Birthday Wishes (pre-David Rossi x Plus-size!Reader
Fool for you (Aaron Hotchner x BAU!Reader)
Covid test (Aaron Hotchner x BAU!Reader)
Dinner at Dave's (David Rossi x GN!Reader)
New Series:
El Tango De Roxanne (Spencer Reid x prostitute!Reader)
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Mal's Notes:Hey... how y'all doing? This is gonna hurt, I'm so sorry. Reader needs some therapy, for real... and so will all of you by the time you get to the end of this. Who am I kidding, if you're on this site you've been dodging therapy for years. Anyway, I'd say enjoy, but if you do you're a masochist or I didn't convey my emotions about this as well as I thought. For the full effect, I listened to "Don't Worry, I'll Make You Worry" by Sabrina Carpenter—she has me in a choke hold—while I wrote this, as evident by the title. Do with that information what you will. My next post will be light hearted and/or absolutely filthy, so at least we all have that to look forward to!
Love,
Mal 🩶
Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI; p in v sex, oral fem rec, vaginal fingering, all very tame stuff, (this fic isn't about the smut), EMOTIONAL DAMAGE, (yes, you should have read that in the voice of the guy from the meme, does that age me? probably Idc), EVERYONE NEEDS A HEALTHY DOSE OF SELF ESTEEM, Reader hates herself prolifically, there's a sexual harassment scene but... it's mild, some sexual manipulation if you fucking squint, Aaron is baby girl, Aaron is lover boy, Aaron would give her the moon if he could, (the bar is still in hell, but he's definitely above it.) Haley Hotchner doesn't exist AU, Pre-Canon—Canon Divergent, I think that's everything but you can DM if I missed something
WC: 9.8k
AO3 here
Aaron usually hated these things. The smiling, the groveling, the politicians that didn’t know their ass from the “unnecessary resources” tonight’s song and dance was all about..
The Bureau’s entire federal funding budget was up for review in the next few months, so Gideon and Rossi had ordered the whole unit to get dressed up to the nines and go woo some congressmen, and women…
However, Aaron knew that it was really up to him to do all the wooing, well…
Him and you.
You… who looked so goddamn gorgeous in that floor length, black gown. It was the epitome of class, grace, and sophistication. It wasn’t flashy, or eye-catching on it’s own… You were just that beautiful.
Aaron knew he was attractive in his own right… but he still wondered everyday how he’d managed to catch your attention at all, or how he was keeping it.
Jill Gideon referred to the two of you as the “Designated Unit Eye Candy.” She’d even pulled you both aside to remind you that Jason was hopeless at the political aspect of his job, and while Dave could shmooze it up with the congresswomen, he would be far more concerned with wooing them into his bed than he would be about preventing budget cuts. Jill herself was… not well liked on the hill. She said what she meant, often didn’t have a filter, and she also had a bit of a chip on her shoulder. A chip she was well aware of.
She did most of the work, but Jason and Dave often got most of the credit. It’d make Aaron angry too if he was in her shoes.
So the two of you had left her office with a list of all the politicians who needed their asses kissed at tonight’s gala.
It was ironic really…
He had been born into this life of gala’s and charity fundraisers, internships in the Attorney General’s office, among other things that he had long since abandoned. His father’s connections had given him a shot at being the Attorney General someday, but he’d never wanted anything to do with that. He’d barely made it to prosecutor and then realized his calling was to stop the atrocities before they ever made it onto a prosecutors desk because by then it felt too late. So yes, he’d walked away from this life that he’d been born into because it didn’t suit him…
But it suited you.
You may have been born in a lower middle class home with no connections at all, but you made them for yourself just as easily as smiling. It was amusing watching you work rooms like this. Never once had he seen you slip up, you knew exactly how to play each of them. It was partially because you were a phenomenal profiler, but he knew that you did your homework, he could quiz you right now and you’d know all the gossip, the scandals, the inappropriate secret relationships. You knew which Congressmen to treat with the utmost respect and decorum, and which ones to wink and show a little leg to. He loathed that part, but he understood that sometimes that was what it took to have them eating out of the palm of your pretty little hand.
You were with one of the sleazier senators right now, being led around the dance floor with much too little distance between the old fucker’s chest, and your breasts; which were in fact pressed up against him. It wasn’t your fault, he knew that the man was holding you too tightly, but he also knew that if he came to your rescue before you asked for his assistance that you would castrate him in his sleep.
He loved that about you.
You could fend for yourself, you were a tough woman, and you didn’t take shit from anyone if you didn’t want to. So on the occasion that you did need his help, or more likely wanted it, he was quick to take the opportunity to impress you.
God did he love it when you looked at him with gratitude and adoration, the later was rare… but it did happen once in a blue moon.
Truthfully though…
Aaron just loved you.
He was beyond being in over his head… he was head over heels.
You, however, were a tough nut to crack. Thus far, he’d made it into your bed, but not your heart.
He was desperate to change that.
In fact, you were the one, and he was sure of it. So he just kept trying… no matter how many times he made a fool out of himself to do it. Some days you seemed to be just as into him as he was you, but if you let yourself get too close… then he could always count on you being distant for the next few weeks. Which meant he both lived for and dreaded those moments where all your walls came crashing down.
So as he chatted with Gideon and a group of House Representatives—making sure that Jason didn’t step on any toes—he watched you on the dance floor, and waited for the moment your eyes would seek him out.
“So, what has the BAU accomplished this year?” A snobbier woman asked Gideon, Aaron recognized her as one of the committee members Jill had insisted they impress, and he could tell by the set of Jason’s jaw that his answer was going to be more sarcastic than he could reasonably cover for.
So he cut in.
“Well, we’ve been so productive this year, I don’t think we’d have the time to tell it all, and if we did we’d probably sound conceited…” He gave the group a conspiratorial grin, and a teasing wink to the woman who’d asked the question. She melted, her cheeks heating up at his attention, but he couldn’t have cared less. “I could give you the highlights–” he’d begun to offer, but just then your eyes found his across the ballroom and he knew you were done, the way you mouthed, help me, was a pretty clear sign, “in just a moment if you’d like, but you’ll have to excuse me for the time being, my partner is practically begging for a rescue from Senator Jones.” He joked, and it landed, because the Senator’s behavior toward younger women was the worst kept secret on the hill.
He was a disgrace, and everyone knew it, but no one ever did a thing about it because technically he’d never done anything illegal.
Publicly anyway…
Aaron nodded in your direction, just to show Gideon he wasn’t kidding, and the entire group followed his nod with their eyes.
“Pretty little thing, someone should’ve warned her about Jones…” One of the men in the group tutted.
He had warned you—knowing that you were already well aware—but you were a force of nature that could not be stopped. You kept him on his toes, and he was sure you’d have him turning gray in no time.
Gideon nodded for him to go mount his rescue, and he did it with the smallest of smirks on his face, which made Aaron grimace a bit. You’d be mad if you’d seen it.
Aaron would’ve told the whole world he was in love with you, if you’d let him, but that wasn’t something you were comfortable with. In fact, you’d never even told Aaron that you loved him too…
He never knew where he stood with you. You refused to label the relationship, and that was fine, he didn’t need a label. He just wanted to know where your head was at.
Some days it seemed like he was your whole world, and others… others it was like you couldn’t have cared less.
So as he crossed the ballroom and walked onto the dance floor, he carefully went over exactly what he was going to say to get you out of that situation without embarrassing you; or pissing off the senator and ruining all your hard work.
“Excuse me, Senator Jones,” he said, as he tapped on the older man’s shoulder, “I’m afraid I’ll have to steal my partner away from you for a moment. We’re being summoned to speak to the Attorney General about a recent high profile case. I’m sorry.”
Jones didn’t release you immediately—which irritated Aaron on principle—instead, he lean back just enough that as he looked down to meet your eyes he could see down the front of your dress.
Aaron clenched his fists, but bit his tongue.
“Oh, if the AG is summoning you, you’re either in trouble, or you’ve done a bang up job of something. So which is it sweetheart? Have you been a good girl, or a bad girl?” The fucker asked, giving you a lecherous, leering grin.
Aaron could’ve cold cocked the guy right then and there, but your smile never faltered when the Senator could see it.
“A lady never reveals her secrets…” You winked at the old piece of shit, making Aaron’s stomach turn as you peeled yourself away from him and took Aaron’s outstretched arm. “Have a good night, Sir.”
As soon as you were out of ear shot you slumped against him and sighed, clutching his arm a little tighter as if borrowing a little strength.
“Are you alright?” Aaron murmured, leading you through the crowd toward the wall.
“I’m fine,” you assured him, offering a soft smile that just barely reached your eyes, “the comments just kept getting cruder, and his hand started in the center of my back, but it was nearly on my ass by the time you interrupted.”
“I saw.” He ground out, his jaw clenched so tight he felt a cramp swiftly approaching, then noticed the slightly worried furrow of your brow and tried to relax. “Someone should really make a complaint about him.”
“You know it won’t do any good, he’s got too many friends in higher places than we can reach.” You shook your head, “Best to focus on the creeps we can stop until someone with a heftier fishing pole comes looking for him, hmm?” You squeezed his arm, smiling softly at him—genuinely this time—and his stomach did a fucking back flip. “Did the AG really ask to see us, or were you bluffing?”
“Bluffing…” He grinned, feigning confidence he wasn’t truly feeling. He never let himself get too cocky with you… because you were quick to bust his balls if you felt he was getting too egotistical. “Don’t worry though, she was a friend of my father’s and she’ll be offended if I don’t say hello, so we can just pop by for the sake of appearances.”
“Lead the way, trust fund baby.” You teased, earning yourself an eye roll.
“You know I don’t actually have a trust fund, right?” He muttered, biting back a smile, because if you knew he thought it was funny you’d be relentless.
“Mm hmm, because Mommy wasn’t happy when you decided to join the FBI and waste the two hundred thousand dollar law degree she paid for.” You said patronizingly, and he couldn’t even argue because you were right. “Bet you’ll still get that inheritance though, trust fund or not.”
You were right about that too.
Mother had only wanted him to get a taste of what it would be like to live on an Agent’s salary, instead of a well respected and successful attorney’s. She’d thought he would come running back to the safety net of his law degree—that he still used every day, just not the way she intended—but she had been wrong.
He still loved this job—and his new lifestyle—six years later.
“Is that any way to talk to the man who just rescued you from the handsiest senator on The Hill?” He smirked down at you, laughing as he caught a gentle elbow to the ribs.
“Oh yes, I’d forgotten. However could I possibly make it up to you? My knight in shining armor, my modern prince charming, my dashing defender, my–”
“I think you’ve made your point.” He chuckled, stopping you before the blush on his cheeks became bright enough to stop traffic.
He loved it when you called him “my” anything. There was nothing he wanted more than to be yours… so he would take what he could get.
“Hmm, I think I could make it a little clearer out on the terrace…” You murmured, leaning into him a bit and getting up on your toes to whisper in his ear, “Where it’s dark, and secluded, and if we hid in the far corner along the wall no one would see us… or hear us if you were quiet.”
A vision of you leaning back against the wall of the hotel—with your head thrown back and his feet just barely showing from under the fabric of your full skirt—popped into his head at the suggestion alone. He knew it wasn’t what you had in mind, but it was what he’d been daydreaming about since the moment he’d picked you up earlier.
Aggravatingly, he felt himself getting hard just thinking about it, and that was the last thing he needed to happen…
“Behave.” He murmured back to you, shaking his head as he fought off a grin, “You know we can’t do that here, the best three profiler’s in the nation are in this room and they happen to be our bosses. There’s no way we’d get away with it.”
“I bet we could. Agent Rossi is three sheets to the wind, Agent Gideon is talking to the committee members, and I haven’t seen Dr. Gideon since we got here. They won’t notice if we slip out for a minute… they have four other Agents to keep track of too.” You tugged on his arm giving him a pout, and he always had such a hard time saying no to you…
This time, however, it was out of the question. He couldn’t compromise you like that. Sure you were the same rank, and you’d both just made SSA, but he was a man… You were a woman—and though this may have been the mid 90s—unfortunately, progress hadn’t come that far yet. So—depending on who caught you and how—if you were caught he’d survive the fallout, but you wouldn’t.
“Jill is watching us right now, actually. She’s beaten you to your hiding spot—out on the terrace—and is monitoring our progress from a distance; because she hates politics and politicians.” He enlightened you, flicking his eyes in Jill’s direction to show you without having to point. “Rossi hasn’t had a drink in two hours because he drove the Opel tonight, and Gideon is… Well, he needs a babysitter to keep his temper in check. So we have to talk to the AG and then get back to him before he pisses off the wrong Congressman.”
