerly. Chomping at the bit for any and every detail. 

JJ covers her mouth and repeats, “Oh my god!”

Morgan’s jaw falls slack, “You faked gym sessions to hide dating?”

Hotch finally speaks, his voice is calm and dry. 

“Cardio was implied.”

The room explodes. 

“You aren’t denying it.” Emily is practically shaking your shoulders now. 

You laugh while shrugging her away, “You’re profilers. Profile.” 

“Oh, that is so confirmation!” Garcia squeals. 

Morgan suddenly stands from his chair, “Months! This has been going on for months?”

Rossi smiles, still just looking between you at Hotch, “Minimum.”

“I feel betrayed,” Emily groans, “How many girls nights out have we had?”

“You let me make undercover kiss jokes for weeks.” Morgan chuckles, shaking his head in pure disbelief.

You can’t help but grin, “You seemed happy.” 

“This is the most controlled long-con relationship in BAU history.” Spencer points out. 

Hotch meets their eyes. No apology. Just a quiet and quick acknowledgement. 

“Yes.” 

Rossi claps one, “Well done. Both of you.” 

“You realize that we’re never letting this go, right?” 

You smile softly now, “We never never expected you would.”

“Human resources have been aware since the relationship started.” Hotch states. 

“Which was when exactly?” JJ raises her brows.

You know that Hotch has a lot he wants to reassure the team about. The power imbalance. The age-gap. All of them are completely valid concerns. 

Hotch finally closes his file and sets it back on the table. It’s clear they aren’t going to start this briefing anytime soon.

-

Towards the end of the day everyone is reviewing their reports at their desks, trying to get their work done to head home for the weekend. The bullpen is still riding the high of the new revelation, the energy still bouncing off of everyone. You contemplated working in the lair to get away from everyone’s teasing comments, but you know being trapped one on one with Garcia is far more dangerous than everyone else.

The elevator dings. 

JJ looks up first, “Hey, Jack’s here.”

Hotch looks up immediately, coming to stand at the top of the stairs by the door to his office. His whole expression softens when Jack trots in with his backpack on and a paper in hand. He makes a beeline for his dad, but detours halfway. Straight to you. 

You roll back from your desk in time for a big hug. 

“Hi.”

You smile down at him and instinctively brush his hair back, “Hey, you.”

Morgan freezes mid sip and Emily’s brows raise a couple degrees. 

JJ whispers, “Oh this is going to be good.”

Hotch clears his throat lightly, “Jack.”

He turns to look up at his dad, “What?”

“You wanna show me what you brought?” Hotch nods down to the piece of paper he has protectively in his hand. 

“In a second,” He turns back to you, “Are you still coming over tonight?”

The bullpen goes totally silent. 

You don’t miss a beat, “That depends. Did you do your chores already?”

“Yeah, Dad said we should do it before you came over this weekend.”

“Jack…” Hotch warns. 

You can tell he’s just getting started. 

“Look!” He finally presents the piece of paper he had been holding. It’s a drawing of three stick figures all standing together holding hands. It isn’t labeled with names, but the details make it’s clear who he drew. Jack, Aaron, and you. One of many drawings.

“This is a good one!” You smile softly and lean down to press a kiss to the top of his head, “Go show your dad.”

He launches off of you to chase up the stairs to his dad.

“We built a full behavioral timeline and Garcia hacked into numerous FBI databases when we could’ve just asked the witness.” Rossi shakes his head. 

“Always ask the child.” JJ nods. 

“Thanks, buddy.” Hotch takes the drawing from him and bends down to scoop him up in a hug. 

“I know you said we’re not supposed to tell people at work-”

“It’s okay, buddy.” Aaron reassures. 

“Weeks of deduction.” Morgan shakes his head. 

“Hell, you should hire him.” Rossi chuckles, “He’s a natural.” 

Jack looks confused, “Y/n said that honesty matters.”

You laugh, “Yes, I did. It does matter.” 

You hear Emily huff an ‘mhm’ somewhere behind you. You’re sure the whole team just rolled their eyes. 

Morgan walks up to Jack and offers him a fist bump, “You closed the case faster than all of us.”

Jack beams, “Does that mean I get a badge?”

“Okay,” Emily leans against the edge of her desk and asks, “Details, Agent.”

Jack nods seriously, “She sleeps over a lot.”

“Jack.” 

Hotch’s warning to his son does nothing to stop the red that takes over your face. Your elbows are resting on your desk when you put your head down in your hands.

“What? Honesty matters.”

“Define ‘a lot’.” Morgan continues. 

You look up and make eye contact with Aaron. Wordlessly, still holding each other’s gaze while letting them continue asking Jack a plethora of questions. You smile, quiet teasing with a shake of your head, “Rookie mistake.”

“All victims are couples,” Garcia looks over the group, ducking away from the images, “All of the attacks occurred in the Coyote Springs just outside Flagstaff, Arizona. All within a gated subdivision, heavy neighborhood watch presence, but it’s a large neighborhood. There’s nearly 6,000 residents in the community.” 

