#[ FUCKING WOW. ]

[beth-reads-fics]

a few photos that sum up my emotional journey (in order)

Booty Call

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: Excruciatingly drawn-out mutual pining followed by some office-lit smut Summary: The last time you saw Hotch, he came in his pants in 30 seconds. Now he’s inviting you to his office, pretending that didn’t happen - only to end up fingering you against a door. Warnings: SEXUAL CONTENT. MDNI!! In-office ladyfingering, Hotch peacocking for reader’s attention for 70% of the fic, objectification of the Hotchner body, affectionate bullying, and indirect mentions of Haley (RIP queen) Word Count: 6.1k (sorray) Dado's Corner: A very long fic… but you know what else is long??? The wait!!! because I was busy surviving finals. This is technically a pt2, but not really (no need to read the first one). I provide all the context because I support commitment issues and believe in standalones for the emotionally unavailable Proofreading, creative consulting, and emotional damage control generously powered by @hotchology and @softtdaisy <3333 thank you, my loves <3333 I am but a shell without you. (EDIT: forgot to mention this was inspired by THIS request by my lovely Y anon <3 I'm 629 months late, I'm so sorry)

masterlist

Sometimes a “u up” text isn’t a late-night booty call. Sometimes it’s a “you could come into my office” from the FBI dilf whose soul (and pants) you annihilated in under 30 seconds.

Naturally, the mere possibility of you coming (you choose to interpret “could” very generously) is enough to make you blow ten dollars worth of gas just to haul ass all the way to Quantico.

(AKA Copville.)

Now, in fairness, the texts leading up to this divine invitation weren’t exactly dripping with lust – but more like:

btw remember when my landlord tried to evict me because I stopped paying rent in protest over him not fixing shit, and you helped me draft that letter?

(You very graciously leave out the part where he fled your apartment after coming in his pants.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s basically textbook damage control.

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

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

Hence why you followed up with:

it’s very veeery urgent

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

And sure enough, he responds:

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

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

Naturally, it leads you to reasonably reply with:

how can I help you come unstuck?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron Hotchner.

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

So you wait.

Long enough for everyone else to pack up and leave.

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

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

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

In his space.

Alone.

…Unsupervised.

You snoop. Obviously.

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

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

You look at everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fabric straining. Shoulder seams threatening to revolt.

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

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

You’re frozen. Outmatched. Possibly hallucinating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well… shit.

“I’m sorry,” you both say at once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By “none of what happened.”

By “impaired.”

By “separate.”

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

Because let’s be honest - fuck the landlord. That’s just the excuse you both agreed to rehearse. Everyone knows it. He definitely knows it.

This is not about helping you deal with your landlord-

But helping himself deal with the fact that neither of you has stopped thinking about what it felt like to be pressed together, mouths reckless, hands worse, bodies one sigh away from a full-blown catastrophe.

Helping you? Please.

He’s trying to repress round two. You’re just here to speed up the inevitable.

“I’m… mortified about what occurred afterward. Between us.”

77777777777777777233332444444444444444>q6666666667

Re………………yhhhhhhhh______________________________________________________________________ [my cat typed this… honestly #same]

And he does, indeed, look mortified - at least in the very specific way he rolls his shirt cuffs back, one meticulous turn at a time. Slowly. Painstakingly.

Mathematically leads you to ponder for what practical reason could there possibly be for baring those veiny forearms except to flex them directly in your line of sight?

To let the dim overhead lighting graze over the glint of his Submariner Rolex. A glint you might call obnoxious - if it weren’t mostly swallowed by the amount of dense, fluffy arm hair he's somehow made look distinguished. (Is this supposed to intimidate you? Seduce you? Declare tax bracket superiority?)

“It’s fine,” you say.

It is, objectively, not fine.

Especially not when he leans forward to grab a stack of files from the desk, one inch from where your hand rests.

As if you wouldn’t notice the vein curling down from the bend of his elbow, branching toward the base of his palm.

As if you wouldn’t clock the faint dent where a wedding band once lived.

Or the black ink smudged across his palm, streaked through with the fading chaos of blue, pink, and yellow marker.