The problem wasn’t really with your bosses, they already knew that you were sleeping together. They just feigned ignorance for your sake—though certainly not for Aaron’s. They teased him all the time. He’d never once publicly confirmed—or denied, so perhaps therein lied the problem—his love for you, and still they were relentless. They all knew it was something that you either weren’t ready—or didn’t ever intend—to talk about. So they left you alone, and focused the brunt of their teasing on him.
You were like that, you liked to keep work and life separate and he understood it. He also understood that your emotional baggage was heavy, and he had yet to even make the metaphorical zipper budge… let alone begin to unpack it.
He would wait as long as it took though… for you he’d wait forever…
As for the matter at hand, however, the bosses may not have cared that you were sleeping together, but he was certain they would have something to say about any shenanigans in a public space. Especially at a Congressional Gala, with the unit’s budget hanging in the balance. That was the problem…
“We could make it quick.” You gave it one last shot, and he knew you were—mostly—teasing, but his dick wasn’t getting the memo…
So he desperately needed you to stop, cease, and desist.
“No,” he said firmly, then, letting a bit of heat slip into his tone to soften the impact, he murmured, “but be a good girl, and I’ll let you do whatever you want when I take you home.”
He threw in the good girl just to piss you off enough to leave it be. Knowing that after your encounter with Jones, you’d be appalled by it.
"Ew, don’t— good girl?? Are you kidding?” You groaned, slapping his chest and giving him the most disgusted look you could muster.
“You didn’t seem to mind it last night…” He smirked, earning a gasp that parted your perfect lips and the prettiest shade of pink he’d ever seen as it spread across your cheeks.
“That was before the serial groper asked me if I was a good girl or a bad girl,” You grumbled, but he could tell he’d reminded you of just how much you liked it when he called you those things by the way your eyes had dropped to his lips, “but I could be compelled to like it again…”
“I thought you might.” He teased, chuckling softly as he took a look around the room.
Once he spotted her, he led you over to the table that the AG was seated at. Along with the Speaker of the House, the President pro tempore, several other members of the Cabinet, and the Vice President.
“Oh shit, Aaron, she looks busy and— oh God, that’s the Vice President.” You murmured, tugging at his sleeve to make him to stop.
Glancing down, he quickly realized you were nervous—and that was reasonable, there were some very powerful people at that table—but he knew what he was doing, the AG would remember him. He was certain of that for more than one reason.
“Hey,” he let his tone float into that soft low timbre that seemed to soothe you best, and murmured, “it’s okay. Of all the people at that table to be intimidated by, Reno is the worst, and I used to call her Aunt Janet. We’re fine, I promise.”
“God, you make me sick sometimes with your cockiness and… connections.” You muttered, but you had relaxed a bit, so he was satisfied that you would be fine.
“It’s called confidence, and you’re one to talk.” He teased, giving you an easy smile. “You’ve got the biggest head in the unit.”
“Jerk.” You snipped, but you were smiling, and he took that as a win.
He didn’t get too close—because he could see the Secret Service eyeing the both of you from their posts along the wall—instead he cleared his throat loud enough to get at least the attention of the AG.
“Madam Attorney General.” Aaron addressed her, in the most respectful tone he possessed.
“Yes?” She responded, turning in her seat to look for him, and when her eyes landed on him they shot wide, her hand flying up to her chest as though clutching her pearls. “My God.”
“Hello, ma’am.” Aaron gave her an impish grin, and ducked his head slightly in deference.
“Oh my God.” She whispered again, still seeming stunned at his appearance. “Aaron Hotchner, you look just like your father. I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
“I see him every morning in the mirror.” He joked, stepping forward—and, regrettably, away from you—as she stood to shake his hand.
“How’s your mother, and am I correct that you have a little brother?” She asked, clasping his hand a little longer than necessary, but he didn’t mind she meant well. “I never met him, but I remember hearing about him… bit of a trouble maker wasn’t he?”
“Mother is well, I spoke to her earlier and she’s mostly concerned about Sean finishing school. If that answers your other question? He’s his own person.” Aaron shook his head, cupping her hand with his free one as she chuckled softly at his response.
“And who is this young lady, your wife?” Reno asked, smiling over his shoulder at you.
“Oh, no ma’am!” You blurted before he had a chance to respond, and though you were only telling the truth, his heart cracked at the swift urgency of your answer. “I’m his partner.”
“Partner?” Janet asked, raising her brows, seemingly impressed, “You have a firm now? That’s quick work, Aaron, your mother must be proud.”
Hardly… He fought the urge to role his eyes as he thought about his mother’s true opinions on the matter. Though it was a welcome distraction from the way you’d just unintentionally eviscerated him.
“Actually, I’m not practicing anymore, I’m in The Bureau now.” He explained, then introduced you—rank and all—as you shook her hand. “She’s been my partner for three years now in the BAU, but we went through the academy together before that. We’re practically attached at the hip, mostly because I’d be fumbling around like an idiot without her.”
It had only taken him two and a half years to gather the courage to make a move on you… Not that dear old Aunt Janet needed to know that part…
“The BAU?” Mrs. Reno smiled, nodding as though she approved, “We’ve heard nothing but good reviews about your unit, in fact, I think we would benefit greatly from more units just like yours. I’ll be sure to put in a good word with the budgetary committee.” She winked at him then, stepping back and sinking into her seat. “Well, you kids go have fun, enjoy the party, maybe have a dance or two. It was good to see you Aaron, tell your mother hello for me, and it was a pleasure to meet you Agent.”
“It’s an honor, ma’am.” You smiled softly, “Most agents don’t get the chance to meet the AG unless they’re in hot water.”
“That’s very true…” Janet chuckled, “Well, don’t be a stranger Aaron.”
“Yes ma’am.” He murmured, still feeling the sting of your quick denial as he led you away.
He understood.
Really, he did.
You were partners, members of the same unit, and you loved working together. There was no one he’d rather have with him in the field than you, he trusted you with his life and he knew you felt the same way. Going public with your private relationship—however you were classifying it—was a threat to your professional one.
It still hurt though. Every time you laughed off the teasing, responded to playful accusations with sarcasm—or got angry when he didn’t—he died a little more inside.
He couldn’t get it out of his head, not even as you smiled fondly while telling Gideon and Rossi that he’d, “single handedly saved the budget by charming Janet Reno,” ten minutes later.
It was all he could think about.
How embarrassing, that a single knee-jerk reaction from you could completely ruin his night… You didn’t deserve that. It was not your fault that his feelings were hurt, not in the slightest. He knew you had never meant to hurt him with things like that, he was pretty sure you weren’t even aware that you had.
So he tried…
He tried to smile at you, to laugh at your jokes, to return your banter, and be as affectionate as he normally was. Unfortunately, he was struggling more tonight than usual, and he wondered if perhaps the strain of loving a woman—with all his heart—who didn’t openly love him back was finally catching up to him.
It didn’t matter though, because you deserved his love… every bit of it.
So he would endure.
Aaron had been quiet since your brief conversation with the AG. You didn’t know what was bothering him exactly, but you knew it had to be something you’d done. He’d been his usual—charmingly confident—self with everyone else at the gala, but with you he’d gone distant and quiet.
He didn’t seem to be angry—a sight you’d seen many times, though never because of you—no, not quite.
It was more like he was frustrated, maybe a little bit confused, and a hint resigned, but not angry. You didn’t know exactly what you could’ve done to trigger all of those emotions, but you knew that if you didn’t ask he’d stay silent about it forever. Aaron was always careful not to upset you, he never came to you accusingly, he never pushed you farther than you were willing to go.
And you…
Well, you never aired your grievances with him unless they were professional ones. The profile was always up for debate, and if you thought he was wrong—about even the slightest of details—you were quick to let him know. Hell, if he was so much as getting on your nerves at work, you’d bitch at him about whatever it was that was pissing you off. Just as all long term partners did.
You saw it all the time from Rossi and Gideon— the two of them never stopped bitching at each other.
Aaron always took it in stride, laughing and teasing you about being so “particular.”
Even so, you had to admit, you were a little scared to ask him what you’d done wrong tonight. Emotional confrontation… it wasn’t your thing. Past experiences had truly hindered your ability to effectively communicate your thoughts and feelings with a partner; and you didn’t mean the professional kind. It was a short coming you were painfully aware of, but terrified to look too hard at.
Needless to say, this drive home had been an awkward one.
Your attempts at idle conversation had gone poorly—not that he had ignored or been short with you, Aaron never treated you that way—his answers had only been quieter and more subdued than they normally would’ve been. He wasn’t giving you enough engagement to carry on the conversation.
So, you’d let silence fill the space, and neither of you bothered to touch the radio.
It wasn’t until he was ushering you gently into your apartment that your conscience won it’s internal struggle with your instincts.
“Have I done something wrong?” You murmured, though in the silence of your empty home, you might as well have shouted.
“No.” He mumbled, taking your coat—as he always did—and hanging it in the hall closet where it belonged, then draping his over your entryway table.
“You know you can’t get away with lying to me, you might as well tell me.” You sighed, walking down the hall toward your bedroom, already slipping off your elbow length, black, satin gloves. Then your heels, stooping to pick them up as you went.
“I’m not lying to you.” He muttered, shedding the tux jacket and undoing his tie to leave them with his coat. “You haven’t done anything wrong…”
You heard the tone… the way he said wrong, like it was an arbitrary term.
“Okay, if I haven’t done anything wrong objectively, what have I done wrong subjectively that upset you?” You shrugged, glancing back at him over your shoulder to see him stiffen a bit, and you knew that you’d hit the nail on the head with your interpretation of his statement. “I know there’s something.”
“It was nothing, Honey, let’s just–”
“It wasn’t nothing, Aaron, you’re upset. You’ve been distant ever since we spoke to the AG.” Turning to him in the doorway of your bedroom—because you didn’t want to shout through walls—you insisted, “I don’t know what I did, but I know it was me and I’d like to… I don’t know… make it right? Or at least apologize and understand why you seem so off kilter.”
“There’s nothing for you to apologize for.” He sighed, shaking his head. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m the one with the problem.”
That couldn’t have been further from the truth, and you both knew it, but you weren’t going to bring up your baggage tonight; not if you could help it.
“So, there is a problem…” You were beginning to grow frustrated, and his silent stubbornness had you throwing your hands up in the air as you gave up on this method of interrogation, retreating into your room to regroup. “Aaron, I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”
“I don’t want you to help me.” He called after you, but he didn’t follow. “It’s nothing for you to concern yourself over, it’s my own issue.”
You didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you marched through your room and into your bathroom to get undressed, leaving the doors open in case he came to his senses and decided to follow you.
As determined as he was not to talk about it, you were three times as motivated to figure it out. Your… feelings… for Aaron may have been scattered, muddled, and shrouded in uncertainty, but his for you had always been crystal clear.
You knew how he felt.
He’d never made you guess, and you hated that you couldn’t return the favor. You hated yourself even more—not that you’d ever be emotionally stable enough to tell him any of that—so the only thing you could offer him in return was to try your best not to hurt him more than the inevitable.
So you went over every minuscule detail of every interaction you had from the moment he rescued you from Jones to the moment you noticed his demeanor toward you had shifted.
“Is it because I danced with Senator Jones, even though you warned me not too and then you had to come save me?” You called loudly, so that he could hear you from wherever he was in the apartment.
“No.” He called back, though much quieter.
You took off your necklace and hung it in your jewelry box with care, then started on the buttons that lined the back of your dress to cover the zipper. How you’d gotten into it on your own was a mystery to all of womankind, one that would probably never be solved. Thankfully, getting out was a lot easier than getting in, it would just take you a while. Normally you’d ask Aaron for help—which he was always eager to provide—but right now that didn’t feel fair and seemed manipulative.
“Was it that I winked at him?” You guessed again, already knowing that couldn’t have been it… Aaron wasn’t that possessive, and never treated you like this over things like that.
He’d never treated you like this at all, come to think of it.
“No, sweetheart, of course not.” He responded, and now his voice was coming from your bedroom, you thought he must’ve been standing in the bedroom door.
That was the extent of your time with the senator, so you moved on from the interactions with him and to the conversation afterword.
“It wasn’t the trust fund joke, was it?” You asked hesitantly, he’d never been ashamed of that before, and it had certainly never offended him.
“No, baby, please just—”
“Did I pressure you too much about messing around on the terrace?”
“No, but—”
“I called you a jerk when you said I had a big head, but I didn’t mean it…”
“No, love, that isn’t—”
“Then what is it Aaron? Because I’m running out of options, and I—” and then it hit you. “Oh my God.”
