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Aaron Hotchner is a man who earned his position as Unit Chief of the BAU through hard work, long hours, and confidence. He’s known for these traits, is long admired throughout the hallowed halls of the FBI headquarters as someone who knows what he’s doing and is good at it without being cocky or overconfident. He’s the kind of guy who won’t start the conversation by the punch bowl at the yearly FBI mixer but knows exactly how to navigate the event and all the social niceties involved, and you think that makes people respect him even more.
You glance up as he enters the bullpen, smoothing a hand down your skirt unconsciously. You open your mouth to greet him, knowing full well that it’s a bad idea. Luckily for you, a particularly loud scoff from Reid brings both of you to focus back on the conversation being tossed around the bullpen.
“No way,” Derek is talking to Spencer with a tone in his voice, one that tells you that he hasn’t noticed his boss yet, “I’m gonna guess the 70s. He was born in the 70s, so it just makes sense. Wanting to go back to childhood before any other area is textbook.”
“Actually, if we take into account traits such as how he carries himself, the interests he expresses, his everyday behavioural traits, something closer to the 1950’s would be more accurate.” While Spencer speaks, you watch your boss’ eyebrow arch upwards.
Aaron Hotchner is the type of man who is interested in his employees and enjoys talking to them between long stretches of doing reports in his office. He likes to hear what his team has to say, both in the field and out of it. It makes sense then, you suppose, that he makes an inquiry. That doesn’t mean you aren’t caught off guard when he willingly engages in the silly conversation.
“Do I want to know?” He asks. His face gives nothing away, but you can detect a little twinkle in his eye. You know how hard he always has to fight not to give away his amusement to the team in times like this. Unluckily for Hotch, you know what the conversation is about; his resolve to not give away a single emotion at work is about to be tested.
“Just ask him.” Emily throws a ball of paper onto Spencer’s desk, addressing him, and groans when the doctor shakes his head at her. “Hotch, settle a bet for us. What’s your favourite decade?”
“Prentiss, I c-“ He pauses. “My… what?” It makes sense that he clarified, really. You know it’s a bonkers question, but you also know the answer. That’s why you’ve kept quiet so long, content to sit in silence filling out paperwork while your coworkers bicker amongst themselves.
You and JJ exchange a glance. Silently, you wonder if Emily is going to tell Hotch the whole backstory.
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That morning you’d come in a few minutes late; you’d left your go-bag in your locker at work the night before (like an idiot), so you had to drop by your apartment instead of just coming to work from your boyfriend’s place like usual. Morgan had been in a meeting with Hotch, but Prentiss, JJ, and Reid had been quick to surround you. You’d suffered through the jokes and speculations about your late, disheveled appearance with a smile and refused to give anything away.
You tried to avoid talking about your romantic life with the team- you were entitled to some privacy, after all- and more often than not it just led to interactions like these, where they attacked like vultures every time you gave them material to tease you about. It couldn’t be helped, though. As long as you kept your mouth shut, they had nothing on you, so it really wasn’t that bad
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Actually, it was that bad. Between back-to-back meetings, bad timing (for one of you), and a surprise lunch visit from your mother, you’d barely seen Derek. But now you were both at your desks with zero interruption, and he was smirking at you. “Late night?” It wasn’t a question. Your hand flew up to your neck like you were worried the carefully applied concealer had rubbed off, and he leaned back with a grin that said, Gotcha.
“Not today, Morgan.” You warned. You lowered your hand to close another report and place it into the flat basket on your desk labeled ‘OUT’. “Not in the mood.”
“We know when you were in the mood.” He jeered playfully. “You’re here before most of us every single day, and out of the blue you’re late? Uh uh. Explain.”
“I hate profilers.” You shook your head at him. “Make your jokes, but I’m not talking.”
“Bet that’s not what you were saying last night.” He showed no signs of slowing down. “I just didn’t know you had it in you for such an active sex life, doll face.”
You ignored his wiggling eyebrows and stupid nickname in favour of a retort. “Like the one you could be having with Garcia if either of you pulled your head out of your asses?”
Morgan put a hand up and opened his mouth but was cut off before he could speak. You looked up to see that your saviour was JJ, who you assumed must be incredibly tired of listening to Morgan defend himself and who had quickly stepped in to reroute the conversation into calmer waters.
“Speaking of Garcia, did you see her outfit today?” She asked, eyes meeting yours, the message clear as day; Please help me change the topic. You waited just a beat before it was too awkward- as anticipated, no one else was saying anything- and then let out a laugh.
“It reminds me of the 80’s, actually. I love it, that’s my favourite decade.” You lied, hoping to draw the group into a friendly conversation.
“Mine is the 2000’s.” Emily spoke up. God, how you loved Emily for saving you from the weird awkward silence that had threatened to overtake a lovely afternoon of paperwork and bullpen chatter instead of the usual plane rides and dead bodies that typically occupied your work hours.
The conversation had devolved from there, with Morgan and Reid now bickering over whose favourite decade was better. After realizing they both liked the 90’s, they switched activities to team up and assign a decade to each member of the team.
You had claimed the 80’s, and JJ agreed. Emily preferred the 2000’s, Spencer and Derek the 90’s (so had Garcia via text, if Derek was to be trusted), and Rossi had been exempted due to the unspoken no-profiling rule, since he wasn’t here to voice his opinion. That just left Hotch who, Morgan and Reid had been quick to assure you, would probably just be appreciative of them sharpening their profiling skills.
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“So, what’s your favourite decade?” Emily repeats, and you watch Hotch understand the question. You can see the moment he grasps it (and his answer), actually, knuckles turning just a bit too white like he’s squeezing the pile of file folders that he must have come down here to send out.