“Woah, big neighborhood.” Emily sighs, looking back to the file. 

Reid clears his throat, “The murders span six weeks. Each murder escalates in violence, but consistent within method. This suggests the unsub is a local. Or at least familiar with the area.”

“Not a drifter,” Morgan adds, “He knows their routines. Knows who belongs.” 

Your gaze sharpens, “Which means he’s comfortable there.”

Hotch nods without looking up to acknowledge you, “And patient.” 

Reid leans forward to add more, “There’s another commonality. Every couple has a significant age gap.”

“Yeah,” JJ agrees, “All of these women are at least fifteen years younger than their husbands.” 

“That’s not a coincidence,” Prentiss confirms, “That’s motive.”

You speak without hesitation, “Resentment.” 

Rossi turns to you, “Elaborate.” 

“When I was working in hostage negotiation,” Your voice calm, “large age gaps in relationships came from extremist ideology and vigilante thinking. They see themselves as a moral authority. He isn’t killing these couples, he’s correcting something he sees as wrong.” 

All eyes on you. Your eyes dart to Hotch. “Theft of youth.” 

Reid’s eyes light up, “A savior complex. He may believe he’s actually rescuing the younger woman from-”

“-a perceived predator,” Rossi finishes. 

“Which makes Coyote Springs his hunting ground. His own aquarium. Everyone inside thinks they’re safe.” Emily continues. 

Hotch exhales slowly, “So we canvass. Interview neighbors. Increase patrol presence.” 

“That could spook him into hiding.” JJ argues. 

“Yeah,” Morgan agrees, “This guy thrives on control. You flood the neighborhood with badges, he disappears.” 

Prentiss tilts her head, “Unless he comes to us.” 

You feel the shift before anyone could actually say it. Her eyes darting to you. Then Hotch. 

Rossi’s eyes flick between you two now, “You’re thinking bait.” 

It didn’t go over anyone’s heads that you and Hotch have a scarily similar age gap as the victims. Beautiful. Active. The perfect setup. 

“I’m thinking opportunity.” Emily corrects, “Two people who could fit the pattern. A new couple moves in quietly. Lets the unsub think something perfect fell in his lap.”

“No.”

Hotch’s answer immediate. 

You blink. Then laugh. “Wow, look at us already on the same page.” 

His eyes turn to you now, sharp and warning, “This is not a game.” 

“Never said it was,” You reply lightly, “I’m just agreeing that maybe the two of us playing house isn’t the best play.”

JJ steps in, “If the unsub is watching, he’s choosing couples that look stable. Happy.”

“Yet another reason this wouldn’t work.” You mutter, Rossi elbow in your side tells you he’s the only one that caught the comment. 

“Which means?” Garcia questions. 

“A married couple, or at least one that presents that way would statistically be the most appealing to draw him out.”

More eyes fall back to you. 

You slowly look around, “Oh, absolutely not.”

Hotch doesn’t look at you, “Agreed.” 

“You telling me you’re scared, Y/Ln?” Morgan grins. 

You look him dead in the eye, “I’m telling you I’m smart enough to know that Hotch and I can’t sell married and in love.” 

“Well,” Rossi turns his gaze over to the rest of the group, “Are there any other alternatives here on the team?” 

The group looks around at each other. You know there aren’t any. You don’t need to look around to know that most of them are too close in age to raise that kind of brow. 

“I can’t believe this.” You shake your head with a humorless laugh. 

Hotch’s jaw tightens, “He’s looking for a performance.” 

The rest of the room quiets at his words. You’d be ashamed to admit to the warmth pooling at the dark look on his eyes. This shouldn’t be able to work. 

“Look, you’re both qualified.” Emily claps, “It wouldn’t be your first time going undercover.”

“I mean no offense by it, but Y/Ln is the perfect trophy wife bait.” Morgan holds up his hands in self defense. 

“Somehow I’m still offended.”

Rossi raises a brow to you and Hotch, “The unsub is escalating. If we miss him again, someone else dies. This isn’t about what’s comfortable. It’s about leverage.” 

Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. Silence stretches while everyone tries to come up with an alternative.

“So maybe it is the best play.” You sigh, coming to the same conclusion as the rest of the team.  Your hand slides to cover your face with a groan. 

“For what it’s worth, this is like so hot.” Garcia bites the end of her pen looking at you both, “So hot.” 

“Babygirl.” Morgan sighs with the shake of his head. 

“You’re enjoying this way too much, Pen.” You warn with a smile that is anything but friendly. 

“Immensly.” She continues to beam. 

A long pause. 

Finally Hotch exhales, “If we do this-”

He pauses to read your face. You aren’t supposed to profile each other, but you can see he’s looking to see if you’re truly comfortable. If you can do this. You know you can. You give him a subtle nod. 

“-we do everything by the book.” He continues, “Full surveillance. Backup within minutes. No unnecessary risks.”

You suddenly smirk, “You’re gonna hate every second of this.” 

“Yes,” He said flatly. You grin wider, “Then I’m in.” 

He looks at you. Really looks. 