Or the two wonky little smiley faces on the pads of his index and middle finger. One of them has a moustache.

Or the way your brain short-circuits the moment he starts actually listening to your increasingly incoherent ramble about your landlord, because suddenly all you can focus on are his unnaturally natural Barbie-pink lips.

How they purse, ever so slightly, when he’s thinking. How he licks them - absently - like he’s preparing them for a sentence that never quite finds the courage to leave his mouth.

He adjusts his glasses.

Then slides them down to the very tip of his nose so he can look at you properly, directly, the full weight of his attention leveled just above the frames.

He nods slowly as he listens, scribbling notes in that looping, elegant cursive of his.

Repositions the glasses back up with one finger, clears his throat, and offers apologetically, “Forgive me. Just a moment.”

Hotch rises from his chair and steps toward the bookshelf, reaching his left arm across the full span. His back arches (beautifully, by the way), and the fabric of his shirt pulls tight across his shoulder blades.

The cuff at his elbow slips back, casually scandalous, revealing the sharp cut of his forearm, the tension blooming beneath his skin as he flexes (not unnecessarily, but undeniably) to grasp one specific legal tome teetering on the farthest edge of the shelf.

He could’ve taken one step to the left and saved himself the whole burlesque routine.

He hasn’t.

Peculiar.

Even more peculiar is the way he splits the tome open (you next), right at the middle, licks his thumb, and starts flipping through the pages.

When he finds what he’s looking for, he sets the book down between you, slides it forward, plants his finger firmly on the page - then recites the passage aloud, straight from memory.

Legalese, in his voice, sounds like poetry.

Not the kind you slap onto Facebook captions next to a blurry sunset-

The real kind.

Archaic.

Written by dead men for other dead men, and yet somehow still breathing when it leaves his mouth. It’s dense. Impenetrable. Sacred.

You don’t understand a single fucking word.

But he understands you, and that’s worse.

Because he sees exactly where your eyes land - on the way his finger holds the line, on the stark contrast between the neat, delicate typeface and the breadth of his fingertip.

Between the thin, trembling page and the solid weight of his hand. Between the line he's pointing to - and the one you desperately want him to cross.

So he pauses. Looks up. Smiles. Then translates it into plain English, even though you (both – hopefully) know that’s not the language your body’s speaking right now.

And still, he makes it sound simple.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxz A cx>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> [My other cat insisted on joining too. Ermetic. He’s two months old and already knows how to write. I’m sending them both off to Yale. I fear their potential.]

So simple that everything he’s been saying - whether for five, fifteen, thirty minutes, an hour? - boils down to something similar to:

“Your landlord is the dumbest fuck on the face of the earth, yada yada *legalese*, yada yada. If he’s dumb enough to take this to trial, it’ll be the biggest mistake of his pathetic career, *legal jargon*. I know everyone in the justice system and the very few I don’t know are terrified of me, so even if you were in the wrong, you’d still come out on top - because I’m the hammer of God, and I’ve decided you’re worth protecting.”

Ah, the American justice system.

Broken, terrifying, occasionally kind to you if you’ve got a Hotchner in your corner.

Of course, he can’t just say any of that plainly.

Because Commander Creamsicle cannot speak on any subject without circling it three times, lacing it with a vocabulary that makes you question your grasp of the English language, and probably inventing two or three Latin words on the spot just to make sure you know he scored higher on the SAT than you.

And yet - after all that legal tap-dancing - he finally rounds it out with a good old-fashioned, glasses-tuck-accompanied:

“I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that man pays the maximum penalty available to me under the law.”

And somehow… you actually feel calm. Safe.

Safe enough to stop being hypervigilant for once in your goddamn life - and as a reward, the universe punishes you by letting you miss the moment the room shifts. Something settles in the air between you - not quite tension, not quite relief. Something heavier.

Like finality.

Or closure.

Or maybe just the AC finally kicking in.

(Though, to be fair, the AC is doing its job a little too well.)

(It’s cold as fuck.)

(You can see his nipples through the shirt.)

