Chapter Text
Part I
Emily hugs herself, the wool of the coat itching against her bare skin. It’s almost winter, and she isn’t wearing all that much underneath.
Any of David Rossi’s neighbors would see the coat and the fishnets, and immediately thing ‘hooker’ – or perhaps ‘high end call girl’, because Rossi’s one of those guys that knows how to use his money.
They might keep watching, and they’ll see the rest of the guests show up. Hotch will be in his suit, and JJ and Morgan might be in jeans and a t-shirt, but usually Reid and Garcia make the effort.
Last time, Garcia had worn this maroon vinyl catsuit, nails and hair colored to match. Emily had watched, touching herself, drawing soft, slow circles around her clit, as Hotch ass-fucked the technical analyst into the next freaking universe.
Stranger things.
Out in the world, they’re the Behavioral Analysis Unit. The elite profilers, the FBI agents that get the final call. They’re a team, a cohesive unit.
Behind locked doors, all the barriers fall away.
Emily had a bottle of wine in one hand, and a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. It’s a nice bag – good, expensive leather – because she travels enough to know the value of a good piece of luggage. There are clothes in the bag, because doing the walk of shame is one thing, but doing the walk of shame in a corset, thigh-high fishnets and fuck-me boots is something else entirely.
The wine is a gift; it probably won’t get drunk tonight – they’ll start off with wine, but it will be Rossi’s wine, which means expensive, probably ordered from a particular vineyard rather than picked up at a liquor store. Later on, they’ll start on some more potent substances, and her bottle will sit forgotten on the wine rack. Still, growing up, Emily had been taught to always bring the host a gift. Even if he is hosting an orgy.
It’s a crass term, smarting of paraphilia and deviancy and sexual offenders. It says nothing about that beautiful, wonderful, freeing sensation of it. It says nothing about the breaking down of boundaries, about the forging of bonds.
They know that every day, they risk their lives to catch serial killers, and the every day, the tension is just that little bit worse.
This is the place where it all comes to a climax.
No puns intended.
There’s a low, anticipatory buzz in Emily’s stomach as the door opens, and part of her is still afraid – will always be afraid – that Rossi will just stare at her, as though wondering what she’s doing on his doorstep dressed like a slut.
He doesn’t, though. He greets her with a smile, and in his button-up Oxford and jeans, she really does feel like a call girl, especially considering the fact that no-one else is there yet. If the alternative is assless chaps, though, she’s kind of glad he’d gone with the Oxford.
She hands him the bottle of wine, and kisses him gently on the cheek, leaving the slightest red stain. She still wears lipstick to these things, even though it’s usually gone pretty quickly, a wet stain around somebody’s cock.
Long-lasting color my ass.
There are more permanent ways of leaving a mark, though.
She shrugs her coat off, feeling the cold of the air, and the heat of Rossi’s gaze. They kiss again, this time on the lips. He’s a very good kisser. It’s probably something he’s had a lot of practice with. Kissing and fucking and licking. She’s experienced all three of those from him. And from most of the rest of the team, really. They try not to show preference, but when it comes down to it, sometimes there’s just more sexual compatibility to work with.
“You’re early,” he comments, as she follows him into the kitchen. He’s still cooking – tapas usually the standard fare, because finger food is a lot easier to deal with when there are writhing bodies everywhere.
“Your mother would be ashamed at your eagerness to cook Spanish food,” Emily had told him once. She’d lived in Spain for a while, a sullen teenager who begrudgingly learnt her fourth language, and was ignorant of the local culture.
“Prentiss, if my mother knew about this, it wouldn’t be the food she was ashamed of.”
“Traffic was light,” she tells him, which isn’t entirely a lie. It’s just that she’d much prefer being here than hanging around in an empty condo, the clock ticks as loud as thunder.
She diced strawberries for the fruit platter, feeling more than a little ridiculous. It’s like Rocky Horror meets Iron Chef. Maybe she should have gone with that skin-tight leather dress that Morgan seems to like so much.
“Nice corset,” he says, and Emily’s hyperaware of his breath hot against her neck.
“It’s new,” she admits. “They go on sale this close to Halloween.” So did the Catholic school girl’s uniform, but she wonders if maybe that’s going a little bit too far. He leans around her to take a piece of strawberry, slipping it between her lips. His other hand wanders down towards her panties, and she almost makes a comment about hygiene, but then remembers that a good portion of the fruit is going to be used for something nefarious anyway.
“Don’t spend yourself too early,” she reminds him. “Nobody else is even here yet.”
“We’ve got all night,” he murmurs, alternating his fingers against her clit.