“Wheels up in two hours. We prep covers immediately.”

Garcia squeals. Prentiss smirks at you. Morgan claps once.

This is going to get complicated. 

-

The jet's familiar hum rings over them lowly. You’re curled sideways in your chair, Emily to your right. Hotch directly across from you, Rossi to his left. A table separating you both. Morgan was making calls to get a stakeout van for the rest of the team. They wouldn’t be the only eyes on you two while undercover, but they would be most watchful. 

“Alright,” You smile, “Let’s build our beautiful lie.” 

Hotch’s eyes dart to yours over his file, “We already have preliminary covers.”

“Preliminary is not convincing.” You reply, turning to Emily for help. 

“She’s right.” She shrugs, “Especially since we know this unsub is watching his victims.”

He doesn’t argue, he simply sets down his file on the table.  “Progress.” You bite your cheek.  “Aaron Hayes. Attorney. Corporate litigation.” 

“Third marriage,” You add with cheer, “Which no offence, you can sell.” 

His mouth tightens, “It’s realistic considering the previous victims.” 

“And it adds baggage.” You continue, “Baggage is realistic. That’s what he’ll like.” 

Rossi raises his brows, “What about you?”

“Y/n Hayes.” You quickly reach out a hand to shake his with a pearly smile plastered to your face, “Twenty-six. Former marketing assistant. Now… professionally vague.”

“Trophy wife.” Hotch said flatly. You beam, “Exactly.” 

His eyes study you, “You’re sure you’re comfortable with this?” 

“Hotch, you’ve seen me pretend to be sympathetic to truly terrible people. Being hot and underestimated is a vacation.” 

He exhales quietly. 

“I want to add something else.”

He looks back up. 

“Power.” 

He frowns, “Explain.” 

“You’re already older. Already established. Already married multiple times, but I think we lean into it harder.” You lean back in your chair, “Make you a professor. Law school. Ethics. Authority.”

He immediately stiffens, “That’s unnecessary.” 

“Is it?” You tilt your head, “Our unsub in punishing perceived imbalance. We don’t know how long he watches his victims, he may have already picked his next couple. But if we tip the scale? Give him something that makes his skin crawl.”

The jet goes silent as it’s clear he is contemplating your idea. 

“A professor implies mentorship. Influence.” 

“And the implication that I was dazzled,” You add lightly, “By your mind. Your status. Your power.” 

The silence stretches back over the jet. 

“That makes you uncomfortable.” You observe. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, again, “It complicates the dynamic.” 

“That’s the point.”

He stares for a long moment, “Fine.” 

You grin, “Great! So, how did we meet?”

“A conference.” 

“Boring. Try again.” 

He sighs, “Guest lecture. You were assisting with event coordination.” 

“Ooh, I love that!” You agree, “I spilled coffee on you.” 

“You did not.” 

“I absolutely did. You were very patient about it. Very kind. I thought you were intimidating.”

Hotch’s lips twitch into a smile for a split second before he could correct it . For a split second, you saw it. 

“And then,” You continue, “you asked me to dinner. Which I declined. Twice.”

“Why twice?” 

“Because it makes you chase.” You answer obviously, “And because neighbors love that kind of story.” 

Hotch closes his file, “You’ve done this before.” 

“Something tells me you really didn’t look at my resume all the times Straus sent it back when I was brought on.”

Rossi leans in closer to Hotch, “She did this for a year for the FBI. It was prior to the hostage negotiation.” 

You watch the realization and curiosity pass over his face. He hadn’t looked into you much at all. There wasn’t much desire after Straus insisted upon you. 

The jet began to descend shortly after that. By the time you guys touchdown, the local office had coordinated everything. A house at the end of a cul-de-sac in the middle of Coyote Springs. Clean title. Plausible history. A U-Haul full of furniture staged to look like it was from a loving family. 

As soon as you both stepped onto the tarmac, you slid your hand into Hotch’s. Walking over to the small public airport rather than the waiting black SUVs with the rest of the team. Hotch froze for a half second. 

“Breathe. Like you like me.”

“I don’t-”

“In character.” You correct yourself, “It's game on.”

Realistically the unsub could be anyone. Which is why they weren’t afforded with the luxury of riding with the rest of the team. The show has begun. 

You keep your posture relaxed, smiling brightly. By the time Hotch parks the U-Haul in the driveway, three neighbors were already watching from their front porches. 

“Showtime.” You give Hotch one last smile before hopping out of the truck. 

You make your way around to his side, wrapping both arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek. You look at the house in front of you both. He stiffened again, then recovered. He slips an arm around your shoulders.

“There you go.” You whisper, “Professor Hayes.” 

He glances down at you, “You’re enjoying this.” 

“Immensely.” You tease. 

They began unloading the truck under several curious eyes. You laugh loudly at his dry comments. Leaning into him. Stolen touches and passes. Selling the lie with ease. 

“Newlyweds?” A voice calls out.

You turn to see a woman from two houses down. You answer without skipping a beat, “Six months!” 

Hotch blinks, looking back down at you. 