“Sweetheart, can we please just—”
“It was when I corrected Reno about our relationship.” You said with certainty, “I was too quick with it, and that hurt your feelings.”
The bedroom was silent.
There was no soft denial, no patient pet name, just defeated silence.
“I’m—”
“Don’t apologize.” His tone was almost too sharp, as if your apology would put him at the end of his rope.
“Well then what do you want from me?” You asked, “How can I fix this? I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings, Aaron, but she isn’t like Gideon squared and Rossi. She’s not just our boss, or their boss, she’s like… our boss’, boss’, boss’, boss’, boss. That’s boss to the fifth! She could ruin our careers with a single sentence, what was I supposed to say?”
“I don't expect you to fix anything, you did nothing wrong.” He ground out, his patience slowly—but clearly—declining the more you pushed him.
You were also getting angry.
Not at him, but at your dress. The buttons were pissing you the fuck off.
“If I did nothing wrong,” you asked through gritted teeth, as the buttons became increasingly harder to reach, “then why are you being so distant?”
Though, you supposed that wasn’t an entirely fair question, because the first thing you did when you got uncomfortable was push him away.
“Because, I’m afraid that I might…” he sighed , and there was a long pause before he continued. “I just don’t want to take my issues out on you.”
You knew that was a cop out, he wasn’t the one with issues… you were.
“You're afraid that you might what?” You challenged—as you finally got the last button undone and lowered your zipper—even though the potential answer scared you.
That was another thing.
You were too stubborn for your own good, and it often got you into situations that left you feeling too vulnerable.
Your dress slipped to the floor, leaving you in your underwear—a black lace bustier and matching thong—as you stepped out of it and carried it—and your shoes—into the closet a few feet to your right.
“That I might push you away again!” He exclaimed, as you hung the gown on the rack so it wouldn’t wrinkle before you took it to the cleaners.
His answer stunned you, and for a moment you felt like you couldn’t breathe.
“Like that.” He grumbled, his tone dismayed enough to get you moving again.
The usual pang of guilt began to squeeze your heart, in a vise so tight that you wondered how a heart attack would compare. Unfortunately, not even that pain could get you to talk about your feelings… it wasn’t that you didn’t want to.
You couldn’t.
Honestly, this was for the best. The only thing Aaron could gain from a real relationship with you was heartbreak. You weren’t capable of sustaining anything real long term, and the second you tried to build something substantial… it would all come crashing down around you.
You were protecting him… from yourself.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You replied, stationing yourself in front of the mirror.
“That.” He said, and you could hear the underlying despair in his voice.“That is exactly what I'm trying to avoid. It’s fine when you push me, but if I ask you too many questions, if I get too emotional, then you pull away from me.”
“That isn’t true.”
It was.
“Yes, sweetheart, it is.” He shot back, then you heard his footsteps crossing your bedroom floor, but they were slow and cautious, like he was approaching a manic schizophrenic with an AK-47. “You don’t like to talk about your feelings, and that’s fine. I can live with it, but I can’t live with you shutting me out.”
“I don’t ‘shut you out,’ I’m just…”
Scared? Terrified? Absolutely horrified of what might become of this wonderful, sweet, amazing man once you’d finished wrecking him. Like you did everything you touched.
“You do.” He insisted, in the exact tone he used to talk down hysterical victims, and you could tell how much he was struggling to stay calm. “You are never willing to talk about anything that feels too real, and I am always left reeling after these conversations! I would just like to know—for once—exactly where I-”
His sentence ended abruptly in a strangled gasp.
You would’ve turned around to check on him, if you hadn’t caught sight of his face in the mirror. His jaw had gone slack, and his eyes—wide as quarters—were trained on your ass.
“Exactly where you… what?” You murmured, biting back a smirk… and it was entirely unfair of you—you knew it was—but he was right, you didn’t want to talk about your own feelings.
So, you leaned over the sink and toward the mirror, pretending to look at your face a little closer, and making your ass pop just a little more.
“Hmm?” He hummed, and suddenly there wasn’t a single—PG rated—thought behind his eyes.
You bent even further at the waist, stretching on your tiptoes to lengthen your legs, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath.
“Aaron, are you alright?” You asked, and your voice took a teasing tone.
“I know what you’re doing…” He mumbled, but didn’t even attempt to pull his eyes up to yours in the mirror.
“Is it working?”
“It always does…” His sigh almost made you feel guilty…
Until he approached you slowly, cautiously, and let his hands settle on your waist as he pressed his hips to your ass; letting you feel exactly how well it had worked. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck and warmth ran down your spine.
“Let’s put a pin in this conversation…” He suggested, dropping more kisses to your neck as he worked his way around it and up to your ear. “We can come back to it later.”
You hummed your agreement, and tipped your head to the side to make the job a little easier for him. However, you knew damn well that you wouldn’t give him another chance at this conversation for a long time.
His hands slid up from your waist, over your stomach, to cup your breasts—making you moan as he squeezed them—his grip firm but gentle.
“You look so beautiful tonight…” he whispered, so softly it was almost a sigh, “that dress was driving me insane, and now look at you…” He brought a hand up to your chin and made you look into the mirror. “You’re killing me, baby…”
Your eyes met his in the reflection, and you couldn’t handle the raw emotion you saw in them. Emotion that suggested there was a double meaning to his last four words… So you watched as his hands disappeared behind you instead.
One by one, he undid the clasps of your bustier, leaving kisses over the marks each one left. When he’d finished, he slipped the straps off your shoulders and watched in the mirror as your breast were slowly revealed.
“Fuck…” He murmured, kissing your shoulder tenderly. “You’re so perfect, sweetheart.”
Your heart and pussy clenched at the same time, and your brain… well… she fled the building.
It was at moments like this, when he was so gentle and loving, that you were most vulnerable to your emotions. He always took care of you, never thinking of himself first, and that was something that never ceased to stun you.
No one had ever treated you as well as Aaron did.
Even when you pissed him off, he was calm and respectful. He never yelled at you, not really, and if he felt his voice start to rise or his tone turn harsh he simply took a deep breath.
Not once had he walked away from you, not once had he made you feel small or insignificant.
Which only made your guilt grow.
You weren’t trying to string him along, you cared for him more than you’d let yourself care for anyone in years.
Which terrified you.
The more you cared, the more it would hurt in the end. For both of you.
Gripping your hips, Aaron turned you to face him, then lifted you up so you were sitting on the edge of the sink and brought his lips to yours.
You immediately tried to deepen the kiss—nipping at his bottom lip and licking the sting away—but he pulled back just enough to make you chase him.
“Slow down…” he murmured against your lips, “there’s no rush…”
But there was.
Because the slower he went, the more emotional the moment felt.
You could handle rough sex, it was a walk in the park for your heart, but emotional sex might as well have been a bomb.
“I want you.” You argued—your hands going to the buttons of his white dress shirt—and it wasn’t a lie.
You always wanted him, so much that you feared you might be addicted to him, you couldn’t stay away from him. That was why this whole mess had happened in the first place.
“I know,” he smiled, and didn’t stop your hands, but continued the kiss at a leisurely pace, then said in a reverent tone, “and you can have every piece of me, but I feel like worshiping you tonight…”
Tears began welling up in your eyes—a startling reaction, one that you didn’t have the strength to analyze—so you blinked them away, and lost yourself in his kiss.
He let you finish with the buttons of his shirt before he picked you up, wrapped your legs around his waist, and carried you to the bedroom.
Crossing the room to your bed, he gently lowered you to the mattress, pressing a kiss to your forehead before he stood and hooked his thumbs into the waist band of your thong. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watched him slowly peel it down your legs, his eyes devouring every inch of your skin as it was revealed.
He gazed at you with longing more than lust—both were present, along with a third L word that you refused to acknowledge as long as you could avoid it—as if he desired you completely.
Body and soul.
Stripping off his shirt and undoing his pants seemed to be the next items on his agenda, and—grateful for the distraction—you memorized the sculpted plain of his chest until his belt began to jingle. Then your eyes were locked on the bulge barely hidden by his pants, and when they slipped to the floor you took a deep breath, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. You held that deep breath, waiting for him to strip out of his boxer briefs as well—they were Calvin Klein’s and looked so hot on him—but he didn’t.
Instead, he put a knee up to join you on the bed, leaving you in suspense.
So you groaned and let yourself flop back down onto the bed, your arms splaying out to the side dramatically. A deep, toe curling, amused chuckle rumbled out of his chest at your theatrics as he crawled over the top of you—bracing himself with one hand next to your head—and pressed a kiss to the exposed column of your throat, turning your groan into a soft moan.
It urged him on, and he slowly trailed sweet, gentle, lingering kisses down your neck to your chest, then over the curve of your breasts. He drew one nipple into his mouth, circling it with his tongue as he sucked on it so lightly it almost tickled. Gently stimulating the other with his fingers, until—between the two sensations—he had you whimpering and rubbing your thighs together to ease the ache that was growing just above them.
He noticed—of course—and slowly trailed his hand down your stomach, letting it get all the way down to the apex of your thighs before he followed it with his lips. His fingers found your clit with practiced ease and you let your legs fall open for him as he caressed it in perfect little circles.
His mouth stalled briefly at your belly button to teasingly trace it with his tongue, pulling a mixture of a giggle and a moan from your lips before he continued on. As he got closer and closer to his target, he slipped gracefully off the bed and to his knees on the floor.
Gripping your hips firmly, he dragged you to the edge of the mattress, then skimmed his hands down to your knees, and draped them over his shoulders.
“You have no idea how many times I thought about doing this tonight…” He murmured, lightly kissing the sensitive insides of your thighs.
“How many times?” You whispered, picking your head up to look into his eyes.
Which was a mistake… because they were full of that emotion again. The one you couldn’t bring yourself to admit that you felt too.
“Every time I looked at you.” He confessed, soaking in the sight of you as though you were a work of art, in a way that no other man had ever looked at you. “You’re irresistible, honey.”
“Aaron…” You croaked, unable to control the torrent of emotions that were tearing you apart on the inside, “I—”
And you wanted to say it, as hope lit his eyes.
In that moment—not for the first time—you were desperate to say the words that he so often offered you with ease, but…
They caught in your throat, wrapping around your vocal cords and strangling them until your tongue felt so thick you couldn’t even breathe.
“I need you.” It leapt off your lips—barely more than a gasp—easing the panic in your chest; allowing air to reach your lungs again… but your heart felt only self loathing as you watched the light in his eyes die.
Just as it had a hundred times before.
His lips pressed the gentlest of kisses to the skin just above your cunt, and then he buried his face in it, licking you from bottom to top in one broad sweep of his tongue… Dipping it inside you, like he was teasing at what was to come.
Aaron’s skill with his mouth wasn’t limited to pretty words and dry wit, he was also well versed in using it to bring you to the heights of pleasure and bliss. A blessing and a curse, because he could coax almost anything out of you with the right amount of pressure.
On a night like tonight it was more curse than blessing.
You wanted to beg for mercy already as he sealed his lips around your clit, sucking with stunningly precise flicks of his tongue that left you breathless.
“Fuck, Aaron!” You keened, unable to keep your hands from flying off the bed to thread your fingers through his hair, and you couldn’t decide whether you intended to pull him away or push him closer.
You tightened your grip and he groaned, sending vibrations rumbling through your clit that had you gasping.
Then you felt a thick finger teasing at your entrance with soft strokes, until you were clenching in anticipation. His other hand soothed away the tension with a firm squeeze of your thigh. The message was clear: relax.
You did your best, drawing in a deep breath and willing your muscles to melt against the mattress. It must’ve worked well enough, because he hummed his approval as he slid his finger inside to the second knuckle, curling it up against your g-spot.
Bucking against his hand and face—involuntarily—earned you a quiet snicker, that you couldn’t even be annoyed at because it felt so good.
You were putty in his hands… as always.
That familiar, deep, tension began to rise—slowly but powerfully—until there was a knot in your stomach that seemed to be attached directly to your clit… and it was mere seconds away from unraveling.
Aaron felt the spasms starting even before you did—too focused on the rising pleasure to notice the pulsing it triggered—and his eyes flicked up to your face, locking gazes with you. There was such satisfaction in his hazel depths. He was thrilled by the fact that he had such an effect on you, and the pleasure he seemed to derive from yours only drove you higher.
“Aaron!” Your strangled gasp filled the air, the wave of your orgasm hitting you like a tsunami crashing against a shore and wrecking you just as thoroughly.