He takes a moment before answering, acts like he really has to think about it, the bastard. He doesn’t speak for far too long but when he does it’s firm. Decisive. Honest. Because how could he be anything other than confident and trustworthy, when his team is watching? “The 1950’s.”
You aren’t surprised to see money change hands between Reid and Morgan, but no one comments on it before Morgan says, “Any plans tonight, Hotch?”
“Not much. I’m just looking at an old-fashioned dinner and a glass of scotch. A roast and potatoes, probably.” Hotch answers before returning the question. Morgan tells him about a movie marathon, invites him along but Hotch declines before passing his files to an intern and walking back to his office.
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That evening, you’ve gathered up your things early, all ready to go the moment the clock hits 5. When it does, you shuffle out with the rest of the team- minus Hotch, of course. Your little group waves up to his office as you trudge out, leaving him behind to do reports and sign budget expenses and whatever else he does until the later hours of the evening.
Emily must be thinking along the same lines because she speaks first once the elevator is in motion. “I can’t believe he’s staying late again.”
“Come on, you know how he is.” Morgan bumps her with a shoulder.
“I know. But Garcia has been trying to set him up. Just to get him out of the house. But he says no every time, says he’s got plans that night, and then just stays late to work here,” she complains. “Last week he even said he had a date that night! And then he just stayed here like usual. It seems… sad.”
You finally decide to chime into the conversation with the shrug of one shoulder. “I dunno, he doesn’t seem too sad.”
“She’s got a point.” Morgan agrees. “I coulda sworn I heard him whistling to himself when he was getting a coffee the other morning. I think he’s got a handle on things.”
“Where’s Rossi when you need him?” JJ jokes, eliciting snickers from all of you. He’s currently on another book signing tour, but he can read Hotch better than nearly anyone else. If there’s something to worry about when it comes to the unit chief, Rossi figures it out first every time.
The elevator slide open and you step out one by one, continuing to the parking garage where your cars are housed.
“It’s a shame, is all,” is the last thing Emily says. It’s quieter; the team has dispersed through the parking garage, her tone low enough that you think you’re the only one who can hear it even though maybe you weren’t supposed to. “He always struck me as a guy who liked coming home to someone.”
You don’t grace your friend’s profile with a response but when you speak it’s loud enough to break through the barrier that is Prentiss’ concern with Hotch’s love life. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Em.” You call out, holding up a hand in a small wave before getting into your car. You turn on the music to the tune you’d left playing on cassette that morning as you drive away from work, retracing your commute back to where you’d woken up this morning.
'Cause he's oh, so good,
And he's oh, so fine,
And he's oh, so healthy,
In his body and his mind.
He's a well respected man about town,
Doing the best things so conservatively.
You park in your usual spot near the back of the parking garage, and head upstairs with your keys in hand. The elevator is out of order, so you climb the stairs to the 6th floor. While you make your way up the steps you find yourself wondering what everyone on the team is getting up to tonight.
Tomorrow everyone is going out after work if there are no new cases, so it’s likely that your coworkers are having a cozy night in. You can recall Reid mentioning a Star Wars marathon that he’d somehow convinced Morgan to join in on. Rossi is still at his signing. JJ is probably home with her family, Emily is probably home with a bottle of red, and chances are good that Garcia is playing some sort of computer game to unwind. They all sound like good evenings, honestly. Your peers surrounded by the people they love and the things they enjoy. Hotch, though… well, Hotch is staying late at work again.
Meanwhile, what you silently refer to as your ‘second job of the day’ keeps you occupied from the moment you enter the silent apartment. You change into ratty clothes flecked with paint, then get to work like you’re being paid for it. You start by scrubbing and wiping down every dish, counter, and general surface area you can find, then tidying the general area. Once the kitchen and living room look immaculate- you swear you could probably eat right off the coffee table- you get to work sweeping and mopping the floor, as well as running a vacuum cleaner over the area rug in the living room. You don’t bother with the bedroom. It was spotless when you left, after all.
By the time you’re finished your frenzied cleaning marathon, the clock tells you that it’s a quarter to nine, that you haven’t stopped moving since you got home three hours ago. You take a break to change your outfit again and freshen up. After redoing your makeup from the wear and tear of the day and adding red lipstick, you slip into a knee-length dress made of fabric decorated with flowers. The top is fitted to you while the skirt of the dress hangs loosely around your legs. You add a pair of kitten heels, and tug down the neckline of your dress slightly. It’s a dress inspired by the 1950’s and in your opinion, they just didn’t show enough cleavage back then, but it’s not too big of a deal. The outfit still looks great, and as soon as you’re satisfied with it you return to the kitchen to start on dinner.
It's minutes away from ready when the apartment door swings open and you hear the now-familiar “Honey, I’m home,” break through the silence that’s been hanging over the apartment since you turned your music off after cleaning up. You don’t bother to greet him, never do. You’ll do it in person in moments, instead of yelling to each other from different rooms.
As you predicted, seconds later you feel arms snaking their way around your waist, a firm kiss pressed into your temple as you toss the salad. “Hello, dear.” You turn your head slightly, give him a peck on the lips in greeting before splitting your attention between him and your dinner plans. “How was work?”
He returns your kiss, brushes some of your hair away from your neck absently as he speaks. “Better after five o’clock.” You can hear the smile in his voice, and it doesn’t surprise you. Lips meet your neck, and you’re already struggling to remember if you set the timer for the potatoes that are boiling on the stovetop. “Knowing that you’re here… making our home so nice for me… you know what kind of thing that does to me, sweetheart.” The kisses don’t stop even as he talks, somehow. It’s a skill you’ve given up trying to figure out. And then because he’s your stupid boyfriend he adds, “Besides, it’s always easier to get work done without Morgan and Reid bickering out in the bullpen. I’m starting to wonder if Garcia is right about them… What did she call it?”