You tip your head forward before Hotch can flinch. Ripping off the bandaid. You knew he would tense if you didn’t catch him off guard. He’s still trying to protect you. You can feel the hesitation. Your lips are soft on his. Convincing. He relaxes into it.

When you pull back, the woman waves before heading inside. You look at Hotch, his eyes still on you. 

“Relax.” You place a hand on his chest, “You’re doing great.” 

His voice is low, “You don’t hesitate.” 

You pull him down for a hug, whispering in his ear, “Neither does our unsub. We can’t afford to.” 

You press another kiss to his cheek, grabbing another box out of the back of the truck and hauling it inside. Hotch stood for another second before grabbing something himself. He was beginning to have the feeling that this cover was going to test more than just his professionalism. 

-

The surveillance van arrives a couple hours after they had returned the U-Haul. It pulls into their corner of Coyote Springs under the guise of a local internet provider. Uniforms are convincing, and plenty of equipment inside. 

Garcia is already online and active before Morgan can put it in park. The cameras in the house are connected now. Her screens fill with all different angles. Street coverage. Door sensors. Motion alerts. 

She hums in their earpieces, “For the record, the neighbors clocked you as ‘very affectionate’ within twelve minutes of you pulling in the driveway. Linda from two doors down texted her sister Sharon about you.” 

You arch your brow, “What’d she say?”

You can practically hear Garcia’s grin, “Quote ‘The new wife is gorgeous and very young. He’s either lucky or stupid'."

”I’ll take it.” You hold up your mug of coffee in mock salute.

Word spreads fast in this neighborhood. 

The team backs off for a while, letting them get settled together. Leaving you in a house that grows quieter and quieter. Heavier.

You open the fridge and take a peek inside, “We should establish routines.” you say, practical as ever, “Food. Morning patterns. Something that feels lived in.” 

Hotch nods, “I’ll take mornings. Coffee. The paper.” “I don’t do early.” You decide immediately, “But I’ll fake it if I have to.” 

He glances at you, something like amusement flashing across his face before he hides it. “Noted.” 

“I can handle dinner.” You decide, “What kind of trophy would I be without something warm on the table for you?”

You make a face at him that reveals your true feelings about that role you're playing. You still need to establish how much the mask stays on inside. You know the unsub was watching his victims, but not how. You start pulling ingredients and getting things ready on the stove.

“I can help.” He gets up from the counter, eager to wipe the sour look from your face. 

“Respectfully, you moved us in today. You should shower.”

The way your grin lights up your face, turning back to the stove top without a care in the world, makes Hotch freeze. His heart skips a full beat. It already feels so domestic. You catch it and turn back, taking a half step closer to him. 

“Don’t forget, I’m your hot twenty-six year old wife. Act like it.” You press a kiss to his cheek before he can protest. Now you actually focus on the stove, eventually hearing his steps take him away from the room. 

By the time Hotch is done with his needed shower, he can smell the food coming from downstairs. Spaghetti. He’s impressed that you’ve even set the table. Creating the fantasy. Creating his illusion. You set down his plate at the end of the table, and you take the seat closest to his on the right. 

“If we’re too distant we stand out, and now that we’re here-” Hotch clears his throat, “You’re right. I need to act like it. At any point now the unsub could be watching us.” 

He smiles as if he hadn’t said something so horrifying. The place had already been swept for bugs, and now they had eyes on them. Now they would have to wait and see if the unsub was watching them too. 

“I’m glad you’re officially on board.” You grin, placing your hand in his.

You guys both practically drag your feet cleaning up from dinner. Avoiding the bedroom. The last line to cross. 

The room has been staged well, it’s a pretty room. A large bed right in the middle of it. Hotch pauses just behind you in the doorway, “We can take turns on the couch.” 

You shake your head immediately, “No. Couples like us don’t do that.” 

He exhales slowly, “Understood.” 

You leave him in the bathroom and take your bag to the bathroom. You change quickly and then open the door back up while you take off your makeup and brush your teeth. After spitting in the sink, you look up in the mirror to see Aaron walking in. He’s changed into long pajama pants and a black t-shirt. 

You were hoping if you were fast enough, Hotch would be in bed with the lights off by the time you came out. You blush when you notice him taking in your cover wardrobe. You’re supposed to be a young hot wife, that means little for the pajama department. 

He begins brushing his teeth while you do your skincare. The silence stretching painfully rather than peacefully is the only clue that this isn’t real. 

You’re nearly done by the time Hotch leaves and heads back to the bedroom. You follow after turning off the lights and pull back the covers. Total darkness and silence. 

You lie on your back, your hands folded over your stomach, “Night, Hotch.” 

“Goodnight.” 

Neither of you sleep very well. He stares at the opposite wall. Plagued by listening to your soft breaths while you sleep. Morning comes too fast. He’s already up by the time your eyelids pull open. 

You pad into the kitchen to see a pot of coffee on, Hotch manning the stove. He still has on his pajamas, his hair disheveled from sleep. You’re surprised he didn’t fix it first thing. But, this isn’t really him. 