The doorbell rings.
“It’s open,” Rossi calls out, and Emily briefly thinks that it would be ridiculously embarrassing if it were someone unexpected, but it’s not. It’s JJ, and when she takes off her coat, she’s wearing a slinky black dress that barely reaches mid-thigh. Not the jeans she usually wears, but then Emily is so not complaining. They’re all a little bit bi-curious; the situation wouldn’t really work, otherwise. Garcia calls it Torchwood Syndrome.
“Hi,” Emily manages, a sigh escaping her lips when Rossi withdraws his fingers.
“Getting started without the rest of us?” JJ asks, an eyebrow raised. Her tone is humored, so Emily isn’t particularly worried, but the moment is lost. She shakes herself, clamping down on the arousal that’s rising in her cunt.
“Well we were trying to,”Emily retorts with a smile. JJ laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound. A sound that Emily doesn’t often get the chance to hear. With three people in the kitchen, the work gets done quickly, and Emily is setting the fruit platter in the fridge when the doorbell rings again.
Morgan, Reid and Garcia usually come together (both in and out of the bedroom, part of her wants to add, but that’s only true some of the time) in Garcia’s convertible, an image that probably only cements whatever curiosities Rossi’s neighbors have.
The outfits probably don’t help.
Morgan’s in jeans, black tee, leather jacket, while Reid is mostly just leather. The first few times, Reid had worn tweed, but then someone – Emily couldn’t quite remember who – had staged an intervention. He’s wearing skin-tight pants that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, and a mesh shirt that probably chafes like nobody’s business. Emily had applied liberal amounts of talcum powder before getting dressed, and she figures that the resident genius would have had the foresight to do the same. There’s a studded collar around his neck, but when asked, both Morgan and Garcia always vehemently deny that the younger man is anybody’s boy toy. The technical analyst is ‘sexy nurse’ tonight. She dresses by theme, and the role-playing often continues into the night. Emily senses a speculum in her future.
There are kisses all around, and they’re almost ready to move downstairs. As soon as Hotch gets here.
Aaron Hotchner has always been that odd one out. The rest of the team had been surprisingly enthusiastic about the idea, if and only if, everyone was included. For a long time, Hotch had held out, citing reasons of inappropriateness, but he had never actually seemed particularly upset about it. JJ is the one who had finally convinced him, though neither of them has come clean on exactly how.
When Hotch does show up, it’s, as expected, in a suit and tie. Sometimes Emily wonders whether the man actually carries an iron with him at all times, or whether he’s just mastered an ancient spell that affords him wrinkle-free clothing all year-round. The look on his face is stern, but that’s nothing new. The first time, they’d all been a little bit surprised; when the suit, and the tie, and the polished shoes all come off, it’s like there’s another person there. It’s like a switch has been flipped, and everything that’s been bottled up – all the politics, all the casework, all those long, hard cases that are continually piled upon his shoulders are released in a burst of pent-up sexual aggression.
He says nothing as he steps inside, simply nodding as he strips down, right there in the hallway. He leaves the clothes folded on top of his briefcase, and that’s their cue to take things downstairs.
The basement is the one thing in David Rossi’s house that just doesn’t make sense. At least not to the uninformed observer. Once upon a time, it had been like any other basement – a TV, a pool table, all those other things that normal people have. Over the months, it had been transformed, and Emily sometimes wonders just what he explains to any other visitors he might have. Anyone else, she might have been concerned about, but David Rossi can tell a lie when he needs to.
The room has a vaguely Middle Eastern-cum-European look to it; dark, rich colors complement earthy undertones. The furniture is mostly ottomans and wide, low sofas. There are a couple of futons, for when the night peters to a close, and some throw rugs, because sleeping naked might be fun, but it can get damn cold, even with the heat on.
The most impressive feature, though, is the bar in the north-western corner, though bar is probably the wrong word for it. There’s alcoholic paraphernalia there, of course, but there’s also a wide range of other paraphernalia, some of which will no doubt be used once the alcohol starts flowing.
They’ll start off with one platter, the rest to be brought out as the night progresses. They sit cross-legged around the low ottoman, and Emily is briefly reminded of the times she’d smoked a hookah while living in the Middle East. Rossi owns a hookah, as well as an absinthe fountain (both purchases made for the sake of their regular shindigs, she gathers) but not everyone partakes in those particular delicacies, just like not everybody likes to use the handcuffs or the nipple clamps, or the ridiculous amount of dildos in the ‘BDSM cupboard’ as Garcia calls it. Emily had been seventeen, rather than thirty-seven, when she’d last smoked the shisha, and back then, there was cannabis mixed into the tobacco. Still, the night had often ended the same way, if with fewer people.