“Fucking it out.” You don’t think about the curse until a hand squeezes your hip. It’s a warning if you’ve ever gotten one, and you make a mental note not to swear again tonight.
“Language.” He murmurs. His lips brush the shell of your ear, and you’ve never had to focus this hard on mashing a couple of potatoes. The concentration is broken when he suggests, “Maybe that’s what their movie night is actually for.”
You can sense the humour in his tone, and that’s the only reason you break character. “Aaron,” you complain. “I don’t want to think about that right now. Come on, I’m making dinner and it’s alm-“
SMACK
His hand smooths over your ass, taking some of the sting away. “Is that how you talk to me?” His voice is lower, a little darker.
“No, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Good girl.” The hand withdraws to snake back around your waist, your back still pressed against his chest as he sways leisurely and brings you side to side with him. You know how much he loves this part, the quiet domesticity that fills his apartment now, a far cry from the silence and microwaved pasta that used to occupy his evenings. “What are you cooking for us?”
He says it as if he doesn’t know. As if he didn’t tell you what to cook, earlier today in the bullpen, during his conversation with Morgan. As if you have any semblance of control right now. “A roast. Salad and mashed potatoes on the side, sir.” Sex reasons aside, this fantasy is beneficial because it keeps you both healthy.
When you’d first started cooking for him, when you’d started… whatever this was, it was an unspoken rule that you wouldn’t cut corners. No TV dinners, nothing quick or easy. Aaron hadn’t taken proper care of himself for far too long, in your opinion. He was up before the sun, in the office until dark, and he would definitely forget to eat if you didn’t prepare something.
You can still remember the way he’d claimed to be ‘not much of a dinner person’, a sentence that had led to you being determined to take care of this man who was so used to taking care of others that he’d been neglecting himself. Not that this surprised you at all, though. Aaron has always had trouble tearing himself away from work and taking care of himself, so this is just another way that your little routine benefits him. Benefits you both, really.
Making a real dinner for you both forces you to stay busy. This is good because Aaron knows how prone you are to sinking into the couch after a long day and he likes it when you’re productive, doesn’t feel bad about you making dinner because he just knows how shitty you feel after spending a full evening on the sofa, and how much it pleases you when you’ve done something for him. Win-win.
It adds to the fantasy, too; while you’re at home slaving away to give your boyfriend a home-cooked meal, he’s at working thinking about exactly what you’re doing, the effort that you put in without complaint to take care of both of you. It turns you both on somehow, knowing that you’re spending your evening going out of your way for him. And even when it doesn’t go exactly right, at least you’re spending the evening with him either way. That’s more than you can say for how things had been earlier in your relationship.
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The long hours Aaron was known for working had been a problem in the beginning. Late nights at the office, plus hotel room sharing systems (Rossi for him, Emily for you, but Hotch’s turn for the solo room was coming up soon) and the occasional stretch of back-to-back cases had definitely caused more problems in your relationship than you anticipated. You never got to see your boyfriend and after mentioning your frustration in passing once, he’d promised to make more of an effort to leave the office earlier that day.
You still remembered his expression when he’d entered his apartment that evening. His plan was probably to change, pick up food and go to your apartment, but he’d found you in his kitchen wearing a skirt and humming to yourself as you fixed a meal for the both of you. You weren’t quite sure what did it for him, but you were bent over the kitchen table with two fingers inside you and his tongue on your clit before you could blink, and you both forgot about dinner until the smoke alarm went off during your third orgasm of the evening.
After that, it had become a thing. You in Aaron’s apartment, cooking. The fantasy slowly developed when you realized that you also had time to clean up, and again when you started dressing up for him. Through trial and error (Aaron’s timing plus your household duties hadn’t been easy to juggle at first), it had settled slowly into this routine, the one you’re both comfortable with now.
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The formula for it is pretty simple, after all. Aaron stays late at the office to work, and you go to his place. There you tidy up and then cook dinner after changing into one of the 1950’s inspired outfits that Aaron can’t seem to stop buying you. You’re careful to time the meal so Aaron comes through the door not long before you sit down to eat. It works best this way. If he’s home too late, you usually end up on the couch with each other and a bottle of wine instead of having sex. If he gets home too early, you’ll have a repeat of the smoke alarm incident because Aaron goes crazy for this, can’t keep his hands off you forever, and you’ve never been particularly skilled at resisting handsome men who are currently pulling up the edge of your skirt.
It might not be everyone’s preferred night in, but it gets Aaron home sooner than usual, leads to a clean apartment and a healthy meal (you could both use it, with all the fast food you end up consuming on cases), and ends with some of the best, most inspired sex you’ve had in your life.
Currently his hand has abandoned the skirt completely and he’s skimming his hand up your leg, like he’s realized that he doesn’t need to move the loose fabric out of the way to touch you. “That sounds like a lovely meal.” The words vibrate through you, and you stop stirring the mashed potatoes on the off chance that he’s skipping straight to what you’re both building up. The hand pauses, withdraws, cracks against your ass after Aaron abruptly steps back. “Did I tell you to stop?”
You steady yourself from the force of the blow, fight what promises to be a truly embarrassing noise, shake your head, and then resume stirring. “No, sir.” You gesture to the countertop, where a drink sits for him. Scotch, the single malt that Aaron prefers. It’s neat, and ready when he walks through the door. The first time you’d joked about having that in common with the drink, Aaron had you naked on the couch so quickly that your head spun.
You’re rewarded for the drink preparation by a hand squeezing your ass as he brushes past to get it. He takes a sip, leans back against the counter to watch as you bend over to take the roast out of the oven. If you’re more performative with the arch of your back than strictly necessary, well, that’s no one’s business but your own.