He murmured your name soothingly as he talked you through it—praising you quietly—and when it was over, he pressed one more feather soft kiss to your clit. You rewarded him with a quiet whimper.
Then he got to his feet, joined you on the bed, scooped you into his arms, and gently repositioned you in the center of the mattress. He nudged your knees apart with care and settled between your legs, hovering over you to leave a kiss on your forehead, then your nose, both cheeks, your chin, and finally your lips.
It was a lingering kiss, and it may have been the sweetest one you’d ever had.
“You’re so beautiful…” He murmured against your lips.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him down so you could feel his weight on top of you as he kissed you.
So that your guilt wouldn’t be the only thing crushing you…
You’d never understand what it was that he saw in you. Sure, you were beautiful, you weren’t denying that. He said it consistently enough that he must have believed it anyway. However, beauty wasn’t a believable cause for such devotion…
It couldn’t be the reason he felt the way he did for you, but for the life of you, you couldn’t find any other reason.
You tortured yourself over it—nearly everyday—until self hatred was the only emotion you capable of truly expressing.
It was exhausting— unending and eternal in it’s brutality.
So—even though it only made the guilt worse in the long run—you allowed yourself the brief respite that only he brought to your mind; as he worshiped your body until the only thing you felt was oblivion.
“Aaron, please…” You whimpered into his mouth, once again fighting with everything you had left to keep from crying. “Need you…”
“I know…” He murmured, kissing a line up your jaw to your ear, “I know, baby, I’ve got you.”
Untangling himself from your legs, he got to his knees and you watched—completely enthralled—as he hooked his thumbs into the elastic of his underwear and slowly revealed himself to you.
It never got old…
You never grew tired of it.
Aaron was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen, with his dark hair and dark eyes. His lean, toned, sculpted physique had you drooling every time you had the pleasure of gazing at it, and that was all before he took his cock out. He was a perfect specimen.
That wasn’t what had drawn you in though.
At nearly thirty he still had this boyish whimsy about him, a joy for life that you just couldn’t get enough of. Every moment with him felt like a fairytale, and he was the perfect prince charming. He was a luxury your heart couldn’t afford, a blessing you didn’t deserve.
Unfortunately, that knowledge hadn’t been enough to stop your feelings from forming.
The motion of his hand, gripping and stroking the shaft of his cock, was enough to pull you out of that familiar downward spiral… for now.
“God, Aaron, why are you so pretty?” You sighed, on a dreamy exhale, trying to stay in the moment for him.
“I’m pretty?” He smirked, leaning over you again and bracing one hand next to your head.
“Mm hmm, so pretty.” You nodded, picking your head up to meet him halfway as he went in for another kiss. “I think staring at you is my favorite pastime…” you murmured against his lips, “you make my eyes very happy.”
“Oh, don’t think I haven’t noticed…” he chuckled into the kiss, as he lined himself up with your entrance, the heat of it making you gasp softly, “I always notice the way you look at me…”
Something in his tone threw up a yellow flag for you, signaling danger, but you asked him anyway, “How do I look at you?”
“I think you know…” He whispered, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes—searching them intently—before he nodded once like he was confirming something for himself, “Are you ready for me, sweetheart?”
Emotionally? No. You didn’t think you ever would be. Physically though, you felt like you might die if he made you wait another second.
“Please…” You pleaded, nodding your head earnestly— in near desperation.
If he was inside you physically, then you could forget about the turmoil he was causing in you emotionally…
That was your theory anyway, though it had proven nearly useless so far.
He pushed forward just the smallest bit, and you moaned at the pressure, clenching around the head tight enough for him to moan as well.
“Relax for me sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing your cheeks and then your lips, “let me in…”
You knew he hadn’t meant for his words to have two meanings, but you read into them anyway. Wishing desperately that you could do just that… let him in. Your heart screamed for it, there was nothing you would have rather done… and yet, your brain—your worst critic—told you that was impossible. You’d only hurt him, and get hurt in return if you did. He didn’t deserve that, he deserved so much better…
So much better than you.
His eyes caught yours, and you knew he’d see everything going on inside your head if you didn’t let it go. So you took a deep breath and relaxed, letting the tension leave your body as you surrender to the sensation of him.
His thrust was long and slow, filling you up one inch at a time. A soft whimper fell off your lips, and he caught it with his own.
“You always feel so perfect, pretty girl…” He sighed, dropping his forehead to rest on your shoulder, pressing tender kisses to your collarbone, and waiting for you to adjust to the fullness. “So fucking perfect…”
The adoration in his voice was enough to bring tears to your eyes again, tears that you had no intention of letting him see. So you wrapped your arms and legs around him again, pulling him closer as you threaded your fingers into his hair. Then, compelled by that raw emotion—that you could not seem to give voice to—you kissed his temple and hoped he felt what you wanted to convey.
Taking it as encouragement to move, he set a slow pace, and immediately you knew this time was different. This wasn’t just sex, he wasn’t just fucking you, and though he’d said the words so many times before… he’d never done this.
He had never made love to you…
There would be no coming back from this, you were already too far gone long before tonight began, but until this point—this moment—you’d been able to pretend. That wouldn’t be possible now as your mind finally agreed with what your heart had been screaming for months…
You loved him.
You should’ve stopped him, should’ve warned him away a long time ago… If you had only been less selfish, you would’ve told him a year ago that you couldn’t give him what he was looking for, you couldn’t return his emotions to him, couldn’t reciprocate his feelings in the way he deserved.
You were too damaged.
Now it was too late, because now—no matter how you both felt—you would hurt him, and—in the process—yourself.
Aaron was whispering nonsensical praise into your ear, each word sweeter than the last. The sensation of his slow, gentle thrusts had physical pleasure rising like a tide right alongside the intensity of your emotions. Simultaneously you felt joy and anguish, hope and despair, love—for him—and hatred—for yourself—all of it overwhelming you to the brink of implosion and yet… release.
It was imminent. And then…
“I love you.” He sighed.
And the levy broke.
Your body shook, from both the intensity of an orgasm, and the force of your sobs.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
His voice echoed in the back of your mind, ringing like a church bell, the tone of which you couldn’t identify.
Beginning or end.
Life or death.
Celebration or mourning.
Salvation or damnation.
The intensity of your free fall pushed him over the edge too. He pulled out of you so swiftly that it would’ve taken your breath away, if you’d had any left to take. You felt it on your belly—the warmth of his release—before he rolled to the side and collapsed to catch his own breath.
His ears must’ve been ringing, because it wasn’t until he looked at your face—with the intent to praise or kiss you—that he noticed you were crying. He had mistaken your sobs for whimpers and moan, you knew, because he looked absolutely stricken by the sight of your tears.
“Honey, what’s the matter?” He gasped in a panic, reaching for your face and attempting to wipe away the tears that fell too quickly to be contained. “Did I hurt you? Are you in pain? Why didn’t you stop me?”
But you couldn’t speak, couldn’t draw in the breath necessary, nor could you stop the sobs. You could only shake your head, answering as many of his questions as possible in that motion.
“No?” He murmured softly, his brows furrowing as he tried to decipher it. “No, I didn’t hurt you, or, no, you’re not in pain?”
You nodded. That was all you could give him.
“Yes… to both?”
You nodded again.
“Then why are you so upset?” He asked gently, and there was fear in his eyes.
“Because— I just— I can’t.” It was all you could manage through your sobs. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what, baby?” He murmured, scooping you up into his arms and holding you in his lap, not giving a damn about the mess. “Talk to me.”
“I can’t.” You gasped, those two words telling him everything and nothing all at the same time.
“Okay…” He cooed, stroking your cheek with his thumb, “Okay, that’s okay, I’m here anyway. We’ll talk when you can.”
He didn’t ask you any more questions, he didn’t offer solutions, didn’t try to fix you. No, Aaron only held you, offering his quiet, peaceful, strong presence. He held you until you were too tired to continue crying… and as your eyes grew heavy, you had a single thought.
Loving him would kill you… and it would traumatize him in the process.
Okay but do you understand the TREASURE TROVE of reading a fic you enjoy and then looking at the author's page and discovering they have written multiple just like it?! That is the ultimate score!
rian johnson was SICK for showing us that jud has a neck tattoo but keeping it covered up. josh ocon was SICK for telling us that is was an angel and devil with the word serendipity somewhere. they are SICK to show us that jud has at least one other tattoo on his arm but not let us know if he has any other tattoos on his body. i will be haunted forever by this. i need to know what the neck tattoo looks like. it makes me crazy i feel like a rabid dog. i will go to my grave throwing myself against the tomb of the makeup artists’ continuity photos that i KNOW THEY HAVE. I KNOW THEY EXIST. I KNOW PHOTOS OF THE TATTOOS EXIST LET ME SEE THEM. LET ME INNNNNNN
can i request an aaron comfort smut fic where f reader hasnt ever and cant reach orgasm and is frustrated/upset by it so over a few weeks they try different things like positions, toys, kinks, longer foreplay, etc, aaron having very "idgaf if this takes all night" energy lol
Hotch’s Hypothesis: Pleasure Takes Time
Pairing Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader
WC: 5.8k
Warnings: MDNI! 18+, Smut, long-term anorgasmia and sexual frustration, sex, oral, sex toys, crying, emotional vulnerability and insecurity, reassurance, praise, patience.
Summary: You've never optained orgasm and despite being married to Hotch, you've never told him until the frustration bubbles over and you finally let out your shameful secret. He vows to help figure out how to draw and orgasm out of you, even if he doesn't successeed at all
A/N: This is so long over due, soooorrrryyyy! Also I hope no one ever looks into my cookies, cause I ended up on Pornhub trying to find those gifs for the graphic 😅
The light from your bedside lamp cast a warm glow across the bedroom, turning the familiar walls of your home softer.
Jack was at Jessica’s for the night, he had begged for a sleepover at his aunt’s house. And the case files that usually lived on Hotch’s nightstand had been deliberately banished to the locked drawer in his study given your first night alone in weeks.
For once, the world had paused long enough to let the two of you breathe.
You lay on your side facing away from him, the sheet pulled up to your chin, almost as if you were using it as armor. Your body still carried the pleasant ache of his hands, his mouth, the slow and deliberate way he’d moved inside you, but the afterglow of it all felt incomplete. Hollow even. The same quiet frustration that always arrived right on schedule, right when you should have been floating on cloud 9.
You could feel him watching you.
Hotch shifted behind you, the mattress dipping as he propped himself up on one elbow peeking over your shoulder. His fingers found a stray lock of hair that had fallen across your cheek and tucked it gently behind your ear. The gesture was so careful, so practiced, that it made your throat tighten.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and rough from exertion, but still so impossibly gentle. “Talk to me. You’re miles away.”
Your first instinct was to deflect. Maybe lie. To roll over and kiss him hard, whisper something about how good he felt, how much you loved him... anything to keep the conversation from going where it needed to go.
But Aaron Hotchner had spent his career reading people who lied for a living. And you were a good enough profiler to know that he would see right through it in seconds.
So you stayed still, clutching the sheet tighter.
“I…” The word cracked. You swallowed. “I enjoyed it. I really did. I love having sex with you and you’re... you always make me feel so good.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just waited, the way he did when someone on the team was about to crack open a trauma they’d buried for years.
“But?” he prompted softly when you didn’t continue, his hand settling on your hip over the sheet. His thumb began moving in slow and absent circles.
The word hung there like a door left ajar.
You rolled onto your back, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan that wasn’t spinning, trying to advoid his gaze. The blades were frozen mid-turn, and somehow that felt like the perfect metaphor to whatever it was that was wrong with you.
“I didn’t cum,” you said hurried, the admission flat, it felt factual at first, then fracturing. “I never cum. Not tonight. Not last week. Not with anyone I’ve ever been with. Not even when I’m alone.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable in the slightest. Hotch’s thumb never stopped moving and it felt like he was mulling over a reply.
You kept going before you could talk yourself out of it.
“I’ve tried everything. Every position, every toy I could find online, without dying of embarrassment. Different pressures, different rhythms. I even went to a sex therapist for six months when I was younger. She told me it was probably psychological, gave me homework. You know mindfulness, kegels, guided masturbation with candles, ocean sounds and so on. Nothing. It builds, it feels incredible, I get right to the edge…and then it just…vanishes. Like my body hits a wall and says no not for you. Every single time.”
Your voice cracked on the last word. You hated how small it sounded, how wrong and broken you felt.
“And tonight I thought... God, I really thought.... maybe it would be different. Because it’s you. Because I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone. Because when you touch me, I feel safe and wanted and seen. But it still didn’t happen. And now I feel…” You dragged in a shaky breath. “I feel broken. And I feel like I’m failing you as a wife. Like I’m taking everything you give me, and I can’t even give you the one thing that’s supposed to make it mutual.”