(Sharp little distractions, twin North Stars peeking through cotton, stolen from the night sky and the firmament just outside the window, guiding absolutely none of your moral compass.)

You try – earnestly - to redirect your gaze, because objectification is bad and you’re not trying to be a fake feminist, but he’s making it impossible (those peaks have gravitational pull. [This is your excuse.])

The moment Hotch says your name, you realize-

yep, your eyes are very much locked on the constellations instead of the conversation.

“...What?” you blurt, very coolly, very calmly, in your most convincing display of composure. (Which is to say: absolutely none, given the way he chuckles immediately afterward.)

Then, without comment, he stands and moves to lean against the desk beside you, effortlessly invading your personal space like he owns both it and the federal building you’re sitting in.

“I asked if you want some coffee before you head home. It’s a long drive. I’d rather not risk you falling asleep at the wheel.”

It’s shockingly natural for him to sound so concernedly paternal.

(In a good way!! Like- concerned. Like- in a caring way. Instinctively protective.)

(You’ll return your feminism books to the library next week. You promise.)

It doesn’t help that, standing like this, he’s towering slightly - just enough that you’re forced to look up (at that perfectly filled-out A-cup shirt.)

“Um. Yeah. Why not,” you mumble, smiling. (Did he offer coffee just to flex his in-office espresso machine? Absolutely. Are you complaining? Absolutely not.)

After all, what could possibly go wrong with him playing sexy barista - busy hands and naked forearms flirting with domesticity as he wrestles an industrial-grade coffee pod into place?

(You’re not thinking about it. You’re definitely not imagining him doing this in sweatpants and nothing else.)

He turns, casually. Half a smile curling at his lips, steam rising from the cup in his hands. Ceramic meets tabletop.

You open your mouth to say thank you-

-but don’t make it that far.

Because you're already wrapped – caught - by the overwhelming heat of his hand, his calloused fingers brushing your jaw, guiding your face toward his.

Lips collide.

The kiss doesn’t even pretend to be romantic. It’s rushed. Hot. A little desperate. (And after being edged for hours by his whiplash professionalism, you’re not in the mood to make it sweet.)

Your hand, once politely resting on his shoulder, drifts down the broad plane of his chest- maybe lingering, maybe teasing, maybe giving his A-cup a curious little squeeze in silent appreciation.

(Not that either of you acknowledges it. Because, apparently, it’s still socially weird to worship a man’s body like that. Which is unfair. Because look at him.)

Then your fingers find the knot of his tie - and you yank him down, hard, into the gravity of where you’re still perched in the guest chair.

Apparently, he’s very into that. Because the next thing you know, he’s deepening the kiss - mouth fuller, hungrier, less controlled - just as something that’s unmistakably a whimper slips from his throat.

(A sound he tries [and fails] to bury in the kiss.)

His hands move fast - one guiding you up from the chair, the other slipping down to cup your ass, anchoring you against him. (Okay. Wow.)

And for some reason - a reason you definitely can’t name right now - you feel the urge to break the kiss.

Not because you want to.

Definitely not because you’re overwhelmed.

And absolutely not because you’re starting to feel something stupid - like the hot guy with huge hands just squeezed your ass, grazed your breast, kissed you like he genuinely gives a shit, and now you’re hearing the chime of direct-struck idiophones inside your skull.

No. It’s because (obviously) you’re just not built for this level of cardio. Unlike him, you haven’t spent your life training your lungs for high-speed chases, chronic emotional repression, and three recreational sports.

That’s clearly why. It has nothing to do with wanting to look at him.

Not to see the flush rising on his cheeks. Not to watch his lips part, kiss-drunk and panting.

Not to see his hazel eyes, darker now - wide and wrecked.

(Nope. This is about oxygen. 100%. Definitely not about the soft, terrifying thing blooming between your ribs.)

So you ask, “Is the door locked?”

Even though you already know it isn’t. But it’s something to say. Something to break the silence before it starts meaning more than it should.

“No,” he replies, then crashes back into you, pulling you in even closer than you already were. In fact, he manhandles you backward until your spine meets the door with a thud.