“You’re such a good girl,” He muses, steps towards you as you fuss over the final steps of preparing dinner. “You love this, don’t you?” You don’t respond. He isn’t really asking. A warm hand brushes your hair aside, thick fingers grip the back of your neck. “You love taking care of your man, letting me relax. I work hard to provide around here, you know.” His voice is a warm rumble behind you, spurring you into nodding.
“Yes sir, I know. Thank you for taking care of me.” You fight a retort about how you’d pay more bills if he’d give you a raise. Come to think of it, you don’t even live here, but it only adds to the fantasy when you pretend that you do. It’s not real- might never be, you can’t be sure- but that doesn’t mean you can’t fantasize about certain things that there’s an unspoken agreement to not discuss outside of this. Where you live is one thing, and the other is…
“Such a good wife for me.” That. You’ve got no complaints with the current arrangement of never discussing these things though, so you just grin and pull out of his grip and lead him to the table.
“Dinner is ready, dear. Do you want to take off the tie?” You gently massage his shoulders once he settles into the mahogany chair at the head of the table and wait for him to speak. Playing the fantasy up never hurts, and it’s guaranteed to drive him crazy.
Aaron glances up, a familiar glimmer in his eye that promises many possibilities, all of them very enticing. “I’ll leave it on. You can bring me my scotch while you’re at it.” You grab two plates off the counter, fill them and set them both down, then retrieve Aaron’s scotch and place it in front of him. You chance a glance at your boyfriend as you sit down and are met with a cool stare that you can translate loosely into you fucked up.
You pause before speaking, concerned that you already know the answer to the question you haven’t asked yet. “Is there a problem, sir?” You ask, brows knitting together as you try to figure out what's happened.
“I don’t know. Is there a problem, sweetheart?” Is he mimicking you? “Or is there another reason you decided to serve yourself dinner before getting my drink?”
“Sir, I’m sorry.” You’re an idiot. Aaron usually doesn’t want his drink during dinner, and it’s become a habit to bring the plates over at the same time. There’s no way in hell you’re verbalizing that particular thought, though. That’s no excuse, Aaron would say. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“You don’t need to think.” Aaron’s voice is so cold that you find yourself holding your breath. “What you need to do is learn some respect.” He sips his scotch, sets it down and pushes his chair back from the table, leaving a couple of feet between them. “My lap. Now.”
“I didn’t mean…” you falter at the look on his face, the set of his eyebrows as he motions again. Red-faced you walk over to him and settle yourself across his lap.
Aaron rests one hand on your upper back, squeezes your shoulder gently once. Checking in before the scene truly starts, you realize. You nod once and almost immediately arch in his lap from the sharp smack he lands on your ass. His other hand holds you in place while he smooths over the fabric of your dress. “We’re playing a game. For every answer you get wrong, you lose an article of clothing. You’ll get ten hits, and I want to hear you counting. Is that clear?”
“Answers to what?” Your question is rewarded with another hard spank through your dress. “Sorry, sir. It’s clear, sir.” You’ll figure it out soon enough and if you really need to pause the scene to do so, Aaron will understand.
“Good. Those didn’t count, by the way. I didn’t hear any numbers.” You can see his smirk in your mind, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. You’re brought back to attention by a large hand gripping the back of your neck, hard enough that you feel immobilized. “Now, I think we’ve run into a problem.” He continues speaking like you aren’t trembling with anticipation in his lap while dressed like a 1950s housewife. “It seems to me that my pretty girl,” -you hope he doesn’t notice your shiver- “Is having trouble respecting my authority. Does that sound right?”
“Yes, sir.” You speak breathily, one hand grasping his leg to anchor yourself. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to.”
“Don’t bother.” The hand on your neck, which has slowly been loosening, squeezes hard and then relaxes. “Rambling apologies don’t get you out of consequences, sweetheart. You know that.” The reminder is unsurprising, but you still hide a pout. “Tell me why we have to do this instead of eating that lovely dinner you worked so hard on.”
“I served myself before you, sir.” SMACK. “One, sir. Thank you.”
You hear a chuckle and Aaron’s hand covers your ass, rubbing over it. “It’s my pleasure, I assure you. Do you know why you serve me before you serve yourself?”
You swallow hard, relishing in the feeling of him touching you so gently that it seems almost reverent. “Because you’re in charge- oh! Two, sir.” The hit comes quicker this time, catching you off guard enough to make you cry out.
“Have some self-control.” Contempt drips from Aaron’s tone. “And go back to thanking me, too.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” You’re wet now, can feel the cotton of your underwear as it slowly soaks through.
“Good. Why am I in charge?” He brings a hand up to your jaw and grasps it, shakes you slightly for no reason other than because he can, and that’s hotter than it should be.
You pause to answer, thoughts hazy through the lust. “Because you own me, sir.” Instead of the spank you’ve come to expect, Aaron stands up and brings you to your feet as well. “What are we doing?” You ask, unable to hide the excitement in your tone.
“You’re taking your dress off.” He pats his lap. “You were wrong. A shame, though.” He leans towards you as your dress hits the floor, leaving you in nothing but a white bra and panty set. He speaks low, like it’s a secret just for you. You suppose it is. “I was going to fuck you over the table while you wore it. Another time, maybe.”
You shiver and then bend back over while he speaks, resuming your position. “Sir?” You aren’t sure if you’re allowed to speak but if Aaron has a problem, he says nothing, so you continue. “What was the right answer?”
One hand tangles itself in your hair, pulls your head back just enough for you to feel the pressure in your scalp. “I’m in charge because you love it.” He brings his hand down again. The spank stings more without the dress acting as a barrier, and you’re already regretting wearing a thong.
“Three, thank you sir. You’re right, sir.” You resist the urge to roll your hips, looking for something- anything, really, that can relieve how badly you need to be touched.