Tears slipped sideways into your hair before you could stop them.
He simply shifted closer until his chest pressed lightly against your side, one arm sliding across your waist to hold you. His lips found your temple.
“You are not broken,” he said. “And you are not failing me. Not even a little.”
You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. They were steady and glistening faintly in the lamplight.
“This isn’t a performance review,” he continued quietly. “There’s no scorecard. There’s no deadline. There’s just you, and me, and whatever your body needs to feel safe enough to let go. If that takes weeks, or months, or longer... I’m here for it. All of it. I don’t care if we spend every night between now and retirement chasing your orgasm. I care that you feel good. I care that you feel wanted. I care that you know I’m not going anywhere because of something your nervous system hasn’t figured out yet.”
You searched his face, looking for cracks, for frustration, disappointment, anything.
There was none.
“How long have you been carrying this alone?” he asked.
“Since I was old enough to understand what an orgasm was supposed to feel like and that I wasn’t feeling that,” you whispered. “I used to fake it with other partners just so they’d stop asking. I’d fake it and then cry in the shower afterward because I hated lying, but I hated the pity more. With you…I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lie to you. Not about this.”
His expression softened, but his voice stayed firm.
“Good. Don’t ever start. If you ever feel that pressure again, the need to perform, to pretend, to tell me. We stop. We talk. We try something else. Or we don’t try anything at all. But no more hiding.”
He leaned in and kissed you, slow and unhurried, less about the need he was feeling to start working out where your block was and more about the promise of figuring everything out. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“We’ll figure this out together,” he said. “No pressure. Just us. And if it never happens, if your body just decides this is how it’s wired, then that’s okay too. I still want you. Every day. Every night. Exactly as you are.”
A sob caught in your throat.
“You mean that?”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean. You know that by now.” He chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. His thumb brushed another tear away. “You’re not a puzzle I need to solve so I can feel accomplished. You’re the woman I love. And loving you means wanting your pleasure, however long it takes, however we get there. Or even if we don’t.”
You let out a watery laugh, curling into his chest. Hotch’s arms locked around you instantly.
“Okay,” you whispered against the warm skin of his throat. “Together.” You nodded once as you spoke.
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, letting his lips linger there.
“Together,” he echoed your words.
The first attempt began the very next evening, after the house had settled into its nighttime rhythm. Jack had been tucked in at 8:30 sharp, story read, night-light adjusted and door left cracked just enough for the hallway light to spill in. The dishwasher had finished its quick cycle, the living room lamps were confined to a single floor lamp in the corner... in case anyone thought no one was home, and the faint scent of chamomile tea Hotch had brewed earlier, in an attempt to calm your nerves, still lingered in the air.
You knew Hotch had spent the day researching whenever the opportunity presented itself. He hadn’t said it outright, but you’d caught the telltale signs. The way he stayed in his office during lunch, the faint crease between his brows when he’d closed it a little too quickly when Rossi walked in, the single bookmarked tab you’d glimpsed titled “Female Orgasmic Dysfunction: Evidence-Based Approaches” before he’d minimized the window.
He’d approached this the same way he approached profiling: methodical, thorough, and unwilling to enter the unknown unprepared.
By the time you stepped into the bedroom, nerves had coiled tight in your stomach. Hotch was already there, hair still slightly damp from the quick shower he’d taken after putting Jack down. He looked up from where he’d been straightening the pillows and immediately softened, reading your posture.
“Come here,” he said, his voice low and calm.
You crossed the room, your legs unsteady and perched on the very edge of the mattress, knees pressed together, hands twisting in the hem of your shirt. He sank to his knees in front of you, shoulders filling the space between your legs without forcing them apart... yet. His hands settled on the outsides of your knees, thumbs brushing small, soothing arcs against your skin.
“We’re starting slow,” he told you, holding your gaze. “Longer foreplay than we’ve ever done. No goal except feeling good. You tell me what you like, what you don’t, what’s too much, what’s not enough. We stop the second you want to. No questions, no guilt.”
You swallowed hard, nodding. Your heart was hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it beating in your chest.
He leaned in and kissed the inside of your left knee first, then the right. Then higher. Slow and deliberately placed open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, each one lingering long enough for you to feel the heat of his breath before his lips made contact again. He took his time, mapping every inch like he was memorizing the shape of you, the faint stretch mark, the place where your skin goosebumped when he exhaled just right, the tremor that started in your thigh when his tongue flicked out for the first time.
When he finally reached the apex of your thighs, he didn’t dive in. He pressed a single, reverent kiss to your mound, then another lower before hooking a finger in your panties and pulling them down. He slipped a thumb through your pussy, parting you gently.
Hotch’s first flick of his tongue was barely there, a flat stroke from entrance to clit, no pressure, just warmth and wetness and presence.
You gasped, fingers curling into the sheets.
He hummed against you, and you couldn’t tell if it was approval or encouragement... or maybe both to some extent. He then repeated the motion, a little firmer this time. His hands slid up to cradle the backs of your thighs, lifting them slightly so your legs draped over his shoulders, opening you more without making you feel exposed. He worked you with devastating patience. Long, languid licks, then tighter circles around your clit with the tip of his tongue, then back to broad strokes.
Every few minutes, he paused to murmur against your skin.
“Still good?”
“Yes! God, yes.”
“Tell me if you want more pressure.”
You did, eventually, whispering “a little harder”, and he adjusted instantly, sucking lightly on your clit while two fingers slid inside you, curling in a slow come-hither motion that made your hips jerk forward.
Time blurred, and your thighs started trembling around his head, breath coming in short, ragged pants. The tension coiled tighter and tighter in your stomach; it felt like a beautiful, aching pressure that felt so close, so much closer than it ever had before. You could almost taste it.
And then… nothing.
The wave crested and simply dissolved, leaving you hovering on the wrong side of the edge, body taut and frustrated and suddenly exhausted.
You gripped the sheets in frustration, voice cracking. “Aaron, I don’t think... I can’t...”
He lifted his head immediately, lips swollen and glistening, cheeks flushed from the heat of you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown with lust, but there was no frustration in them, only focus, only care for you.
“That’s okay,” he said, voice rough from use but steady. He kissed the inside of your thigh once more, softer and grounding, before easing your legs down from where they were resting on his shoulders. “We’re not chasing the finish line tonight. We’re mapping the route.”
You let out a shaky laugh that was half sob. “I was so close. I swear I was.”
“I know.” He rose to sit beside you on the bed, pulling you sideways into his lap so your head rested against his shoulder, and wrapped his arms around you. One hand splayed protectively over your stomach, the other stroking your hair. “You were shaking. Your breathing changed. Your hips were chasing my mouth. That’s not nothing. We can build onto that.”
He pressed a kiss to the side of your neck. “What felt best?”
“The... the sucking. And when you curled your fingers. It made everything… sharper, if that makes sense.”
“Noted.” His lips curved against your skin. “We start there next time. More of that. Maybe slower buildup so the edge doesn’t slip away as quickly.”
You turned in his arms, searching his face. “You’re really okay with this taking time?”
His expression didn’t waver. “I’m okay with whatever it takes. I’m not keeping score. I’m not waiting for a reward. I want you to feel good. Really good. And if that means we spend weeks learning every inch of what makes your body sing without ever reaching the crescendo, then that’s what we do. I have time. I have patience. And I have you. I just wish you would’ve told me earlier.”
Tears stung again, different this time, this time it felt like relief instead of shame.
He kissed your forehead, then your mouth, and held you until your breathing evened out.
The rest of the week followed the same pattern, each night a deliberate extension of the last.
He started with a full-body massage one time, warm oil, working knots from your shoulders, down your spine, along your thighs, until you were boneless and pliant before he ever touched you. He added whispered directions another time: “Breathe deeper. Push into my mouth when you feel it build.” You did, and the edge came closer still, close enough that your thighs clamped around his ears and your fingers tugged painfully at his hair... before receding again. He even tried a different angle: you on your back with a pillow under your hips, legs spread wide and pinned down by his hands, his mouth relentless while three fingers worked that same spot from the first night in deep strokes. He talked you through it the whole time, gentle yet filthy praise that made your cheeks burn and your pulse race. “You’re dripping for me. Feel how wet you are? That’s your body telling me it wants more. Give it to me, sweetheart. Let me hear you.”
By the end of the week, you hadn’t cum... not even once... but something fundamental had shifted.
The frustration that used to claw at you after every failed attempt had dulled, replaced by a quiet, growing trust that you would figure this out together, one way or the other. You stopped apologizing when the peak slipped away. You started asking for what you wanted without second-guessing. You started believing... really believing... that he meant it when he said there was no rush.
And every night, when you finally collapsed against his chest, sweaty and spent and still aching in the best way, he held you like you were the only thing that mattered.
By the start of the second week, the initial sharpness of frustration had dulled into something quieter, more manageable. You weren’t quite at peace with the process yet, but you were no longer bracing for disappointment every time the tension built and then ebbed away right before release. Hotch had made sure of that. His steady and unhurried presence had turned what could have felt like repeated failure and a sense of being inadequate into a slow exploration of what made you react and feel good. And somehow, that shift made all the difference from how you had felt with previous partners.
The next step started casually, over dinner.
He set his fork down, leaned back in his chair, and looked at you with that calm, assessing gaze that usually meant he’d already decided on a course of action.
“Sometimes,” he said, voice low and even, as if he were commenting on the weather forecast, “it’s about the angle. The depth and the pressure points. Different positions change how everything lines up inside. We’ve focused on buildup so far. Maybe this week we shift to trying new ways of connecting.”
Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Heat flooded your cheeks, not from embarrassment exactly, but from the sheer matter-of-factness of it. Hotch, discussing your orgasm (or lack thereof) like it was just another variable in an equation he had yet to solve.
You swallowed, and placed the fork back down on the table. “You really think that could make a difference?”
“I think it’s worth finding out.” He reached across the table and brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “Only if you want to. No pressure of course.”
You met his eyes and felt that familiar ache in your chest. The one that said you were safe here. Completely and utterly safe.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Let’s try that.”
He smiled then, not the tight and polite one he used in briefings, but the private one reserved for Jack when he scored a goal or for you when you laughed at one of his dry jokes.
It made your heart stutter every single time.
That night, after the dishes were done, he led you upstairs without fanfare.
He started with you on top, settling back against the headboard with pillows propped up behind him. You straddled his hips, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him. He was already hard, thick, throbbing, and ready beneath you, but he didn’t push; he just waited for you to make the first move, while he rested his hands lightly on the outsides of your thighs and watched you.
“Take what you need,” he murmured, voice roughened by want but held carefully in check. “Set the pace. Move however feels good.”
You lowered yourself slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you. His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before cupping them gently. He rolled your nipples between his fingers, light at first, then a little firmer when your breath hitched at the sensation.
You rocked forward experimentally, placing your hands against his chest, then rolled back, finding a slow grind that dragged the head of him against your sensitive front wall. Friction built in layers, the slide of him, the press of your clit against his pubic bone with every roll of your hips, the way his hands roamed: caressing your back, gripping your ass to help guide you, pinching your nipples again when you arched.
It felt incredible. Your nails dug into his chest slightly as you picked up speed, chasing that rising coil in your belly.
Hotch’s breathing grew ragged, but he never broke your rhythm or pushed. “That’s it,” he rasped. “Just like that. Use me, sweetheart. Ride me until you feel good.”
You did until the tension peaked again… and then, maddeningly, slipped sideways. Not gone, just… unreachable. You slowed, hips stuttering, forehead dropping to his shoulder.
“I was so close,” you breathed, half-laughing as you exhaled.
He wrapped both arms around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other stroking down your spine. “I know. I felt it, your walls were fluttering around me like a butterfly.”
He kissed your temple. “Let’s try something else.”
He eased you off him gently, helped you roll onto your stomach. You felt the mattress dip as he settled behind you, not entering right away. Instead, he kissed a slow path down your spine, vertebra by vertebra, until he reached the small of your back. Then lower. A soft bite to one cheek, a soothing lick, before he nudged your thighs apart.
His body covered yours completely, chest to your back, weight comforting rather than crushing. One forearm braced beside your head; the other slipped beneath you, fingers finding your clit with ease.
He slid in slowly from behind, this angle sheathing him deeper, pressing against places that made your toes curl. “Like this?” he asked, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot against your neck.
You moaned into the pillow, nodding frantically. He thrust in, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in, grinding at the deepest point each time. His fingers circled your clit in the same slow rhythm, never rushing, just building.