(Problem solved. The door’s now locked - courtesy of your combined body weight. A tactical solution. This is why he’s Unit Chief. Strategic. Efficient. Excellent under pressure. Fuck, he’s great.)

As a token of appreciation for his outstanding thinking skills, your hand abandons its usual post at his tie, sliding down, unapologetically, to cup the obvious situation straining against his slacks.

He exhales sharply at the contact, hips twitching forward but somehow still manages to keep it together. At least enough to start removing your most prized emotional support object (read: his tie) with that pesky, showy precision.

One inch from your face.

(Unit Chief by day, burlesque performer by instinct. Truly, a man of range.)

He stares straight at you as his fingers work the knot loose - you wish those fingers were working your waistband instead, but alas, budget cuts.

His gaze drops to your mouth as he slides the tie free, undoes exactly one button of his shirt and moves your very enthusiastic, very busy grabby hand off his crotch (rude).

(Was he about to come again? You may never know.)

Then he pins both your wrists above your head with one hand and leans in, mouth dragging down your neck.

You're not prepared for it.

You're really not prepared for how accurately this man is fulfilling every half-baked adult novel fantasy you've ever privately entertained on a walk home, in a waiting room, during a particularly boring grocery trip.

So much so that a breathy, involuntary cry slips from your lips before you can catch it.

He chuckles - fucking delighted - his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You need to keep quiet, or else we’ll both be in trouble,” then seals the warning with a kiss pressed exactly where his words just burned - and he’s back in front of you, eyes locked on yours. “Can you be quiet?”

(Hell no.)

“I hope so-”

Another smirk from him. And then you hope absolutely nothing the second his hand slides down, past your waistband, and straight into your underwear.

Because suddenly, it’s just him and his fingertips sinking into soaked heat like he already knew exactly where to go. (Basic human anatomy, sure. But still- impressive. For a man.)

He doesn’t even glance down. His eyes stay locked on yours, hungry through thick lashes, as one finger finds your clit-

(A man! A man locating and engaging with the clitoris! In this economy!)

-and starts circling with just the right pace.

No frantic button-mashing and hoping for the best. No guesswork. He knows exactly how to move. (Thank you to the ex-wife - smiling sweetly in that framed photo on the bookshelf behind his desk, posed between him and their son - who clearly put in the hours and trained this man like a goddamn service dog.)

And he keeps watching you. Watches the way your face scrunches. The way your lashes flutter. The way your lips part around a breath you forget to take.

Watches the little hitch in your chest, the twitch of your hips when they instinctively chase more friction.

Watches the exact moment you have to pull against his grip just to keep yourself from making a sound.

And he loves it. You don’t need him to say it. You can feel it. (And you can see it too - clear as day. The thick, unforgiving outline in his slacks doing absolutely nothing to hide how much he’s enjoying the show.)

“You’re soaking my hand, you know that?” he murmurs, deadpan brilliance.

(Okay, Sherlock. Edged for hours. No shit you’re wet as fuck. Totally unnecessary observation... and yet - please say it again. That was so hot.)

Then he gathers the wetness with lazy satisfaction, fingers dragging through the mess between your thighs without slipping in - just enough to make you feel it. To make you hear it. The slick sound of your own arousal echoes off the walls of a federal office.

(Shit.)

And only once his smug, unbothered, power-drunk ass is satiated - then - he slides one thick (-very thick. Like, three-times-the-bullshit-Bic-pen-he-uses-to-sign-federal-paperwork thick.

A full goddamn inch of “how the fuck is this just your finger” thick.) finger inside.

You’re so wet he barely has to try. It sinks in effortlessly, your walls fluttering helplessly like they can’t decide whether to pull him deeper or push him out just to miss the feeling and beg for it back.

And then he starts to move.

Each thrust is deep just enough to make your stomach clench with every slow grind of his fingers. Slow enough to make you ache for more, controlled enough to make you feel every second of it.

Every withdrawal is precise, angled so his finger drags right across your clit - just the right pressure, just the right speed. And every curl on the way back in finds that soft, swollen spot inside you like he’s memorized it.