Rossi sets the music going; it’s his turn to pick this time, apparently, but the distinction doesn’t mean so much anymore. Both Garcia and Morgan have been effectively banned from picking music, because nobody else particularly likes J-Pop or R&B – at least not the kind of R&B that Morgan listens to. Now, the playlist is usually a mixture of old rock, jazz and classical.
Things start slow.
No matter how many times they do this, it will always be a little bit awkward, which is why they always start off with wine and food. Emily takes some rajo from the platter, and indulges in a healthy sip of wine. She’s three glasses in, and they’re onto the second platter, when she feels Dave’s hand on her thigh. It rubs up against the fishnet of the stocking, causing a weird sensation on her skin.
“Did that dominatrix outfit come with a whip?” he asks, his voice low, but it’s not because he’s worried about what the others might think. On the other side of the ottoman, Emily’s pretty sure that Morgan is about ten seconds away from ripping Reid’s pants off, and Garcia seems pretty keen on joining in.
Emily had been in threesomes before the team, and she’s pretty sure that Garcia and Morgan and maybe even Rossi have too, but these are the only people that she’s ever done the ‘group sex’ thing with, so she’s not entirely sure of the expectations. The image her mind conjures up is of piles of naked, writhing bodies, licking and sucking and fucking whatever orifice or appendage that happens to be closest. Their own experiences are a little more organized – twos and threes and fours, sometimes with the puppy pile at the end of the night, if they’re not too exhausted.
“Do you want to be whipped?” she replies, in an equally low voice. Emily can dominate just as easily as be dominated, but Rossi’s big on power when it comes to most things, and sex is no different. While they’re a team, Emily tries hard not to think of work on these days, but it’s hard, because often, things aren’t so different. On paper, Rossi defers to Hotch, but he’s still the one they go to for mentoring. Here, Rossi likes to be in control; Hotch – and one time, Morgan – are the only ones who have ever dominated him. Emily thinks about pegging David Rossi the same way she thinks about maybe one day occupying one of those offices on the mezzanine level; it might be nice, but it’s not exactly in her plans.
Rossi just looks at her.
There’s a St. Andrew’s Cross on the wall – innocuous enough that anyone without prior knowledge of what goes on in here might remain oblivious, but Emily doubts it. By itself, the cross is just a few planks of wood; it might be a decorative piece, or it might serve some pragmatic, functional purpose. Put together with everything else, there’s really no doubt.
He pulls her to her feet, and leads her across the room.
The garter belt and the corset and the stockings stay on, but the panties and the boots come off, because it’s a little easier for all concerned. She tosses the panties in the corner of the room; by the end of the night, there’ll be a pile of clothes there, but they don’t usually get mixed up. Emily’s panties are always black, whereas JJ opts for lighter colors, and Garcia opts for fluro. Of course, Reid sometimes comes in women’s panties, but he’s the size of a twig, so there are no problems there, either.
The cuffs are padded, because marking her ass is one thing, but her sleeves aren’t long enough to cover any wounds on the wrist, and while the team would know, things would start getting uncomfortable if a local cop asks why she’s been cuffed recently.
“You okay?” he murmurs in her ear, and she nods. All she can see is the wall, but she can feel his breath hot on her neck, and his hand trails down the back of the corset. He’s still fully dressed – that power thing again – but she’s pretty sure that his cock is probably bulging at the seams by now.
Emily straightens as much as the restraints will allow her to when she feels the riding crop moving down her spine.
She’s ready.
Her body tenses in anticipation, as the crop pulls away. She imagines him drawing it back to his shoulders, like a tennis racquet. It strikes her on the left cheek with a loud thwack, and her body jerks, her wrists and ankles straining at the cuffs. There might be some slight bruising, but that she can probably cover up with a watch, or a bracelet. Raw, bleeding flesh is a little harder to cover up. Nerve endings catch fire, and she can’t help but let out the slightest whimper. She bites her lip, drawing blood.
Emily likes pain, but for so long, she’s been taught to keep those emotions locked away in their tiny little boxes. Fear and anger and sadness and pain; they’re the first ones she locks away, the ones she’s best at. Happiness, she tries to let free, a caged butterfly, but upbringing is a powerful thing.
Rossi doesn’t stop to ask if she’s okay. That’s not how this works. There’s a certain element of trust involved, for all of them. She trusts that he’ll keep things within reasonable guidelines, and he trusts that she’ll let him know if there’s anything wrong. After Colorado, she’d been a little hesitant about the rough stuff for a long while; could still remember Cyrus throwing her against that glass mirror, could still feel his feet connecting with her ribs. That’s part of why they do this; to work through those demons in a safe environment.