The pressure was different this time. Every forward roll of his hips nudged that spot inside while his fingers kept steady pressure outside. You clutched the sheets, hips lifting instinctively to meet him.
“God... Aaron—”
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, interrupting you, voice strained with his own restraint. “Let it build. Don’t chase it. Just feel.”
It climbed higher than before, higher than any night the week prior. Your body tensed, breath locking in your throat, every muscle drawing tight.
And then it plateaued again. Hovering. Teasing. Refusing to tip over.
You let out a soft, defeated groan. Hotch stilled instantly, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades before carefully withdrawing. He rolled you onto your side, pulled you back against his chest, cocooning you in his arms.
“Closer again,” he murmured against your hair. “I could feel you gripping me tighter. Your breathing changed. We’re narrowing it down now.”
You turned in his hold, searching his face for any sign of impatience. There was none.
Midweek, he suggested missionary with a modification.
He placed a thick pillow under your hips, tilting your pelvis upward. Then he guided your legs over his shoulders, folding you open in a way that felt vulnerable and exposed and strangely safe because it was him. He entered you slowly, watching your face the entire time, adjusting when your breath caught.
Deeper. So much deeper this way.
He braced himself on his forearms, caging you, and laced the fingers of one hand with yours. Palm to palm. Thumb stroking over your knuckles.
“Focus on my voice,” he instructed softly. “Breathe with me. In… out. Let everything else fall away.”
He moved in slow, rolling thrusts, pulling back until just the tip remained, then gliding forward until he bottomed out, hips circling at the end of each stroke to grind against your clit. The angle hit the spot relentlessly while the base of him pressed against your swollen bud.
The intimacy was almost too much. His eyes never left yours, full of something that looked dangerously close to reverence. Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming vulnerability of being so thoroughly seen.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he whispered. “Open for me. Trusting me. Let go, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
The coil tightened again, more insistent than ever. Your free hand clutched his bicep, nails leaving crescent marks. Your breath came in short, desperate pants.
And then… again… it hovered. Trembling on the brink. So close your thighs shook and your vision blurred.
When it receded, you didn’t cry this time. You just exhaled, long and shaky, and let him lower your legs. He gathered you close, tucking your head under his chin, one hand stroking your back in long, soothing sweeps.
“We’re getting there,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple.
You curled tighter against him, listening to the steady thump of his heart.
“I believe you,” you whispered.
And you did.
His patience wasn’t just endurance; it was devotion. Every night he wasn’t away, he held space for your body to try, to falter, to try again.
By the third week, the rhythm between you had settled into something almost ritualistic. Each evening followed a pattern: Jack asleep by nine or at Jessica’s depending on the day, lights dimmed, both of you near naked.
The frustration that once left you raw and defensive had mellowed into a kind of patient curiosity of what he had thought of next. You were learning your body together, piece by piece, and Hotch treated every miss like valuable intel rather than a setback like partners had done in the past.
He’d ordered the package the week before, arriving in plain brown wrapping while you were both at work. You could sense the sheer amount of excitement spilling through his rigid work personality as he brushed past your desk that day, whispering about a surprise waiting at home.
He unpacked it on the bed that night.
Inside was a small bullet vibrator, a larger wand vibrator with a soft silicone head, a vibrating plug, and a few lubricants in various sizes, brands and formulas.
“Toys can help isolate sensations,” he explained, voice even as he laid each one in line on the sheets. “Pinpoint what pressure, what vibration pattern, what combination gets the strongest response. We incorporate them gradually. No expectations beyond figuring out what feels good.”
You laughed at how clinical he sounded as he explained how the toy was supposed to help you. It somehow eased the knot in your stomach in its own weird way. “You make it sound like you’re profiling a suspect whose an orgasmic disaster.”
Hotch couldn’t help the small, crooked smile from spreading on his lips. “In a way, I am. Your pleasure is the unsub we’re chasing. We gather evidence, test theories, adjust the approach until we find your orgasm, draw it out and catch it so we know how to find it faster in the future.”
You had no idea how to respond, because it was absolute nonesense to you, yet the truest statement you’d heard in a long long time regarding your release. And that straightforwardness and his refusal to treat this as anything embarrassing or urgent to fix, made the whole experimentation feel less like a problem and more like a shared project.
He started simple that first night as he invited the toys into your love life.
It wasn’t that you hadn’t tried toys out before, you just never saw the appeal of owning or using them after several failed tries to get a release. And after that, the sight alone had frustrated you enough to throw them away.
The bullet vibrator was the first to make its apprance during foreplay.
You lay back against the pillows, your head slightly lifted against the headboard allowing you to see what he was doing. Your legs were parted and his body settled between them.
Hotch kissed you slow at first, grinding his hips against yours in a slow rhythmic motion, trying to rile you up. He then trailed the kisses down your neck, your breasts, your stomach, until his mouth hovered over you.
His eyes latched onto yours, waiting for a signal, waiting for you to tell him to continue. When you did, he switched on the bullet at its lowest setting, the faint hum filling the room. He pressed it lightly against the hood of your clit while his tongue flicked out in soft, teasing laps through the lips of your pussy.
You arched your back, pushing your pussy closer to his face and thus pressing the vibrator harder against your clit. You let out a strangled moan and winced for a split second at the new sensation.
“Too much?” he asked immediately, pausing to watch your face.
You shook your head, breath catching. “No... good. Just… stay there.”
He adjusted it slightly, keeping the vibrator steady against your clit, while his tongue circled your entrance. He dipped it in shallowly, teasing you before returning to broad, flat strokes over your folds. Hotch’s free hand slid up your thigh, fingers joining the party. He slipped two fingers inside, manoeuvring around his tongue like an expert as he curled them toward that spot against your front wall, the one he’d mapped so thoroughly the week before during another round of experimentation.
The combination felt electric, sending sparks through every single nerve in your entire system. The constant external vibration layered over the internal pressure, his warm mouth adding wet heat and suction. Minutes stretched, with the only sound being a lewd mix of your moans, the buzz of the vibrator and his tongue.
Your hips rolled instinctively, chasing the building wave as it climbed higher than toys alone ever had. Muscles tightening, breath shortening, that familiar coil winding tight in your pelvis.
Then… plateau.
Again.
You groaned in frustration, close to crying while your thighs trembled around his shoulders. “Goddamn it. So close.”
He lifted his head, lips slightly shiny from your slick and his eyes dark with pleasure and focus. “Closer than last week.” Hotch stated as if he were writing a note in a case file. “The vibration helped sustain the buildup it seems. We’ll use it again next time.”
He turned off the vibrator and threw it somewhere on the bed before he crawled up to gather you against his chest. No disappointment in his posture, no sigh, just pride and maybe a little satisfaction that he had gotten you closer than before.
The rest of the week built on that foundation. He tried every toy, twice, thrice, upside down, whatever he could think of. Wand during oral. The larger head covered more than the bullet, resulting in broader pressure. He introduced the vibrating plug. The fullness added a new layer of sensation while he fucked you like usual.
He even tried combining everything. You rode the sensations for nearly an hour, sweat-slick and trembling, voice hoarse from pleading.
Still… nothing.
By Saturday you were exhausted. Not just physically, but emotionally. The toys had amplified everything, made the misses sharper and more frustrating. You felt raw, oversensitive, and utterly defeated.
Hotch sensed it the moment you stepped into the bedroom. You were quieter, shoulders hunched, avoiding his eyes.
He didn’t push the toys.
Instead, he pulled you into his arms on the edge of the bed and kissed your forehead. “We’ve tried a lot this week,” he said softly. “Intense stuff. Maybe we dial it back. Try the old-school method again.”
You looked up, brow furrowed. “Old school?”
“Just me. My mouth. No buzz, no extras. Until you’re frustrated, really fucking frustrated, then I’ll fuck you. Slow. Deep. See if the contrast helps tip it over.”
It sounded almost too simple after weeks of experimentation. Mundane, even. But his voice held that quiet certainty that he either knew 100% it would work, or figured a slow attept might reset your systems and make you ready for a different approach in a day or two. And you trusted him completely.
“Okay,” you whispered.
He undressed you slowly and then guided you to lie back against the sheets.
No rush.
He kissed every inch on the way down to your pussy. Collarbone, breasts, ribs, the soft curve of your belly and when he settled between your thighs, he didn’t dive in immediately. He kissed the crease of your hip, nuzzled the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and let his breath ghost over you until you were squirming, wanting more than he was giving.
Then his mouth.
Long, flat licks from bottom to top. Circles around your clit, gentle suction, then release. He built it gradually, watching every twitch, every hitch in your breath. When you started rocking against his face, he added two fingers.
Minutes turned into half an hour before either of you noticed. The tension mounted steadily, no sudden spikes from vibrations, just the slow, inexorable climb you were used to before ultimately hitting a wall. Your hands fisted the sheets, hips lifting, pushing against him, pleas spilling out in broken whispers.
“Aaron... please... I’m so close... don’t stop...”
He didn’t. He hummed against you, the vibration of his voice sending sparks up your spine. Your body tightened, thighs clamping around his head, breath locking...
And still no release.
Frustration crested. You tugged at his hair, voice cracking. “I can’t... I need you inside me... now!”
He rose immediately, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes blazing. He shed his clothes in seconds, then settled over you in true old school missionary fashion.
He entered you slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel every ridge and every pulse of his cock as he bottomed out. Once fully seated, he paused, forehead against yours.
“Breathe with me,” he murmured. “In… out.” You were close to snapping at him to move, to do something, but before you could manage a single word.
He moved. With a long and deep thrust, grinding his hips against yours at the end of each one so he pressed against your swollen clit. No frantic pace. Just a steady and deliberate rhythm. His hand slipped between you, fingers circling your clit in the same unhurried motion.
The buildup reignited within, faster this time, sharper, fueled by his teasing. Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back, pulling him as deep as possible.
“Fuck... right there...” you moaned.
He kept the pace, voice low against your ear. “I’ve got you. Let it happen. Just feel it wash over you.”
The coil tightened impossibly so.
Your nails scored his shoulders with long red lines, breath coming in sobs. Every thrust nudged the spot while his fingers worked your clit with the perfect pressure.
And then...
It broke free.
The wave crashed over you, hard, through your entire body, clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. You cried out, back arching off the bed, vision whiting out as pleasure ripped through you in shuddering waves.
It went on and on, longer than you’d ever imagined, until you were trembling, gasping, tears slipping down the sides of your cheeks.
Hotch followed seconds later, burying himself deep with a low groan, pulsing inside you as he came.
He didn’t pull out right away. He stayed, softening slowly, kissing the tears from your cheeks, while murmuring soft praises against your skin. “You did it. You beautiful, incredible woman! You did it!”
You laughed through the tears, shaky and disbelieving that he had actually managed to make you cum, clinging to him. “I… I came.”
“You did.” His voice cracked just slightly with pride, relief and love all tangled together. “And it was the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”
Once cleaned up, you were wrapped in each other under the covers, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your back while you whispered, “It was so… simple. After all that.”
“Sometimes the simplest things are what work best. We just had to clear the noise to hear it.”
You nestled closer, still buzzing slightly with aftershocks.
For the first time, the quiet after didn’t feel hollow.
insane parallels between vera and grace. while grace was a rebel, vera obeyed what her father told her for YEARS because she knew the story of the "harlot whore" and her shame and the disdain the church had for her. but after vera learns of the monsignor's aop, she's the first one to extend any sort of sympathy to grace, being the first one truly recognize "that poor girl" (which father jud later echoes in remembrance after the reveal) because vera realizes she's been trapped between her dead father and her "son" just like grace...incredible. and when the monsignor calls vera "her father's worst nightmare," it hits doubly hard bc that's exactly what the church viewed grace as. oh rian johnson the writer you are...
Mal's Notes: I AM ALIVE!!!! My loves, the amount of filth I have coming for you is... insane. Um, anyway, this is the first fic I've completed since November. It was sparked by my lovely muse @snailsinamarchingband, we love her for that. Everyone wave, blow a kiss, say thank you, because she's a goddess! 🩷 Um... @cringeiknow is the reason this became absolutely feral, hi babe, shout out to you, ILYSM! 🩷@beardedhotchner & @nerdgirl116 are single handedly giving me the motivation to write (mostly by way of lovingly threatening me for all the unfinished smut I have subjected them to over the last few months) Please enjoy!
Love,
Mal 💜
Warnings: 18+ ONLY, MDNI, Adult Content Beyond THIS point; Accidental drug use, (its marijuana), Everyone is sober during sex, second hand embarrassment, lots of sexual innuendos, begging, Oral (fem rec), fingering, rough PinV sex, choking, male and female orgasms, Aaron is feral, Reader is needy.