Like he’s practiced this.

With you. (Of course.)

Dreamed it - maybe just as often as you have - idly, hungrily, while filing taxes or running out for just one pack of noodles, while he’s maybe on the next aisle buying some miserable all-natural, unsweetened, preservative-free cereal for his son.

(Hopefully his son wasn’t next to him while he had these thoughts.)

Just… everyday errands, haunted by the thought of this exact scenario:

Your cunt wrapped tight around his fingers. Your breath catching against his mouth. His hand working you exactly the way it’s working you now - expert, relentless - while his mouth drifts wherever it can reach: your neck, your collarbone, the hinge of your jaw.

He’s everywhere.

And you-

you’re dizzy.

Struggling to stay upright, to stay quiet, to stay even vaguely human as he drags you closer to- (calculus, you try, math, equations, something-) but all your brain can manage is: one finger = 1.7 of yours.

(...Almost two.)

(...holy fuck.)

Mr. Magic Ladyfingers apparently comes with built-in precognition, because just as your self-control teeters on the edge of total combustion - he cuts it off with a kiss.

Like it’s nothing. Like he’s your boyfriend. (He’s not. But it’s romantic. And you’ll take it. Fuck, you’d take all of him if he let you.) His mouth claims yours – overwhelmingly tender - right as he eases in a second finger.

“Shit,” you pant against his lips, because the stretch - fuck, the stretch is unreal, it burns in the best way, it’s so much-

“I know.” (You hate him. What kind of answer is that??) “Just keep quiet, I got you.” (And just like that, he’s got your daddy issues wrapped around his finger[s] too - congratulations, Agent Hotchner.) “Bite my shoulder if you need to.” (Okay. Better. Hot. You’ve been waiting for an excuse to do exactly that since the very first time you saw him. hallenge accepted.)

He pushes in deeper, faster - fucking into you with enough force and precision that your knees actually start to buckle.

Effortlessly, his free hand slides around your waist, pulling you in tight - anchoring you to his body, to the warm, steady press of his well-defined A-cups, holding you upright.

You’re so, so close. Clenching around his fingers with every pulse, every thrust, every curl that lights you up from the inside out.

“God,” (Hotch mentions God count: 1. You were starting to worry he’d forgotten to name-drop Him.) “I can feel you dripping down my hand,” he murmurs. “Shit - feel what you’re doing to me.”

So you do. You try - through the fog of overwhelming, fucked-out pleasure - to get your hand back down between you. Fumble your way to his crotch.

Shit.

It’s a miracle his pants haven’t burst at the seams. Or maybe it’s worse - because the second your thumb presses against the unmistakable wet patch, hot and damp through his slacks, you realize he’s already halfway gone.

Soaked in his own precome. Cock straining hard against the fabric, twitching under your palm -and the second you press into it, he falters.

And that’s what does it. That noise. That sharp, guttural, involuntary fuck of a sound he tries to swallow.

You snap.

You hate yourself for it - hate how the orgasm hits not with fireworks, but like a tide, pulling you under. It’s not cinematic, it’s inevitable - and it shatters you anyway. The way his fingers fill you, the pressure, the stretch, the filth of it - he’s just too fucking big, too fucking good, and you’re just… weak.

Weak for him.

A broken, half-annoyed “shit-” spills from your lips as you come, thighs shaking, forehead pressed to his shoulder.

But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t rush. He just slows his thrusts, dragging each one out - making you feel every twitch, every aftershock, every unbearable second of overstimulation that sends your body spasming around him again.

And again.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes. “You’re- God, you’re gorgeous.” (Hotch mentions God count: 2)

You’re fluttering.

(And - poetically, of course - so are your walls.) It’s ridiculous.

It’s absurd. This should be just fingering. Just an impulsive fingering in a federal office. Just you, post-orgasm, wrecked, barely upright, trying not to collapse against a goddamn filing cabinet that probably holds national security secrets.

But it’s not. Not even close.

Because somehow, he’s still there.

Not rebuttoning his shirt in a panic. Not fumbling for a tissue or retreating behind polite avoidance. Not slipping his tie back on like this was a temporary lapse in judgment to be buried under paperwork.