“Morning, professor.” Your voice lazy from sleep. 

He freezes for half a second.

Then recovers, “Sleep well?”

You smile, taking steps closer to him. He reaches out an arm to wrap around your shoulders. The food smells good. 

“Like a dream.” You lie. He knows. 

You wrap your arms around his waist while you both sway together. You’d be ashamed to admit it once you were more awake, but you lean your weight against him to support. 

By noon, you’re laying out by the pool. The bikini is not subtle. It isn’t meant to be. 

Garcia groans over the comms you can all hear again, “This seems deeply unfair.”

“Tell me about it.” Emily whined. 

Hotch watches from inside, his jaw tight, posture rigid. He knows exactly what you are doing and why it works. He’s almost alarmed at the pace you could set for the unsub. 

Neighbors slow as they pass.  A man across the street checks his mail. Twice. 

You don’t look at any of them. You keep your sunglasses on, body relaxed and unconcerned. 

It’s bait. 

And it’s effective. 

Hotch’s eyes finally snap up from your figure when he sees someone approach the fence. A woman smiling brightly and waving you over. You get up from your lounge chair and walk over to her.

“Hi! I’m Linda. We’re having a block party on Friday, and I thought we’d invite the new couple!” 

You smile, all warmth and charm, “Isn’t that sweet!”

Hotch steps out the back patio door and walks over to join you. His arm wraps around your lower back so his hand can find home on your hip. Linda notices. Everyone does. 

“Aaron.” He extends his other hand to shake Linda’s. 

It’s clear Linda is trying to hide her gaze on their PDA. She stutters out the time while focusing on your hand placed on Hotch’s warm chest. The rock the FBI provided glimmering brightly on your ring finger. The sun continues to beat down, Hotch very aware of how you’re all skin right now. He’s only touching bare skin. He vaguely hears you ask if you should bring anything. He misses the response. 

“Lovely.” She waves, “We’ll see you then!”

Linda walks away, you wave goodbye as she walks back to her house. 

“So, that's what it takes to get you to come outside?” You turn, Hotch’s hold still on you, “Linda?”

“What-”

“I mean, I’ve been out here for how long, Garcia?”

His hand tightens again, not expecting you to circle the team back in. He forgot their eyes and ears are on everything.

“Forty-five minutes.” She answers. 

“Disappointing.” You whisper, it fans over his face. 

“I’ll work on it.” 

He leans down before you can pull another stunt, he presses a kiss to your brow. 

-

Later Emily and Morgan come over under the guise of friends bringing a housewarming gift. They welcome them both in and accept the wine with hugs. They gather together in the kitchen, everyone’s face all smiles but Emily’s tone tells another story. 

“I think we’ve got to work on being what the unsub is looking for.” She reminds, “You both need to work on being closer. Physically.”

Morgan nods, “She’s right. The profile says entitlement. Ownership. A guy who thinks he’s won.” 

“You don’t protect, Y/n. You flaunt her.” 

Hotch’s jaw tightens, “That’s not-”

“That’s the role,” She cuts in, “A man who would absolutely brag about locking down another wife half the age of the last one.” 

Emily is exaggerating obviously, but she makes her point clear. 

“I’m good, Hotch.” You smile, wrapping your hand around his arm and pulling him closer, “I’m not fragile.” 

He exhales slowly. Once. Controlled. 

“Understood.” 

The shift is nearly immediate. You can feel it. He changes how he stands. How close he is. How his hand settles on your waist when you pass him in the kitchen. Unapologetic. 

An arm draped over her shoulder as they sit on the front porch enjoying the summer night, the sky beginning to darken. Morgan and Emily left a little bit ago, leaving them alone again. This time you claim each other's space. 

A neighbor you haven’t met jogs by on a late run, waving to them as she passes. Linda’s husband takes out the trash, putting it at the end of their driveway. A group of kids pass through on their bikes, loud yells and laughter. 

Lots of activity in this neighborhood. Lots of eyes. You and Hotch are putting yourselves in full view. 

“You good?” You ask quietly. 

“Yes,” He answers, “Are you?”

You study him, “I’ve played worse roles than this.”

His mouth tightens, “That doesn’t make it easier.” 

“No, but it gets the job done.” 

You reach up to card your hands through his hair. Running along the side, pushing it back. 

“Uhh, guys?” Garcia chimes in the earpiece. You both keep faces neutral. 

“One of the exterior cameras just changed angles.” 

You still. Hotch does too. You’re not sure you would be able to tell if you weren’t practically in his lap right now. 

Inside the van, Rossi leans closer to the screen. “Did we do that?”

Garcia typing away furiously. 

“No. And the system didn’t flag it either.” 

Emily frowns, “Can someone access it remotely?”

Garcia hesitates before answering. 

“If they had administration credentials they would have remote access.” 

“So, the unsub is watching right now?” You ask, eyes still on Aaron. 

“I would assume so since he adjusted the exterior to include you both in frame.”

“Let’s give him a show.” 