“I know I am.” Aaron’s voice is almost sympathetic, and you freeze when you notice. That’s never a good thing, especially during scenes. “Such a good girl, aren’t you? You just want to stay home all day, cook for me, take my cock whenever I want.” You stay perfectly still, core throbbing the longer he talks. “I know, sweet girl. You just want to be good for me, a perfect little wife. But,” on the last word his tone turns so icy you can practically feel it, “You still refuse to respect me.”
SMACK.
“Four, thank you.” You speak through gritted teeth. Apparently, the back-and-forth part is over and now he’s just monologuing. You aren’t complaining, though. “I’m sorry, sir. I do respect you.”
“You know I don’t give anything to liars.” He spanks you again, waits for the count to come before he continues speaking. “But it’s alright. I’ll make you respect me, and you can have my cock after that. Doesn’t that sound nice? You make it up to me and I’ll fuck you just how you like it. Do you want me to fill you up, too?” He leans down slightly, nips at your bare shoulder, squeezes your ass hard. “Be honest for once. Do you want me to come in you tonight?”
“Yes, sir.” It’s the most honest you’ve ever been in your goddamn life, and you can tell from the way his fingers dig into your ass a little harder that he likes the answer. Besides, he knew the answer before you said it. You’ve discussed this part outside of scenes, having had to tackle the topic together when your insurance stopped covering your birth control and Aaron had started paying for it instead, had practically insisted on it. SMACK. “Six, sir. Thank you.”
“Your ass is getting so red; I hope we don’t have to add spanks tonight. You’ll be good, won’t you?” The fake sympathy is back with a vengeance. “I’ve got such a perfect little wife. So willing to take whatever I give you. I bet I could fuck a baby into you tonight, and you’d be delighted.” He chuckles when you glance up, eyes half-closed and glazed over, and let out a little whine. He knows exactly what you need because he’s Aaron, so he slips his thumb into your mouth before continuing to speak. “I knew you’d like that. You want me to give you a baby, sweetheart? A perfect little baby with your smile and my eyes?”
You’re practically dripping out of one end and drooling out the other. There’s no way this man is real. Aaron spanks you twice in succession, then withdraws his thumb from your mouth. “You can’t thank me if you can’t speak.”
“Seven, eight. Thank you, sir.” You’re panting, and you must look absolutely ruined in nothing but a bra and panties, ass red enough to match your lipstick. He adjusts his tie, and that’s when it hits you that Aaron is still wearing his suit from work, cock straining the expensive fabric of his dress pants and fuck if that doesn’t soak your panties just a bit more.
“Address me properly.” Its not what you expected to hear, but it grabs your attention. It must be one of those days for Aaron, not that you’re anything but grateful to the god of sex.
“Sorry, daddy.” Another spank. “Nine. Thank you, daddy.”
“It’s alright, sweet girl, you didn’t know.” His hand comes down one last time, and he waits for your soft ‘ten, thank you daddy’ before he gets to his feet and brings you with him again. “Put your clothes back on and sit down. We’re eating.”
“Eating? I thought we were about to have sex.” It’s meant to be teasing. Unfortunately, it isn’t interpreted that way. Aaron catches you by the wrist once you’ve pulled the dress over your head, spins you to face him, grabs your jaw. He’s more fed up than you thought, but he just looks so good when he’s pissed.
“You listen to me, little girl.” He sneers, face screwed up in fury and condescension. “What was it that you said earlier; that you weren’t thinking? Well, sweetheart, the point of this arrangement is that you don’t need to think. You need to obey me and take care of our home. That’s all, and that’s why you listen to daddy. If I want to take you over my knee and punish you, I can do that, and you aren’t going to a damned thing about it because I am the man of this house.” His free hand hits the table on the word ‘man’, simultaneously rattling the dishes and arousing you even more.
He has a dangerous look in his eyes, and you can’t deny being excited to find out why. He continues after a beat, giving time for his message to sink in. “I call the shots around here, not you. Now we’re going to sit down and enjoy this lovely dinner that my bratty little wife cooked before it gets any colder, and maybe after dinner you’ll get what you want if you make daddy happy. Is that clear?” His voice is steady, thinly veiled rage giving you a glimpse at exactly how hard you’ve poked the bear. Pretty damn hard, apparently.
You can appreciate his frustration, so you answer honestly. “Crystal clear, daddy. I’m sorry.” You take a seat and wait for Aaron to take a bite before you start on your own plate. You don’t miss his smile of approval, and he doesn’t miss the way your cheeks go pink when you notice it.
Dinner is mainly companionable silence; you aren’t going to talk about real-world stuff, and small talk can only carry you so far. Aaron has maybe a quarter of his food left when you speak. “How was work?”
“It was fine, baby, thank you.” The dismissive quality in Aaron’s voice makes you want to talk to him even more, but you don’t want to push it so you end up just nodding in acknowledgement. “Dinner tasted great. You’re such a good cook.” He says closer to the end of the meal. He doesn’t seem pissed anymore, and you’re relieved at that.
“Thank you, daddy.” As soon as Aaron is finished eating you’ve got both of your empty plates balanced on one arm. “Would you like me to bring you anything?”
He stands up, places a hand on your hip and kisses you positively stupid until you’ve got butterflies in your stomach despite being an adult who is, by most standards, far too old for butterflies. “I’ll take my drink to the living room, and you can bring me something to read while you clean up.” He shoots you a smile, and the message is clear; earlier punishments don’t matter, he’s not mad, and you’ve got a clean slate starting now.
You disappear to Aaron’s study and pick out a book, smirking to yourself. You return to the living room and hand the book over, hardly surprised when your boyfriend’s eyes twinkle at the picture of Rossi on the back cover. After a couple more kisses and ass-grabs you retreat to the kitchen to clean up from dinner and pack Aaron’s lunch for the next day.