He stays. Still holding you. Still watching you like you haven’t just ruined something. Like he hasn’t.

And now… what? Do you just grab his jaw and kiss him like it means something? Or like it doesn’t?

Do you say thank you? (God, no - except maybe you will, because you’ve never been touched like that in your life and he deserves something, doesn’t he?)

Do you keep holding his gaze like this while he looks at you like you’re not a mistake? Like you’re not just a late-night regret he’ll shove into a drawer and lock up tomorrow morning?

Do you lean in again? Just to see what he does? Do you run? Do you crack a joke? Do you cry?

Or do you say nothing and wait for him to break first?

You could ask him to stay. Or ask what happens next. Or - God forbid - ask if he felt it too. If he feels it now.

His eyes are saying something, but they’re hard to trust - too soft, too open. They might as well be lying.

“Are you okay?” he asks and unknowingly deepens the dangerous sense of emotional attachment you’ve somehow managed to form around his fingers. You nod - half-hearted, dazed - and he takes it as enough.

He excuses himself, opens a drawer, and returns with a packet of wet wipes. Then - giddily, somehow, like he’s just remembered something sweet - offers, “Jack’s been drawing a lot lately. I usually show up here with crayon masterpieces all over my hands.”

(A cute story. Definitely real. Also, definitely told to clarify that the wipes aren’t… y’know… for this kind of thing. That he doesn’t do this. Here. Ever. Not that you’re together or anything, but still. The accidental monogamy of it makes you feel safe.

Special.

God, you’re disgusting.)

He checks his watch, sighs. “Oh. It’s getting late. I should… I should be getting back.” (Never mind.) “Let me walk you to your car. Or - down to the lobby, at least.”

Add a little awkward “Oh, no, don’t worry - I mean… yeah. Okay. Sure.”

And suddenly you’re just… standing there. Beside him. Watching the mighty prince reassemble himself like a Victorian widow preparing to re-enter society.

He starts with the tie, of course - God forbid he be seen in the wild without one. (Scandalous. The Unit Chief with his throat exposed. Think of the headlines.)

“Sorry to keep you,” he murmurs, as he loops the knot into place. Straightens his collar. Apologizes again. Grabs his suit jacket and slides some folders into his briefcase. Apologizes a third time.

You focus on the rhythm of your steps as you walk beside him, trying to block out every small, gallant thing he does - each one a little more lethal than the last. You know you’d fall blind, stupid, hopelessly in love (With. A. Cop.) if you gave yourself even a second to think.

He even presses the elevator button for you. Lets you step in first. And then-

Doors close.

Just you. Just him. Six floors to the lobby. Five square feet of sealed-off space.

“We’ll be down in about thirty seconds,” he reassures you.

Thirty seconds. What couldn't you do in thirty seconds? (Make out against the mirrored wall. Drop to your knees. Get your hand down his slacks again just to check if the wet spot’s still there-)

…Oh.

Right.

There’s a camera.

Never mind.

SORRYYYY SORRYYYYY

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

[hornydemonmagic]

rolyat 🩷🖤💙

[bloodbending]

can’t believe tiktok is actually getting banned, twitter is infested with bots and brainworm-infested musk bootlickers, facebook is king of QAnon, instagram caught the plague from facebook and is dying a slow death in real time… and as the dust settles… only Miss Tumblr is left standing… failing upwards once again

[ashes-in-a-jar]

Forget about torturing your blorbos, putting them through the wringer. I'm putting my blorbo in perfectly ordinary, pleasant situations. Their tortured personality will cause them anguish anyway, making an absolutely mundane scene into the most dramatic, agony filled affair as though the world is ending and it's all their fault

[heartbreakincident]

nothing but respect for our troops (smut writers) but listen. i dont want to be the person to tell you this, but not every character is going to be a dom or a sub. some people. and i know this is hard to hear. but some people do have vanilla sex. and some of those people might even be The Character.