You want to pull Aaron to you, but you know he needs to push this. He is the pursuer. Your hand is still in his hair when he leans down to connect your lips again. You don’t give him the chance to cut it short, leaning into him. 

He opens his mouth wider to deepen the kiss, you sit up against him. Throwing one leg over his lap, practically indecent for the front yard. 

“Take me to bed.” Your words are pressed against his lips. 

Hotch stiffens under you for a second. His eyes wide, before you give a small nod. He picks you up from his lap, carrying you into the house. You let him set you down and pull him up the stairs by the collar of his shirt. Still full of smiles and teasing. Aaron corners you against a wall in the hallway, pressing hot kisses down your neck.

You push back from him, taking his hand and pulling him into the bedroom and shut the door. The second the door shuts, you both let go, but are still out of breath. Hotch paces a few feet away from you. The bedroom is one of the few places they didn’t put a camera. 

“Garcia, did any other angles in the house change? Any interior cameras?” Your voice sounds a lot more calm and clear than you feel. 

“Um,” She clears her throat, obviously still reeling from everything she just witnessed. “Uh-I-uh it looks like he has. The hallway is angled more in the bedroom than it was when it was installed. I think I can see if he’s watching.”

There’s a long pause while she works before she comes back on, “Wait, yes! He’s online. He’s still active on the hall camera. I’m guessing he’s waiting for the afterparty.” 

Emily nods, “He’s watching for something. He wants to know if they fit his needs.” 

Inside, the performance continues. You mess up your hair, Hotch’s to be fair already was. You change out of the clothes you had on before and opt for just one of Aaron’s law t-shirts. It feels right. Puts a little pressure on that authority insecurity. 

“Is he still watching?” You ask Garcia. 

“Mhm.”

You open the door and casually skip down the stairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. You're still flushed from the couch make out. Didn't have to fake that.

“Babygirl, you’re a genius.” Morgan claps. 

It only needs to give the illusion they need. Just enough to piss him off. 

-

You made brownies for the block party. Aaron had to run out to the store, leaving an opening for the unsub to approach as well. They don’t know his true patterns and if he’s confident enough to approach them both at once. 

All morning there is activity out in the street. People are setting up tables, music, and food. It looks like they don’t do anything small here in Coyote Springs. You picked out the perfect summer sun dress, and curled your hair and leaving it down simply. It’s short enough to put your legs on display. 

“Safe choice,” Hotch nods, looking at the tray covered in foil. 

Safe to comment on the food, not the dress.

You smile up at him, “People trust baked goods.” 

He opens the door for you both to walk out, and it’s already full. The party is already in full swing. People everywhere. Children running around. The smell of the grill takes over. 

Too many faces. 

You immediately feel your posture sag a little trying to keep track of everyone’s expressions while walking through. You keep one hand on the tray and the other curled possessively around Aaron’s bicep. You let him guide you around, introducing yourselves. 

He leans down to press the occasional kiss to your lips, temple, brow. Anything to hear your low laugh. You both look inseparable. 

From the street, it’s enviable. From the cameras, he’s raging. 

“We’ve got a lot of eyes.” Garcia says into the earpiece. 

JJ watches over the crowd, “He’s here. He wouldn’t pass up this opportunity.” 

You move slowly. Deliberately. Introductions begin to blur.  Retirees, young families, couples who’ve lived here twenty years. Kids continue to race around playing. Teens hang back in groups, too cool to really participate. You laugh easily, leaning into Hotch. You even let him speak over you once or twice.

You both stop near Linda, who is holding court beside the grill and a whole table of food. 

“Oh! You made it,” Linda says brightly. “And you brought something.”

“Brownies,” You smile. “I hope that’s okay.”

Linda takes the tray. “Oh, people will love you.”

Her gaze flicks to Hotch. “You’re a lucky man.”

Hotch smiles wide, proud, exactly the wrong way.

“I know,” he says. “I really do.”

The reaction is instant. Not from Linda.

From just behind her.

A boy, sixteen maybe seventeen goes still.

Too still.

You can feel pressure between your shoulder blades. Hotch squeezes your hand, he saw it too. 

“Oh, where are my manners!” Linda sighs, “Meet my family. This is my husband Bill, and my son Matthew.” 

She then turns where the other boy still watches. “And this is my sister Sharon and her son Toby. They live just a couple streets down.” 

Toby is tall, a little lanky. He wears a black hoodie despite the heat. He stands half in the shadow of a tree, his eyes won’t meet yours. Instead they’re on Hotch. Specifically where his hand is glued to your hip possessively. You shift closer and his grip bruises, Toby’s jaw tightens. 

You turn to speak over Aaron’s shoulder so they won’t notice what you ask Garcia. 

“Garcia, what do we know on Sharon and her son?”

There’s a pause. You turn back your attention to Linda and Sharon, waiting for her chipper voice to come on the earpiece. 

“Let me see what I can find!” She eagerly begins typing. They had to move the surveillance van a couple streets down for the block party. It would be curious for them to be parked there with all the homeowners having a party together. 