Once you’re finished you join him in the living room. He pats the couch and you sit beside him, relax into the sofa as a large palm covers your right thigh. He doesn’t say a word. With his free hand he flips each page, takes the occasional sip of scotch when the pages don’t try to flutter shut. You feel the hand squeeze your thigh, then Aaron lean in. “Do you know what I did at work today, sweet girl?” He asks. It’s conversational, and he takes a sip of scotch while he waits for your answer. The book hits the ground, long forgotten.
“No, daddy.” You chance a glance up at him and are met with a thin smile. You want to kiss him, lean in slightly to do so but he shakes his head.
“I don’t suppose you would,” he muses. The hand on your thigh traces patterns across the skin. “Since my good girl stayed at home all day while I went to the office, isn’t that right?” You don’t answer, and don’t need to; Aaron is still talking.
“Let’s play another game. We can talk about my day, then yours.” He suggests. He’s warmed up a bit more yet, but he’s nowhere near as passionate as he was in the kitchen. A part of you is disappointed at that, but you know that he just calmed down. If anything, it was probably a bit too much too soon- Aaron always likes to drag out these evenings, absolutely cherishes them, and it doesn’t seem like he plans on rushing anything tonight. ”Doesn’t that sound nice?” he asks.
You narrow your eyes. You’re not sure of many things, but you know Aaron’s voice when he’s up to something. You’re reminded to answer the question by a sharp squeeze on your thigh. “That sounds nice.” You barely hesitate.
Aaron raises an eyebrow and gives you that look like he can’t believe you’ve said the right thing, shifts his hand so his fingers reach a little lower down your inner thigh. “Good. Then take your panties off and get on my leg.” He pulls at the hem of your skirt, then ghosts his fingers against the thong. He hooks a finger under the elastic and tugs, admiring the way it snaps back against your skin. “Now.”
You scramble to get your underwear off, straddling Aaron’s thigh once you’ve done that. The expensive fabric of his suit darkens beneath you in a splotch that’s clearly visible when Aaron pushes you back to check for it, and you hear him inhale when he realizes exactly how wet you are.
Your face is burning with shame, so you cover it. You can barely meet Aaron’s eyes when he grabs your hands and pulls them away, so you just kiss him with your eyes closed for a minute until he shifts your position. He doesn’t say a word, but the silence doesn’t feel unkind.
Aarons hands are firmly on your hips, and he uses them to pull you close until your cheek is against his temple, your upper half pressed into his while you rock your hips against him. “Go ahead.” You can feel his hands tighten, guiding you up and down his thigh. “I know how badly you need it. And no moaning. Anyways, when I got to the office today…” You zone out almost instantly.
He's right about how badly you need it, of course. He’s started talking about the commute or something now, no response from you required, and you do your best to pay attention while you rub against him. It’s hard, though. Aaron is droning on about some budget meeting in that deep sexy voice and you can hardly focus between the rumble of his low voice in your ear and the feeling of fabric giving you a bit of friction.
Far, far too soon Aaron stops talking. “Your turn.” He murmurs, squeezing your hips when he feels them start to slow. “I didn’t tell you to stop. Now keep going, and tell me about your day while you’re getting off on daddy.”
Your breath catches because of course it does, and your hands tighten on his shoulders. “I…” he squeezes again, and your mouth finally catches up to your brain. “I cooked. And I cleaned the house, too.” You’re panting now while Aaron sits there like you, writhing and grinding on his lap, is just another Thursday evening.
He takes a sip of scotch, and you take a moment to admire the outline of his cock straining his dress pants, the only real clue that he’s having as much fun as you are. “Of course, you did. You’re so good for me.” Aaron’s voice is a little hoarser now and you watch as one hand comes up to settle itself around the base of your throat. “Did you enjoy taking care of our home?” His fingers slowly dig into the sides of your neck, steady and controlled. “Taking care of it while daddy takes care of you by going to work?”
“I did, daddy. Thank you.” You’re rolling your hips a bit more earnestly now; any embarrassment or hesitation has been thrown out the window, and you’re spurred on by one warm hand on your hip, heating your skin through the thin material of your dress, and the other on your throat. He angles his knee, and you cry out at the change in sensation.
Aaron shushes you, lifts you off of his lap. He turns you so that you’re sitting between his legs on the couch, back pressed against his chest. At his murmured instructions you wrap your calves over his legs and flip your dress up, leaving yourself exposed to the room. You’re just beginning to wonder why when Aaron’s hand comes down, delivers three sharp slaps to your clit that threaten to send you over the edge.
“I said no moaning.” He reminds you before dropping his hand a little lower between your legs. “Do you have any idea how wet you are?” It sounds like he’s trying not to laugh, and you huff in annoyance as he drags his fingers through your slick folds. “One more game, sweetheart. The last one.” He promises. “Are you up for it?”
You lick your lips, nod once. Aaron would spend the whole night on foreplay if you’d let him, has insisted on it once or twice. You’re okay with it, mainly because he’s so fucking good that you’d do anything for him. He could probably ask you to become an unsub and you’d grab a gun, no questions asked.
This man has way too much power over you, and you can’t find it within yourself to care.
“One more.” You hold up a finger. “And then I need you. Please, daddy?” You wait for an answer, knowing that you’ll agree to whatever he says next. He’s in charge, and you both know that you’ve got safe words for a reason.
“How could I deny you something you need, princess?” You shiver at his tone. You feel a blunt finger tracing downwards, brushing over your clit once. “Alright, time for the last game.” If he doesn’t keep his word, you’re going to kill him. His self-control is nothing short of masochistic, but it becomes sadistic once he starts knowingly depriving you.