[bl00dalchemist]

something something parallels

[iwillresthere]

Hey tumblr,

I keep seeing posts about long COVID and its debilitating effects esp in the US. I've just come across this INCREDIBLE startup:

Indian based PopVax. Just read their blog, what they're doing, what they've acheived and what they're planning:

US NIAD included their mRNA vaccine in Project NextGen - going for clinical trials.

Their mRNA COVID vaccine is 10x cheaper and more POTENT than current vaccines against ALL STRAINS of the coronavirus. (broadly protective)

Their R&D AND Manufacturing in entirely in India. Founder says the research is much cheaper and faster in India - and till now we've had a resource constraint, NOT a talent constraint. And seeing their results ---

Their business plan: uncapped profits in richer countries, capped profits in developing countries. Their mission: MILLION LIVES SAVED. and, no extra dollar over a human life.

Guys. Guys.

I'm just a biotech student. a wee infant. But. Just look at this. Less than a dollar a dose. Read their fucking blog.

[thelesbianthespianposts]

imagine: you get your memories back after years of amnesia to find out your whole species is dead and earth doesn’t exist anymore. that the only thing left of your culture is your weird ex and his busted honda civic that barely even works that he stole from the government when he was 13. And he’s been taking members of an alien species for trips in his honda civic and they’re all like “woah it’s so cool” and you get upset because it’s NOT COOL it’s a honda civic, the turn signals don’t even work “wow it can go up hills” yeah OF COURSE IT CAN GO UP HILLS EVERY CAR COULD DO THAT. but they’ve never seen a car before so everything it does is the coolest thing ever. And your ex’s only tool is a fucking screwdriver which is somehow also cool to this dumbass alien species even though it’s a fucking screwdriver so you just look like an idiot screaming about how none of this is even cool it’s actually really shitty but your whole planet is gone so you can’t even prove it but also you’ve had a constant drumming sounding in your head since you were 10 slowly driving you insane. I would become evil too.

[luxevamp]

Quick throwback bc sometimes I forget how cool my headphones are

[loadinghollows]

PULL AND PEEL 🍑

[frostedpuffs]

HAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[evgar]

pretty boy rio <3

full piece here

[m-a-d-e-l-e-i-n-e]

Not even 24 hours in and the richest man in the world just did a Nazi salute in 2025 on national television

[yugsly]

They call her Hellen

[bean-spring]

Hot take and not to be a killjoy or the shipping police but people treating Viktor or Jinx's aroace headcanons as if they were canon is not the revolutionary take people think it is.

Headcanons are always all right but we have to acknowledge that they are somehow damaging when they apply to stereotypes. It might not be the case for everyone but most of the time people unconsciously assume that disability/mental illness=asexuality. These headcanons erase the freedom of attraction from people who are already seen as unable to have sexual/romantic experiences/desires, when it's completely untrue and harmful.

You can headcanon Viktor and Jinx as aroace, but I have seen people changing their minds once Viktor is no longer disabled (s2 with all of his other forms) and Jinx is no longer as mentally ill (alternate universe Powder). And it speaks wonders of how people see these characters.

"I never thought about Jinx being able to feel romantic/sexual attraction until s2!" To believe she's actually only capable of that when she's not "damaged" is incredibly disturbing. Especially since Jinx has always had a bit of a flirty personality too.

"I've always seen Viktor as asexual, I don't know why!" That's fine. You can headcanon him as ace. But I believe there is a reason behind it, most of the time, if for some inexplicable reason the "vibes" of the disabled character are making you think he's ace.

I say all of this being aroaspec myself, by the way. Headcanon all you want but going to people's posts commenting how "it's weird for you that they have romantic/sexual plots when they're clearly aroace" is not a win at all. It's a headcanon, after all, and it should be treated as such, and that's fine. But it also is damaging to spread stereotypes like these.

Of course the disabled character is asexual. Of course the mentally ill character is aromantic. It's not as revolutionary as you might think, tbh.

Fandom is not activism and it's all right to have any headcanons you want BUT some of them are filled with damaging stuff and perhaps we should look into ourselves more before treating these assumptions as something canon.

[lotus-pear]

charm stat at debonair ‼️‼️