You keep smiling and turn your attention to Sharon and her son who hovers behind.  “So, how long have you guys lived here?”

“All of his life.” Sharon answers, smiling softly at him. 

“Must be hard,” You reply gently, “watching things change. New people are moving in, although I hope we’re welcomed!”

Everyone laughs at your comment, except for Toby. His gaze has yet to leave Hotch’s touch. 

Sharp. Hurt. Furious. 

Hotch squeezes a warning. 

His eyes flick up to your face for the first time. 

You excuse yourself from the group to refill both of your drinks. When you return, you immediately slide onto Hotch’s lap. You dive back into conversation totally unphased, but in your peripheral you can see Toby’s hands clenching.

Hotch makes sure to brag about his job, about you, about how good his life is now. Toby is locked in with his full attention. Every laugh from you is a needle. Every kiss gasoline. Building.

“I’ve got something juicy,” Garcia jumps back in, “Sharon was just divorced from Toby’s father last March. They had been married for twenty-two years, but he moved out and left. And then six weeks ago it looks like he was re-married.” 

“Right when the killings started.” Emily reminds. 

“It get better-or worse, I don’t know which is-what way it-” 

“Garcia.”

“He has been teaching the girls college soccer team almost as long as they were married. His new wife? She just graduated from the team last year. Can you spell slimy?”

Garcia gags over the earpiece nearly making you wince and yank it out of your ear. 

“She’s twenty-four, he’s fourty-nine.” 

Bingo. 

You turn to look over Hotch’s shoulder to see Toby’s expression, only to find him missing. Linda’s son is gone now too. 

“Does anyone have eyes on him?”

No answer. 

You both thank people as you’re saying goodbye. Smiles. Keep the act flawless. 

The house feels wrong the second your foot crosses the threshold. Hotch’s hand moves instinctively toward his weapon and stops. Static takes over the earpiece.

-

Back in the surveillance van, the team waits anxiously. Re-watching footage to see if they can spot him disappearing. Eerie silence from the couple undercover. Garcia watches the door shut and suddenly the screens turn to pixels, static playing over the speakers.

“What the hell is that?” Morgan yells. 

“I don’t know! Something is blocking the signal.” Garcia types furiously. 

“We’ve got to go in now.” Morgan grabs his vest and his gun.

“If he’s not with them, this will blow their cover. We’ll scare him away.” Rossi adds. 

“It won’t matter if they’re dead. Toby is the unsub, I’m sure of it.” 

-

Toby is standing in the living room, holding a gun he shouldn’t know how to handle. And it’s aimed right at you both. His hands are shaking. Your hand tightens around Aaron’s arm.

“Shut the door!” He yells, you both slowly step the rest of the way into the house and shut the door. 

His face is pale, eyes wide, and breathing way too fast. 

He raises the gun closer to them, “Upstairs. Now.”

Hotch manages to keep himself placed between you and the gun as he follows you both to the bedroom. Every step is deliberate, intentionally trying to put you in the least amount of harm.

“On your knees.” 

Neither of them hesitates. Neither of you tries to reach for your weapon. Yet. 

Hotch’s shoulders brush with yours. Toby paces in front of you, waving the gun wildly in their direction the entire time. 

“You think you’re better than everyone!” He yells, “You think it’s okay to take whatever you want.”

You tilt your head slightly, “What did he take from you?” 

You try to remind that Hotch is not his father, although with the anger in his eyes you’re not sure he can tell. His pacing stutters.

“You watch people like us?” You continue, “You think you’re correcting something?”

“Correcting what he’s taking!” He jabs the gun at Hotch’s chest. You feel the air get knocked out of your lungs. 

“Correcting my theft of youth?”

Your words from the beginning of the case now echo with Hotch’s voice. Toby freezes. 

“That’s what he did,” Toby’s voice growing hoarse, “He took her youth. He took our family and replaced it with something younger. Easier.”

Hotch swallows when Toby turns his focus onto you. He lets the barrel of the gun slide across your collarbone. 

“It’s despicable. This is the same thing.” He gestures between you two.

You hold his gaze, “I chose him. He didn’t take anything from me.”

Your voice softens, “And I don’t regret it.” 

The truth in your voice is unmistakable. Hotch feels it like a shockwave. An earthquake. 

“You don’t want to kill us.” You voice gentle, calming the room, “You want someone to admit what happened to you was wrong. That it was fucked up.” 

Toby’s hands shake more, his eyes fill. 

“He didn’t even talk to me about it. He just moved out.” 

You nod, “Don’t you want it to stop hurting?”

His head bobs. 

“Then put the gun down.”

He hesitates. 

Hotch keeps his voice low and steady. Using his dad voice, “You’re not a monster. You’re a kid that got left behind.”

The gun lowers. Just enough. You reach forward and take the gun from his grasp and pass it back to Hotch immediately. You kneel beside him while he cries. Morgan breaks through the door, armed and ready. 

“It’s okay, we’re all safe now.” 

Red and blue lights take over the room flashing in from the window. Morgan takes Toby down to the cars to bring him into the station. An ambulance. Police. Statements. Protocols. 