One finger presses into you, and you bite your lip so you don’t let out a noise of relief. “You’re so wet, you’re practically dripping down daddy’s wrist.” Aaron smirks. As soon as you can handle a second finger he pushes it into you, the digits working in tandem to stretch you out. “What has you this wet? Do you just really like being a good girl and staying home all day? My good little wife, keeping me fed and happy while I take care of you, give you everything you need.”
He chuckles a little when you groan, clench down on his fingers when they curl towards your g-spot. “Good girl. I’m right, aren’t I?” he goads, fingers speeding up inside you. His thumb comes down on your clit, rubbing it in tight circles. His new mission seems to be getting you off as soon as possible, and your theory is supported when he starts to talk again.
“You love it when your man takes care of you, don’t you? Big, strong man taking care of everything, so you just need to cook and look pretty and take cock.” Aarons other hand comes up, settles itself on your breast and takes your nipple between two fingers. When he tugs sharply you let out a small whine, and Aaron chuckles at that. “So needy, baby. But you know you can’t come without asking. Do you remember why?”
Focusing has never been harder, but you manage to nod. “You… you own me.” You pant the words out, hips flexing when Aaron changes the angle of his fingers.
“I own you. All of you.” He agrees. “When you orgasm, what we eat for dinner, the chores you do every day, they’re my decisions. This pussy isn’t coming until I say, and you’re not going to complain because you don’t talk back to your man.” He pulls his fingers out, slaps your pussy again. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, daddy.” Before you can blink, you’re no longer on Aaron’s lap but rather standing up facing him.
“Good girl. You’re going to get on your knees, I’m going to use your mouth for a while, and then we’re going to the bedroom.” He reaches up before you can move, grips your jaw. “Knees. I won’t ask again.”
Fuck. You drop to your knees with a shudder. Aaron’s thumb is in your mouth- when did that happen?- and he presses down on your tongue before he pulls his hand away, replaces the thumb with his cock and eases it into your mouth.
He takes your mouth harder than usual; in fact, you’re not doing any work at all. His hips snap forward, cock hitting the back of your throat while you fight not to gag on it. Two hands tangle in your hair, and you realize that Aaron is pulling you onto his cock harder while thrusting in.
You press your thighs together, rub them together for a bit of relief until Aaron thrusts in particularly deep and stays there until your eyes water. “Stop that.” He orders. He doesn’t pull away until your thighs are spread and your knees are farther apart to prevent you from doing it again. When he pulls out with a ‘bad girl,’ you barely hear him as you sputter for air.
“We’re done with that, since my lovely wife doesn’t know how to control herself even when she doesn’t have to do anything except let me use her mouth.” He tucks himself back in like he wasn’t just about to blow his load in your mouth, then helps you stand. “Very bad girl, for that move. You know this cunt only gets what daddy gives it.” He reaches down to cup you under your dress, squeezing once.
“I’m sorry, daddy.” It’s more of a whine than anything else because Aaron has been teasing for far too long and your pussy is throbbing, and you’ve never been more ready to go to the bedroom in your life.
“I know, sweet girl. You’ll make it up to me soon.” He wraps an arm around your waist, steers you down the hall and into the master bedroom. “Colour?” he asks, closing the bedroom door.
“Green. I told you, you don’t need to ask.” You grin at his stubbornness until you find yourself pressed against the back of the door with one hand around your throat.
“Don’t tell your man what he can or can’t do in his own house. Now get on the bed before I throw you on it.” Aaron sneers, satisfied with your encouragement.
You find yourself crawling onto the bed a moment later, stretched out in the dead center of it. You gaze leisurely at Aaron, his solid outline, his broad fingers working to take off the tie that he’s still got on from work. “Coming to bed, dear?” you ask, making no move to hide the way you’re ogling your boyfriend.
Aaron lets out an actual growl at that. The noise is rough and feral, and you haven’t heard it from him in a while, so it’s no surprise when you notice that even your thighs are damp from how badly you’re dripping. “If that dress isn’t off in five seconds, its going to look like confetti by the time I’m done ripping it off you. Is that clear?”
Its clear. You nod once before tugging the dress up and off over your head, leaving you in just your bra and heels. You toss it off the side of the bed and open your mouth to say something else, but suddenly Aaron’s mouth is on yours, praise and dirty talk spilling from his as you kiss while he unclasps the bra and tosses the heels to the ground.
“My good girl, so good for me.” He presses two fingers into you, crooks them until you’re whining. “Take it. Daddy’s going to use you soon, I want to get you ready for me.” Your lips meet again until you feel a third finger start to circle the edge of your hole.
Say what you will about Aaron, but his fingers are huge. They’re thick enough that the threat of a third has you clutching Aaron’s sleeve as he fingers you. “Daddy, you’re stretching me, I can’t take more.” You insist, only to be met with a raised eyebrow before he goes back to what he’s doing.
“Stay still. I know you can take it, and you know I can put in another finger if I want to.” His tone leaves no room for arguments, and you shiver. He leans in, and the predatory cast of his voice when he speaks next has you writhing below him. “I want to see exactly how much of me you can handle before I ruin you.” He brings his other hand up, presses two fingers into your mouth.
You clench around him hard, right on the edge of an orgasm for the second time this evening. “Mmmph!” you try to beg, but you struggle to make a sound around the fingers muffling you.
“Oh, do you want to beg? Want to come for daddy that bad?” Aaron chuckles, but you feel his thumb start to tease your clit. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, wraps that hand around your throat. “Go ahead, then. Get even wetter before I slide right in and fuck my pretty little wife on our bed, fuck you until I knock you up.”
He squeezes your throat as he speaks, and your orgasm hits you like a fucking freight train. You arch your back, grinding against his fingers to ride it out. He brings his hand down from your throat, uses it to separate your legs while he continues fingering you.