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader
Word Count: 5.5k
Ao3 linked here
Mal's Masterlist
You hadn’t realized what was burning until it was much too late, the dealer had thought you were DEA, not FBI. You hadn’t been after his weed… but he’d thrown it in a metal trash can when he’d heard you were asking around about him and began burning it anyway.
When you’d burst into the house—thinking it was on fire because of the smoke rolling out one of the windows, and intending to get everyone out—you’d taken in a lungful of smoke before the smell hit you. By that point you were halfway through to the bedroom the smoke was billowing out of, and it was everywhere. You knew what it was and you knew that if it was laced you were fucked.
But if it wasn’t… pretty soon you’d be begging to be fucked.
You’d called for back up before you ever went into the house, and you’d had enough time to drag the dealer out onto the lawn and cuff him before you ever heard sirens. The fact that the two of you were still alive was a good sign that the weed more than likely wasn’t laced. The team, the fire department, and paramedics arrived moments later.
Hotch demanded you see the EMT anyway.
So you did that, and they gave you some concentrated oxygen, but there was nothing they could do to stop what was coming. You had less than a few minutes…
“I think I need to go lie down.” You said to Hotch, who was still monitoring you closely where you sat on the back of the ambulance.
“I think you need to go to the hospital.” He reiterated for the fifth time.
“Hotch.” You sighed, “if the weed had been laced with fentanyl I’d already be dead, but I was definitely exposed enough that I’m about to have the high of my fucking life. Please, just have someone take me back to the hotel so I can sleep it off. For everyone’s sake.”
Mostly yours.
You didn’t know why weed had that effect on you, but for whatever reason when you were on THC, you lost all self control.
You would want to fuck the closest thing to you with the appropriate equipment to get the job done, and it didn’t matter where you were or who you were with. The weed didn’t discriminate. Fortunately, you still had enough self restraint to refrain from attacking any person… but… you wouldn’t be subtle about wanting them.
“Fine,” he sighed, “I’ll drive you back, let’s get you to the SUV, I just need to tell Morgan where we’re going.”
“Can you just call him?” You urged him, trying not to sound too desperate to leave. “Or, better yet, I’ll just have JJ take me!”
You started to walk away, to go find the blonde beauty who you were about to beg to save you before you humiliated yourself on so many levels, but he caught your elbow and hauled you back gently.
“I can call Morgan, but I can’t let JJ take you.” He shook his head, and led you toward the SUV. “It’s against policy. I’m your supervisor, and you’ve been drugged, I have to keep my eyes on you until you’re sober. I’m supposed to do it in the hospital… but I can’t make you accept medical care.”
“Oh god…” You whispered.
“Is something wrong?” He asked, “Other than being drugged, I mean.”
“Nope.” You lied.
You lied like a dog… because while the weed wouldn’t discriminate, your brain would, and Aaron Fucking Hotchner was the last person on earth who should be anywhere near you in this condition.
You wanted to fuck him sober… day dreamed about it every goddamn day, and got off thinking about it almost every night.
High though… you were afraid you might actually jump him.
You felt the haze start to hit you as you climbed into the passenger seat. A dull buzz in the back of your mind that slowly began to spread.
You had minutes.
“How far is the hotel?” You asked as he started the car and pulled down the driveway.
“Five minutes, why?” He asked, glancing over at you with a concerned frown, “Are you feeling sick or something?”
“Or something…” You murmured, keeping it cryptic because you liked your job.
He only raised a brow, and drove a little faster.
You loved it when he quirked his brows like that, all serious and concerned. Pair that with a smirk and holy fucking shit you could just– woah. No, no, no, none of that.
You looked away, and out the window instead, watching houses and light poles zoom by… way to fucking fast, making your head spin and your stomach roll.
Looking to your left would only hasten the growing heat in your core, but looking right would ensure that you’d be too sick to stand before you got to your destination.
Closing your eyes was the safest way.
So you did, squeezing your eyes shut tightly, you sat straight up then clutched the door and the console to ground yourself. With nothing to distract you, the high began to take over faster…
“Do me a favor, and talk.” You muttered.
“About?” He asked.
“Anything that will distract me from the dots on the backs of my eyelids, cause they’re looking a lot prettier than they usually do.” You groaned, tipping your head up to the ceiling, which only made it worse because now you felt like you were floating. “My skin… is gone.”
“That’s concerning…” He murmured, and there was a hint of amusement in his tone.
“No… that’s normal actually.” You corrected him, but suddenly you were aware of every atom in your body, and the way your pants just felt too tight. “Is it hot in here?”
“No, and how do you know this is normal?” He asked suspiciously.
“I went to college and–” then, realizing you were admitting illegal substance use to your boss, a federal agent, you snapped your mouth shut and cracked one eye to peek at him. “I think I liked it better when you were quiet.”
And the smile that split his face when he glanced over at you… HOLY– you felt the tell tale signs of a dull throb starting to build in your clit.
“Can you drive any faster?” You urged him, shifting in your seat as subtly as you could to relieve the ache, and closing your eyes again to keep the temptation from becoming overwhelming.
“I’m going ten over…” He murmured, “and the lights are on.”
“Oh.”
“Is something wrong?” his tone made you take another peek at him, and his concerned expression was so fucking hot– No. Bad brain. Stop.
“Besides being high? No.” Liar. “It just… would be best if we got to the hotel as quickly as possible.”
The look he gave you said that he knew that there was something you weren’t telling him, but he didn’t comment, just accelerated a little bit more. You sighed, hoping that was the end of the conversation, and closed your eyes once more, relaxing into the seat.
The car was vibrating.
It was rocking, and rumbling over the road, each and every bump sending shock waves through your entire body until you were buzzing with tension. It felt so good, but you wanted more…
You wanted your clothes off so you could feel the cool air from the A/C blowing on your skin. You wanted to feel the warmth of someone else’s hands on your body. You wanted–
“Are you okay?” His voice washed over you like warm water, soft, smooth, and gentle as a sweet caress. “You’re whimpering, does something hurt?”
Oh, only my pussy. You thought mournfully, and you were so desperate to touch it…
“Excuse me?”
Your eyes shot wide and you found him studying you closely, his lips pressed into a thin line, his head tilted to the side.
“What?” You murmured, and the way he was looking at you was both concerned, confused, and… curious?
Shit does he know I’m horned up?
“I do now.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Holy shit, you just read my mind! Twice!” You exclaimed, pointing a finger at him, “I have always told the others that you’re a secret telepath! And now I have proof and no one is ever going to believe me because I’m high for the one time you slip up!”
“Wh- No, you… I am not a telepath.” He stammered, and whether he was flustered, or frustrated, you couldn’t tell, but it was adorable. His cheeks were flushed and his neck was turning red, and then he ran his fingers through his hair… Making it spike up in a way that made you want to take big handfuls of it and tug… preferably with his head between your thighs. “You said all of that outloud.”
“I said what outloud?” you hummed distractedly, staring at his lips as you imagined them skimming along the skin of your stomach, glancing up at you on his way south…
“About your–” He sighs, dropping his face into his palms. “Nevermind. Let’s just get you somewhere safe so you can sleep this off.”
“Sleep is the last thing on my mind…” You snorted.
“Oh, I believe you.” He muttered, shaking his head as he got out. That was the first time you even noticed the car had stopped. He walked around to your side of the car and opened your door, holding it open and waiting. “You coming?”
“Hehe, now there’s an idea.” You giggled, lolling your head over to the side to grin at him.
“Jesus…” He groaned, leaning across to unbuckle your seatbelt. “How much of that smoke did you inhale?”
“Apparently a lot.” You shrugged, “It’s been years since I’ve been this high, for very good reason.”
“Come on.” He murmured, gently lifting you down out of the SUV, because your body didn’t want to listen to you anymore. “I’m assuming the reason is because you work for the government?”
Now that was funny!
“What? No!” You giggled, “I’m not the only one who does it… I just have to partake more sparingly than the others because it turns me into a sex fiend. A little weed, and bam, lady boner. A lot of weed and I’ll fuck anyone. Last time, I- Oh… wait, I shouldn’t tell you that story.”
“It’s my fault for asking," He sighed, slinging your arm around his shoulder, and slipping his around your waist. Your vision was blurring and your head was spinning like a top, so you had no choice but to slump against him. “Shit, you can’t even stand up straight, can you?”
“Huh uh…” You slurred, “My head is too heavy, and it feels empty… like cotton.”
He didn’t bother responding, instead he scooped you up off your feet bridal style and carried you toward the building. It looked so far away, and it felt like you were floating in slow motion across the parking lot.
Hotch smelled heavenly, it was a clean, manly scent that had your head spinning even faster, with butterflies fluttering around in your stomach. Unable to hold it up on your own, your head flopped over onto his chest, and landed against warm, firm pecs that you could not resist the urge to touch. You were vaguely aware of the fact that this was very ill advised, but you didn’t remember why. Beneath your fingertips, you could feel every flex of every muscle in his chest and you were mesmerized by the sensation.
“What are you doing?” Hotch’s voice rumbled against the side of your cheek, and you just barely tipped your head back to gaze up at him.
He was watching you with a half smile that nearly made you moan… He was so beautiful.
“I am feeling your muscles.” You murmured back, wondering what else he thought you could possibly be doing.
“Well, yes, but why?” He asked.
“Because they feel very nice under my hands. They’re firm, and strong, and they’re very, very big.” You shrugged, going back to your perusal of his pectorals. “I like them. Good job.”
That made him laugh, and you decided that you really, really, really liked the sound of his laughter.
“You, agent, are going straight to bed.” He commented, and shook his head.
“Sounds good to me, Sir.” You giggled, fiddling with the top button of his shirt, wondering how he wasn’t dying of a heat stroke like you.
“That’s not what I–” He sighed again, “To sleep, you’re getting in bed and going to sleep.”
“I know a great way to get sleepy.” You tried again, winking up at him.
“Christ.”
Entering the lobby of the hotel, a frigid blast of air kissed your skin and you moaned. It was the best thing you’d felt… Ever. You’d been so hot… and the air felt so fucking good.
“Please don’t do that again.” He muttered under his breath. “That was obscene.”
“Did you like it?”
“I can’t answer that…”
“Aww why?”
“Because,” He shook his head, heading for the elevator, “you’re not sober.”
“Sir, is she alright?” A woman asked, somewhere behind you, you couldn’t see her, and you didn’t even try to look. “Does she need medical attention?”
“Sexual attention would be better.” You sighed, earning a stern glare from him, “What? It would. And why does it matter if I’m sober for you to answer a question?”
“It just does.” He murmured to you, and then looked off to the side. “No, she’s already been seen, we had an incident in the field and she got a contact high. It was just marijuana, she’ll be fine after she sleeps it off. Can you get me the key to room 304, please?”
“Of course Agent Hotchner, I’ll be right back.” The disembodied voice said.
“She’s sober… would you tell her?” You asked, having finished with the first button—finally, that took fucking forever—and moving on to the second. You wanted to look at that vein in his throat, the one that you always thought about sinking your teeth into and sucking on it until he was moaning, but his stupid shirt collar was in the way.
“She is a stranger, and I am also sober, so no. I will not be telling her anything of the sort.” He answered you patiently, as though he were resigned to your questions and innuendos now.
Good.
“That’s no fun.” You pouted, still struggling with that goddamn button and growling at it all the while. “I just want. One. Goddamn. Peek. Come on.”
“Here’s the key you asked for, sir.” The voice was back.
“Hey, disembodied voice lady, can you ask him if–”
“Absolutely not.” He interrupted you. Rude. “She’s extremely high, I’m sorry, it would be in everyone’s best interest if you walked away. Quickly."
The woman just laughed, and then you heard her footsteps retreating.
“Kill joy.”
“God help me.”
The elevator dinged and he began moving again, carrying you inside and leaning against the wall. As the elevator sped upward, your stomach flipped, but you were too determined to get that button open to care. Right as the elevator stopped again and the door swooshed open, you succeeded.
“Fucking finally!”
“What on earth are you doing?” He murmured, like he was almost scared to ask.
“Looking at the vein that pokes out of your neck, if I can get your shirt to work with me here.” You muttered, scowling at his collar aggressively.
“Do I want to know why?” He asks cautiously.
“I think about biting it a lot.” You admitted without a second thought.
Suddenly the whole world was shaking and you came to the very slow conclusion that he had stumbled.
“Is that- why would- mm- I…” He gives up on what he was trying to say entirely, and changes the subject instead. “You’re lucky it’s me, and not Morgan, that’s hauling you up here right now, with the way you’re acting he’d never let you have another second of peace.”