-

The team gathers in the living room to discuss everything that just unfolded and establishing a time to meet at the jet.

“Sharon works for CPI Security. That’s how Toby was able to access the homes and the cameras. He was using her devices.” Garcia explains their total blackout on seeing and hearing them. Toby was smarter than they had thought. That’s how he was without a trace. The team gives them a couple looks, quiet comments about their act while they try to wrap things up.

“Enough!” You shout, “I would like to shower and then get on a plane and go home! Is that too much to ask for?” 

“No ma’am!” “We’re going!” “Okay, okay!”

Rossi leaves to go get one of the SUVS so they can head to the airport. It would be a late night flight home. You and Aaron are left with a few officers downstairs taking pictures and taking statements while you both pack up your belongings. 

“Well, I suppose I will have to give this back to evidence.” You sigh, holding up the rock on your ring finger to the light with a chuckle. 

“Yeah, I’m sure that’ll take some getting used to. You’ll feel lighter.” 

You roll your eyes, putting your toiletries away, looking at him in the mirror. 

Leaning your hip against the counter you look up at him, soft now and unguarded. “You were very convincing. You stepped it up.”

He matches your lean, a step closer. 

“You were extraordinary from the beginning.”

The smile on your face shifts into something real, “You used my words back there.” 

“I know.” He says, “I know what they mean to you.”

A beat passes. You swallow, his eyes follow down your throat. One he has kissed numerous times now. 

“Do you regret it?” he asks. 

You shake your head without hesitation, “Not even a little.” 

Hotch reaches out, slowly. Deliberate. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is warm. Bare. Uncharacteristically gentle. 

“Neither do I.” 

-

The jet hums as it cuts through the dark sky. Hotch sits at the table with a file open in front of him that he is definitely not reading. You took the same seat across from him as usual. Emily and Rossi join the table, Morgan and Garcia sit on the couch facing them with wide grins. 

For the first six minutes of the flight, no one says a thing. 

“So,” Morgan starts far too casually, “We gonna talk about the kissing, or are we pretending none of that ever happened?”

You close your eyes. Hotch exhales through his nose. 

JJ doesn’t even look up from her tablet, “I witnessed at least nine when I was on cams.”

Garcia gasps, “I’ve got so many screenshots-

“Garcia.” Hotch warns.

You groan, “Oh my god.” 

Rossi smiles into his coffee, “You know, I’ve been undercover a lot. But I’ve never seen Hotch commit like that.” 

Morgan grins, “My boss went from ‘don’t touch me’ to ‘this is my wife, don’t even breathe in her direction’ in twenty-four hours.” 

Hotch clears his throat, “Focus.”

“Sir,” Emily smiles, “You grabbed her waist every time someone looked at her for more than two seconds.” 

“That was tactical.”

You snort loudly before you can even stop it. 

Morgan points immediately, “See! She knew it!”

Garcia’s cuts in, “And can we discuss the wardrobe?”

You straighten in your seat, “Garcia-”

“The bikini,” She barrels on, “The sundress. The backless sundress. The way you were charming everyone and-”

“Garcia!” You say both mortified and laughing.

JJ smiles, “To be fair, it worked. He didn’t stand a chance.” 

“Hotch or Toby?” Rossi asks with a jab. 

Hotch’s ears turn red. 

“Well, technically Y/n is closer in age to Toby than she is to Hotch.” Reid interjects.  “Please, don’t ever remind me of that again.” You shake your head, a sour look on your face. “I would also not like to be reminded of that.” Hotch agrees. 

Rossi raises his brow still looking at Hotch. 

“It was part of the profile.” He reminds. 

Impossibly so, Rossi’s brow aims higher at Aaron’s answer, “You told three different men you were ‘very lucky’ and ‘not stupid enough to mess this up’.”

Silence. 

Your lips twitch with a smile as you look over to him, “You did?”

His jaw tightens, “That… may have come up.”

Morgan outright laughs, “Boss, you were bragging.”

You cover your face with one hand, “I can never show my face in Arizona again.” 

“You absolutely can,” Emily disagrees, “You own that cul-de-sac now. Whatever you two were doing, it sold and it worked.”

Reid nods, “Yeah, no notes. Except, next time? I want hazard pay for having to watch all that.”

"Me on the other hand, " Garcia grins wickedly, "I saved it all!"

“You’re welcome, you pervs!” 

You toss a harmless handful of plane popcorn at them, rolling your eyes. There’s an unguarded and warm smile on your face that makes Hotch shake his head watching it all unfold. 

Hours later it’s early morning on the east coast when they finally land on the tarmac. 

“Debrief tomorrow at 9AM.” Hotch says, “Get some rest.” 

The team disperses, still chuckling and yawning as they walk to their cars. The cabin is quiet as you lean back in your seat while Hotch packs up his briefcase. 

“You think any of them bought it?” You ask, a soft smile on your face. Honest and open. 

He flashes you his rare smile. The one usually saved for you and Jack on the weekends.

“Probably not.”

extra of the team finding out here!