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The case is over.
Three girls are alive, the unsub is being cuffed, and everyone’s ready to head home.
But Hotch is furious.
You can feel it before you see it–the heat of his gaze tracking you from across the crime scene like a laser sight. His body is still, his expression unreadable, but his eyes are sharp.
He waits until the others are distracted–until Morgan is dragging the unsub away and JJ is giving the girls space to breathe–and then:
“A word.” Not a suggestion. Not an option. Just your name, clipped and low.
He barely looks at you as he leads you away from the others, jaw clenched, pace tight with fury.
He turns to face you. Arms crossed. Shoulders stiff. “What the hell was that?"
You cross your arms to match his stance, refusing to be rattled. “I saw an opening. I took it.”
“You disobeyed a direct order. You approached the unsub without a vest, without backup–”
“He was targeting a specific victim type. I matched the profile. I knew he’d follow me.”
Hotch’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t blink. “You got lucky.”
“I got results.”
He takes one sharp step forward. You don’t flinch–not even when his voice drops lower. “He had a knife. He could’ve killed you, he could've killed them.”
“But he didn’t.”
That silence that follows feels like a warning. You hold it–hold his stare–until he speaks again.
“You’re off rotation until further notice.”
“Are you serious?”
“Effective immediately.”
Your stomach flips–not from the punishment, but from the why behind it.
He’s not angry because you broke protocol. He’s angry because you forced his hand.
“Why does it piss you off more that I was right?”
That lands.
He doesn’t answer–just exhales through his nose and walks away, fast and rigid and fuming.
You’re halfway to the elevator when you hear it: “Agent. My office.”
You stop, turn. Hotch is at the top of the stairs. His voice is calm again. Controlled. But you recognize the tension in his shoulders. That little twitch in his jaw. That telltale grip on the railing.
You follow him without a word.
He holds the door for you. Doesn’t meet your eyes.
He closes it behind you with a quiet, deliberate click.
You stay standing. He doesn’t offer you a seat.
He stays standing, arms crossed tight over his chest like a barrier he can’t lower.
“Your decision today was reckless.”
You lean against the edge of the chair across from his desk. Don’t sit.
“I got the unsub in custody. The victims are safe.”
“You disobeyed orders. You endangered yourself, the team, and those girls.”
“And I was right,” you snap. “Why does that bother you so much?”
“It bothers me because it’s not the first time you’ve taken liberties in the field. You make impulsive decisions and expect them to pay off. That’s not judgment–it’s immaturity.”
“Wow.”
He presses forward. “You think this job is about instincts? About gut feelings? It's about patterns. Discipline. Control.”
That last word lands sharp–like he didn’t mean to say it.
You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Right. Because you’ve never followed a gut instinct in your life.”
He looks at you like he wants to bite something. “This isn’t about me.”
“No,” you say, voice rising. “It’s about the fact that you’re stubborn, and you can’t stand being wrong. Especially not by someone you didn’t hand-pick for this team.”
He says nothing.
You keep going.
“You’re hard on me because it’s easier to act like I’m reckless than admit I get under your skin.”
He opens his mouth–but you don’t let him.
“I see it, Hotch. I’ve seen it for months. The way you won’t look at me. The way you keep your distance, like being near me is going to burn. The way you grit your teeth every time I smile.”
You take a step forward, hands on his desk. His expression darkens, but he doesn’t move. “Tell me I'm wrong, Hotch.”
He clenches his jaw. His silence only angers you more.
“What is it? Do you not like me, or do you just not trust yourself around me?”
His jaw tightens.
Then–like something snaps–he turns away from you. Rough, fast, like he’s trying to outrun the pull.
But he doesn’t leave.
He closes the blinds. One by one.
You don’t move. You don’t speak.
When he locks the door, your pulse jumps.
He turns around–and you know. You know what’s about to happen.
“You have no idea what you’re playing with,” he says, voice low and shaking with restraint.
You lift your chin. “Then show me.”
He doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t have to.
The look in his eyes is answer enough–molten heat beneath a thin layer of self-control that’s rapidly disintegrating.
Then, without a word, he reaches up and yanks his tie loose.
The motion is sharp. Precise. Like it’s been a long time coming.
He slides the silk from his collar and tosses it onto the desk.
You swallow.
“You want to talk about discipline,” he says, stepping toward you slowly. “You’ve been testing mine since the day you joined this team.”
Another step.
“Showing off. Pushing limits. Smart mouth. Smarter eyes.”
You take a step back–not from fear, but because the desk is behind you and the way he’s walking feels like a hunt.
“You think I haven’t noticed you?” he says. “You think I didn’t see what you were doing today?”
He’s in front of you now, hands braced on the desk on either side of your hips, caging you in against the desk.
You can feel his breath. Feel his heat.
“You put yourself in danger because you knew it would get my attention.”
You smirk, despite your heart pounding in your chest. “I’d say it worked pretty fucking well.”
That does it.
He growls and spins you around, pressing your front to the desk with a force that sends papers scattering.
“You want attention?” he murmurs against your ear. “You’re about to get it.”