Thwack.
That pleasure/pain dichotomy is the most beautiful thing she’s ever felt, and this time, she doesn’t suppress that whimper. He builds to a crescendo, the whips growing faster, harder, her cries growing louder. She’s hanging at the knife’s edge, dangling, so close to falling off when he stops.
Her whimper is softer, and in her mind, a lot more pathetic. It’s a sound of neediness, and the one thing that Emily had taught herself is that she doesn’t need anyone. Shouldn’t need anyone, rather, because there’s something of a need in what she’s doing now.
Her breath catches in her throat as she hears the sound of a zipper, almost drowned out by the ambient noise of moans and groans, and flesh slapping against flesh. She tries to block out the sound of JJ’s ‘Oh God, Hotch, yes!’ but it’s difficult.
Rossi seems to have no such troubles, his attention firmly focused on one thing, if the hard length pressed up against her ass is anything to go by. She can’t see his cock, but she’s intimately acquainted with it; a hard, long, pulsating red thing that pumps her mouth and tears her body in twain. They say that size doesn’t matter, if you know how to use it, but David Rossi has both size and skill.
He brushes a finger down her spine, the flogger apparently tossed aside for the meantime. Broad hands rub across the welts that are starting to rise on her cheeks. She bites her lip, wanting – needing – him to do something. Anything.
Moistened with the sweat that’s dripping from her pores, he runs that finger through the crack of her ass, circling slowly – painfully – around that puckering hole.
“Rossi,” she grits; the first words that she’s spoken since they’d started, and he seems to respond favorably. Emily might be something of a masochist, but Rossi only teases to a point, and he always follows through on his intentions. It’s the kind of thing she might want in a relationship, but then, maybe she’s too much of a masochist for that too.
He uncuffs her, and she’s off balance momentarily, but he’s there to catch her. His cock is still raging hard, and she feels the heat in her loins at the thought of him ramming home. The floor isn’t the best angle for this kind of thing, and neither’s the wall, but the ottoman is practically perfect. He lowers her down gently, so her knees are on the ground, and her elbows against the upholstery. She leans forward to allow him access, and the moment she feels his finger inside her ass, it’s like the whole freaking world has ground to a halt.
Thanks to the frequency of these events, she’s been fucked in the ass a lot, so prep isn’t as important as it might be if he’d been taking her cherry. In any case, though, it’s still ridiculously tight; if there is a God, then he saw fit to grant the men of the BAU some fucking enormous reproductive organs. It’s a wonder than anyone can even walk the next day, let alone drive home.
Above everything else, though, safe sex is the main priority. They’re all clean, and Emily is most definitely on the pill, but there would be a clusterfuck of ginormous proportions if anyone ended up pregnant. ‘Yes, mother, I’m having a baby. No, I don’t know who the father is. It could be any one of four men who I regularly have X-rated sex with’ and that’s without even considering what the Bureau’s reaction would be.
There’s no doubt in her mind that this is definitely against the fraternization code.
She’s clinging to patience, to sanity, as Rossi rolls on a condom and lubes up. He pushes in slowly, allowing her ass to accommodate to the sudden intrusion, but once he does, it’s a no holds barred kind of game. The ring of muscle stretches slowly, and she’s heard it described as kind of a “pop,” but really, it’s a long, hard burn.
He pulls back slowly, and then rams in. Emily almost chokes on breath she’s taking. She’s almost about to reach down, and drag a finger along her clit, but Rossi beats her to it. His other hand moves to the top of the corset, pulling her breast from its constraints, a la Columbia.
“Fuck me hard, Rossi,” she tells him, and he abandons his slow pace with gusto, thrusting in and out like he’s playing Whack-a-mole. His hand moves from her breast, slapping at her ass against the spots still tender from his whipping. Her body is stretched tight, like a rubber band, just waiting for him to snap. She’s on the edge of a cliff, about to fall, and then he strokes her clit just right, thrusts just so, and she’s falling.
He comes inside of her, but not really, because there’s that latex barrier there. If they were in a serious, long-term, monogamous relationship, she doubts they’d use one, but they aren’t, so it’s a moot point.
He pulls out, and she lets herself roll to the side, landing on a cushion that’s lying there. Breaths come short and fast, and the sweat drips like she’s just run a marathon. Rossi hovers over her, a half-concerned look on his face. “You okay?” he asks, and she gives him a tired smile.
“Oh, Dave,” she says. “The night’s just getting started.”