“Daddy, I’m-“
“Not done. Not until I say you are.” Aaron’s fingers move a little faster, determined not to let you come down at all between orgasms. “You’re going to come again until I think you’ve had enough. You listen to me around here, and I’m telling you that you aren’t finished until I say so. I’ll stop if you can come right now; I think you’re needy enough for it, don’t you?”
Your body agrees, apparently. You come again, chest tight with the pressure as you curse through it. “Fuck! Fuck, daddy, thank you!” you groan before finally the fingers leave you, and you slump down onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling while you try to catch your breath.
“Language. And you’re welcome.”. You can hear Aaron’s smirk as he rolls you onto your stomach, waits for you to prop yourself up on all fours. As soon as you’re in position three sharp slaps land on your ass and his lips are brushing your ear. “Daddy’s going to use you now. I’m so hard and you’re so good, you’ll let me fuck you, right? You can just lie there and take it, sweetheart, you don’t even need to come again. But beg if you want to.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder and lines up while you dumbly wonder when he got undressed.
He pushes in carefully. You’re wet and loose enough, but he’s still pretty big and doesn’t want to hurt you. “Daddy…” one of your hands lifts up, stops supporting your weight, but the second Aaron notices he takes your hand, guides it back down to the bed to hold you up, and intertwines his fingers with yours.
“That’s it, good girl, taking your husbands fat cock so nicely. I’ll go slowly, just like that. Does that feel good, baby? It’s not too big?” He sounds nothing but polite and controlled, if a little mocking. “I know you need to be stretched, is daddy doing that?”
“Yeah, daddy.” you agree, letting out a grunt as soon as Aaron starts to thrust inside you. “You’re stretching me so good, want you to fill me up.”
“I know you do,” he soothes, “You just need it so bad. Daddy will make it better, it’s okay. Going to fill you up, sweetheart, and spend the rest of the night fucking it back into you so that you’ll get pregnant.”
Fuck. You can tell by the way his hips stutter that he’s close, so you clench hard on him and then reach between your legs with the hand that isn’t holding his. You play with your clit, moaning as another climax starts to creep up. “Daddy…”
“In a second, baby. Can you hold it, so you come when I do?” You nod with a bit of difficulty, fingers slowing down so you don’t finish too soon.
Above you, Aaron is going absolutely crazy. The dull smack of his skin hitting yours fills the room, makes you think of all the bruises that will definitely appear tomorrow. He lets go of your hand and grabs your waist on both sides, squeezing hard as he speeds up. “My perfect little wife, daddy’s good little girl, fuck, are you ready?” he rambles like he always does, and you nod like you always do.
“Put a baby in me, daddy.” You beg him. His hands tighten on your waist again as he comes with a string of swears he doesn’t seem capable of using, grinding his hips against your ass when he’s done like he wants to make sure you’ve got every drop, and that’s what sends you flying headfirst into your third orgasm. He fucks you through it, nice and gentle before he turns to lie down with you in his arms, his cock still inside you.
You’re going to take a break, next. You always do. Aaron will stay inside you until you get uncomfortable, or he wants to change positions, he’ll fuck your brains out for a couple more hours, and you’ll fall asleep sated in each other’s arms. For now, you turn your head, press your lips to Aarons, and sigh out a soft ‘thank you, daddy’.
His only response is to hold you a little bit closer and kiss you a little bit deeper.
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The next morning, you wake up to the smell of coffee. You tug on a robe and head down to the kitchen, where the world’s best boyfriend is already wearing a suit and pressing a coffee mug into your hands.
“Sleep well?” you ask with a grin.
“I’ve slept worse.” Aaron pulls you in by the (very bruised) hips and leans down.
“I haven’t. Have you heard yourself snore?” you tease, obliging him with a kiss.
Aaron shoots you a look, but it’s got no bite. “Not funny. And speaking of not funny, you need to come up with a better way of asking for scenes in the future. Making me talk about the 1950’s in the bullpen is getting bold, and you can’t keep bringing up decades and hoping Reid and Morgan will loop me in.” He’s not wrong, but you still think it’s funny. Spirit week in the bullpen had been especially inspired by decades day, once or twice.
“It worked. And I’m not lecturing you on telling me what to cook by telling Morgan your dinner plans, am I?” You shoot back before lowering your voice to mock him. “’A roast and potatoes’, ever heard of sending a text?”
You both take a moment to sip your coffee in silence before Aaron sets his cup in the sink. “Take your time getting ready, it’s still early.” He advises. “I’m on my way in to meet with Strauss, but you’ve got time to go back to your apartment, if you need anything from there.” He grabs his jacket before turning back to face you. “Do you… need anything? From your apartment?”
He’s not talking about getting ready, and the moment you realize it you give him a wide smile. “No, I don’t need anything. You should get going, but we’ll talk about this tonight.” You promise.
“Team dinner and drinks tonight.” He reminds you as you pass him his to-go thermos of coffee.
“Right. Call me into your office today, then.” You grab his lunch from the fridge and his briefcase from the table, handing them both over as well. You run through the mental checklist in your mind before nodding. “I think you’re good to go; you’ve got everything?”
“Forgot one thing.” Aaron leans in to kiss you, and you return the motion. Its sweet, unhurried, and definitely enough to tide you over until you return to his- your- apartment tonight. He glances down at everything he’s holding, and smirks at you.
“What?”
“You’re just such a natural at taking care of people,” he murmurs, “that’s all.”
You fight a smile and shake your head. “Go.” You say firmly. “I’ll see you at work, drive safely.”
Aaron is out the door moments later, leaving you in the empty apartment. One of your hands is on your stomach, and you glance down at it before dumping out your coffee. It can’t hurt to be safe.
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Aaron Hotchner is a well-respected man. He works hard, cares about his team, and occasionally loves to fuck you like a 50s housewife. You wouldn’t have it any other way.