His body is flush against your back. One hand slides to your hip. The other presses to the small of your back, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
“You broke protocol,” he says, fingers skimming under your waistband. “You disobeyed a direct order.”
He leans in closer, mouth brushing your ear.
“You’re getting punished for that.”
You gasp–not from fear. From how badly you want it.
He groans when he hears it.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice rough, even as he hooks his fingers into your waistband.
You don’t. You reach to your left, grab his tie off the desk, and press it into his hand.
“Make me behave, Agent Hotchner.”
Hotch takes the tie from your hand like it’s a weapon. His knuckles graze your spine as he steps back just enough to look at you bent over his desk.
“Stay still.”
His voice is low. Dangerous.
You brace your elbows against the desk as he pulls your pants and underwear down in one motion, exposing you to the cool air of the office, to him.
There’s a beat of silence behind you.
Then a rough exhale.
“Christ,” he mutters, almost to himself.
You smile. Just a little. You know exactly what you’re doing.
Then snap–the tie tightens around your wrists before you can process it. He loops it expertly, binds your hands in front of you against the desk. His fingers graze yours once before they leave again, and something about that ghost of a touch makes your breath hitch harder than the restraint itself.
“You don’t follow rules,” he murmurs, now behind you again. “Let’s see if you follow this one: don’t make a sound.”
You don’t get the chance to respond.
His hand comes down–sharp and clean–across the curve of your ass.
You gasp, bite your lip, but don’t speak.
Then, a second smack. And another.
The sting isn’t brutal. Not really. Not when his hand smooths over the spot right after, soothing, teasing.
But your skin is buzzing, and you’re wet–achingly, embarrassingly wet.
Then his fingers graze the back of your thigh, trail upward, pause at your slick center.
Of course you’re wet.”
He sounds almost amused. Almost angry.
“All that backtalk,” he mutters, “and this is how you respond to punishment?”
He drags two fingers through your folds, slow and filthy, before pushing them inside–not gently. Not cruelly, either. Just hungry.
He curls his fingers just right–that firm pressure against your front wall–and your knees nearly buckle.
Stay up,” he warns. “You don’t get to fall apart yet.”
You brace your forearms on the desk. Your hands are still bound–pinned between you and the wood. You bite your lip, trying not to make a sound.
Hotch straightens behind you. You hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, slow and deliberate, followed by the metallic click of it hitting the floor.
Then he leans down over your back, mouth at your ear.
“You put yourself at risk today,” he growls, his tip now sliding against your entrance. “So I’m going to remind you what it feels like… when someone else takes control.”
He slams into you in one sharp, brutal thrust.
You cry out, hands straining in the silk tie. The stretch is sudden–perfect–and you’re so full you swear you stop breathing.
“That’s it,” he grits out. “Take it.”
He sets a punishing rhythm–hips snapping against yours, fingers digging into your waist to keep you from squirming. The sound of skin meeting skin is obscene in the quiet office, echoing off the walls like something forbidden.
You moan. You can’t help it. Your body is beyond you now.
“What did I say about noise?” he growls, slowing just enough to grind his hips into you. The pressure makes your thighs shake.
“Do I need to gag you with my tie too?”
The words make you clench hard around him, and he groans–loud and low.
Fuck. You like that, don’t you?”
You nod, trembling.
“Of course you do.”
He pulls out–and for a terrifying second you think he’s going to leave you like this–but then he grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you upright, body flush against yours.
You feel the warmth of his breath on your shoulder.
You think I haven’t thought about this?” he rasps. “Pictured you like this? Bent over my desk, begging for me to fuck the attitude out of you?”
He thrusts back in, deeper this time, making you cry out into the air. His other hand snakes around your waist, then between your legs. He starts rubbing tight circles over your clit, fingers slick with your arousal.
Your whole body arches. Your tied hands scrabble uselessly against the desk.
“Come for me,” he commands. “I want to feel how bad you need it.”
You don’t even get a full breath in before your orgasm crashes into you–fast and blinding. You moan his name like a prayer and he groans in response, holding you tight as your walls spasm around him.
You barely come down before he starts moving again–faster, harder–chasing his own release.
He presses you back down over the desk, his chest against your back, lips at your ear.
“You were right,” he pants. “I don’t trust myself around you.”
Another thrust. Your eyes roll back.
“And I don’t care anymore.”
With a low, guttural sound, he finally comes deep inside you, pulsing hard, fingers tightening on your waist.
The office goes quiet.
His breathing is ragged in your ear. Your body is shaking, boneless against the desk, his weight still warm behind you.
Neither of you speak for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he eases out of you, his touch soft now as he fixes your clothes, unties your wrists, smooths your hair back from your face.
And finally, he turns you around and kisses you.
Not like before.
This kiss is slow, careful, almost gentle.
His thumb brushes your jaw. His forehead rests against yours.
“This doesn’t leave this room.”
Your lips quirk. “Then we might need to start spending a lot more time in your office.”
He huffs–not quite a laugh, but close. There’s a softness in his eyes now, threaded with something darker.
Possessiveness. Want.
“Next time you disobey me,” he says, “you won’t be able to walk after.”
You grin.
You’re already planning on it.