“Eh…” You shrugged, tugging his collar to the side. “I’m not into Morgan like this.”
The world shook once more, and his collar closed up again. Damn it.
“Well you aren’t into me either… and here we are.” He grumbled, adjusting his grip on you and jostling you enough that you lost your grip on the fabric… again.
“I most definitely am.” You disagreed, taking his face in both hands to force him to look at you. “I would absolutely fuck the shit out of you right now if you’d just sit–fucking–still long enough to give me a shot at it.”
“That’s the weed talking.” He scoffed, and shook his head free, that’s fine, you wanted his neck anyway.
“Mmm no, I just think you’re really fucking hot.” You muttered, trying one last time to get his collar to stay open.
“You do? Wait, don’t answer that, you’re… We shouldn’t talk about this right now, it’s not fair to you.” He shook his head, and then you were hovering in front of a door.
You heard the beep of the lock disengaging and then your whole body dipped as he opened the door and carried you inside. Gently sitting you on the bed, he knelt down in front of you and started to remove your shoes.
The sight of him kneeling at your feet was fucking erotic, and you moaned again as you flooped back onto the mattress.
“Please stop doing that.”
“Moving?”
“Moaning, sweetheart. Stop moaning.” He corrected, and you pulled yourself up onto your elbows to look at him, tipping your head like a puppy.
“You just called me sweetheart.” You pointed out, accusingly.
“I did.”
“Why?
“I don’t know, but you won’t remember it later.” He shrugged, setting the first shoe on the floor.
“That’s not how weed works.” You shook your head and flopped back down on the bed, there was sweat beading on your forehead, and you didn’t like that one bit. You vaguely remembered turning the A/C off the night before because it had frozen you half to death, but you were regretting that now. “It so fucking hot in here, I can’t breathe.”
“Okay, I’ll fix it in a minute.” He murmured softly, working your second shoe off your foot gently.
“I need it now.” You whined, wiggling around and reaching for your pants. “I’m roasting.”
“Alright.” He chuckled, setting your other shoe with the first, and getting to his feet.
As soon as he started to the window unit, you undid your pants. Thanking god for snap buttons, as you started to work them over your hips, but your muscles felt like mush.
“Help.” You pouted, and you didn’t give a fuck that it sounded pathetic.
“Help you with wha– Oh um, that’s not…” He stammered. “Why are you taking your pants off?”
“Because I’m hot, and not only that, I’m bothered.” You whimpered. “I’m hot and bothered, and these pants are tight, and rough. And they’re rubbing my fucking clit so hard, I think it’s raw. So I need my pants off.”
“I can’t help you take you–”
“Aaron please.” You whined, “I need help…”
He just stared at your face for a long moment—thinking, contemplating, studying—before he finally sighed, dropping his shoulders and looking up at the ceiling.
“Fine…” He nodded, coming over to the bed again. “I’ll help you… just don’t do anything we’ll both regret.”
“I don’t think I could ever bring myself to regret anything done in a bedroom, with you.” You admitted, making intense eye contact.
Which he held.
And you felt that tension building in your core again.
“Lie still.” He murmured, leaning over you and hooking his fingers into the waist band of your slacks.
Dragging them down your hips slowly and gently, he tried so hard to keep his eyes on your face, but you could see the struggle on his features.
“You can look, I don’t mind.” You offered, hoping he would, so you could talk him into losing his pants too.
“No, I can’t, because you can’t consent… yet.” He shook his head, keeping his eyes firmly on yours.
“What does, ‘yet,’ mean?” You questioned immediately.
“You know exactly what it means.” He murmured, looking off to the side as he finally cleared your hips, and slipped your pants down your legs. His fingertips lightly skimming your skin on the way down.
His skin on yours, in this heightened, sensitive state was all it took to pull a soft, whimpering, moan from your lips.
“I need you.” You pleaded.
“Ask me again when you’re sober.” He said quietly, his voice rough.
“I need you now, though.”
“I’m sorry…”
“I’ll just fuck myself if you won’t.” You threatened, and you could see in his eyes how much it affected him.
“Then I’ll be outside.” He said, stubbornly, and it was starting to piss you off.
“Fine.” You pouted, earning a barely restrained smirk as he turned to head for the door. You knew he would sit out there and wait, he wouldn’t leave you alone high like this in an unfamiliar place. He was just trying to prove a point. “Stop. You don’t have to sit in the hall, I’ll be good.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” You grumbled, “just don’t leave. I’ll sleep it off.”
“I’ll be here when you wake up.” He said, taking a seat at the desk in the corner and watching you crawl under the covers.
It felt like it took forever for you to fall asleep, and once you did, the dreams that plagued you were all of him. None of them rated below X either.
You didn’t know how long you slept, but the next time you opened your eyes, the sun was still bright outside the window, so it couldn’t have been that long.
Sitting up and stretching, the first place you looked was the desk chair, but he wasn’t there.
“Hotch?” You called out, looking around.
Had- had you dreamt the whole thing? That wouldn’t be the worst outcome… but– he’d seemed…
Into you.
“I’m here,” his voice was soft, pulling your attention to him without startling you, as he stepped out of the bathroom with a styrofoam cup in his hand. “I was just getting you some water. I noticed you were starting to come around, and I’ve heard dry mouth after a weed high is miserable.”
“A mild annoyance, at best, but thank you.” You smiled, reaching out to accept the water from him.
You watched him watch as you took a long, slow drink from the cup. His gaze was studious, calculated, and maybe a little heated.
“How do you feel?” He asked quietly, once you’d swallowed the small mouthful.
“Groggy…” You admitted truthfully, because there was no sense in lying. “Groggy, but sober.”
“Anything else?” He raised a brow… and you knew.
He was waiting for you to feel ashamed, to apologise or ask him to leave, so you didn’t have to face him after how you’d behaved…
But you wouldn’t, and you didn’t think he wanted you to.
“Sober,” You reiterated, licking your lips and reaching for the collar of your blouse. You began to undo the buttons, one by one, and this time he didn’t look away, wetting his own lips and watching you with a hot intensity. “Sober, and still horny as fuck.”
“Perfect.” He growled, and he was on you before you could reach for another button, grabbing both sides of your blouse and tearing it open.
He went straight for your throat, nipping, and sucking, and licking at every plane and crevice, his hands clutching at your back and tugging your hair.
“Do you know,” he scolded, between kisses and bites, “the hell you’ve put me through today?”
“I-”
He gripped your wrist in one hand and made you firmly palm his cock through his slacks. It was hard as steel, and straining against them.
“I’ve been this way, since I asked if you were hurting and you said, ‘only my pussy.’” He snarled, kissing his way down your chest and sinking his teeth into the flesh of your breast. “And then I had to sit here and listen to you, moaning my name in your sleep…”
“Fuck!” You moaned, threading your hands into his hair, trying to tug him up to your lips to demand a kiss.
It was all tongues and teeth, sloppy and aggressive.
“Does it still hurt?” He groaned into your mouth as you pulled at his bottom lip with your teeth.
“What?” You panted, brain too addled to understand the question.
Until he palmed your cunt through your panties and–biting your ear–growled, “Your pussy. Does it still hurt?”
Oh fuck.
“It’s throbbing like a bitch.” You gasped in response.
“Good.”
He threw you down onto the pillow and ripped the duvet away from your body, exposing you to the cold of the room. Kneeling between your knees on the bed, he slowly lowered himself over you, reaching up to pop both your tits out of your bra. Squeezing one while he bit and sucked the other.
You were writhing under him. The sounds he was forcing from you were lewd and loud, but you didn’t care, because you hadn’t lied. Your pussy was throbbing. So desperate to be filled, you thought you might cry if you didn’t get it soon.
“Please, Hotch–”
“Aaron.” He corrected you harshly, “You’re gonna call me Aaron while I fuck you, and you’re gonna say it exactly the way you said it earlier, ‘Aaron please.’ That’s what you said, let me hear it, pretty girl.”
“Please, Aaron, please.” You whimpered, as his teeth sank into your breast again.
“Please, Aaron, what?” He began to work his way down your stomach with his tongue.
“Please Aaron, fuck me.” You begged, sobbed even. You’d been throbbing for him since the high set in and now… you didn’t know the difference between pleasure and pain. “Please!”
“Legs wide for me honey, I’m gonna taste it first.” He promised, not even bothering to take your panties off, just lapping at your pussy through them, and then pulling them to the side.
His tongue was hot, and wet, and the instant relief it provided made you scream.
“Aaron!”
“Tell me about it, sweet girl, tell me how bad it hurts.” He coaxed, then sucked your clit into his mouth, circling it with his tongue and adding the most exquisite amount of suction. His finger slipped inside you before you even realized it was there, drawing a sharp cry from your lips. “So wet for me already, was it this wet earlier when you were all ‘hot and bothered?’”
“YES!” You moaned, tugging at his hair and using it to hold him face down, nose deep in your cunt.
He devoured you, licking your aching pussy from slit to clit, he was relentless, like a man starved.
You barely felt it coming, building so rapidly that you only had time to whine, “I- I’m”
And then you were coming, gushing on his chin, wetting his lips with your release, but he didn’t stop. Instead, licking you through it and fucking you slowly with his finger. When you stopped shaking, he got back on his knees and smirked down at the mess he’d made of you.
“Good girl…” He praised, “Such a good fucking girl… coming on my face like that. Pick your hips up for me baby.” Reaching forward, he peeled your panties down your legs, and tossed them away. “Roll over, face down, ass up.”
You didn’t protest, just did as you were fucking told, and rolled onto your stomach.
“I said, ‘ass up,’ and I meant it.” He purred, gripping your hips with both of his massive hands, and hauling you to your knees so you were resting on your elbows. Stroking your ass with one hand, he murmured. “I’m about to fuck you senseless, do you understand?”
“Fuck yes.” You groaned, giving him an impatient little wiggle.
“Beg me for it.” He demanded, and your cunt clenched as you heard the sound of his zipper.
“Please Aaron.” You whined, knowing exactly what he wanted to hear. “I need your cock so bad, I’m aching, please give it to me.”
“Say it louder,” He muttered, squeezing your ass with one hand… and lining up the tip with the other. “Scream it, and maybe I’ll give it to you.”
“Aaron, please!” You cried out, not giving a single fuck who might be able to hear you, not when you were about to get the one thing you’d wanted since the day you met him. “I want your cock, I need–”
He slammed all the way inside, making you take it to the base on the first thrust and he gave you five seconds, just long enough to scream, “FUCK!” then he was pounding into you at a brutal pace.
You could feel him in your stomach you were fucking sure of it, and you didn’t know if this was supposed to be a reward or a punishment, but you didn’t care. It was intoxicating either way.
You felt euphoric, higher than you’d been all day, but this time you were high on him… and he was addicting. As his cock fucked you down into the mattress, you knew you’d be back for more. There would never be enough of this.
His hand reached down and grabbed you by the throat, hauling you up so that your back was against his chest as he fucked you harder. Squeezing just enough to give you the little buzz that comes with slight hypoxia, his other hand finding your clit, rolling it between his finger and thumb.
His neck—and that vein that ruled so many of your daydreams—was right there, so you took advantage of the situation. Biting down on him like you were trying to leave a mark. He moaned, and the sound sent sparks throughout your body, until you released him.
“Come for me again, pretty girl, come on my cock, let me feel it.” He nipped at your ear as he said it, and that little prick of pain was the little bit of a push you needed.
“Oh, Aaron, fuck!” You sobbed, as the pressure built and built, until you were shaking all over again, your own release running down both thighs.
Your knees collapsed, and he let you fall to your elbows on the bed again, grabbing your hips to hold them up as he railed into you half a dozen more times.
“You’re so fucking perfect– ahh.” He moaned, pulling out in one smooth motion, leaving you clenching around air, as hot, thick, ropes of cum landed on your ass and back. “Fuck. Your ass looks so good like this. Marked up like it’s mine.”
“It can be yours if you want it.” You panted, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.
He just chuckled softly, and patted your thigh in silent praise.
“Be still baby, I’ll get you cleaned up.” He murmured, and you felt his weight leave the mattress.
A moment later you heard the shower start, and then he was back, a warm, damp cloth gently stoking your thighs. Then your back, and finally your ass. When he was satisfied that he’d gotten it all, he eased you up off the bed and into his arms, not having the heart to make you walk after what he’d just done to your pussy.
“You did so good for me, sweetheart.” He murmured softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “So, so good.”
You rested your head on his chest until he sat you on the bathroom counter, reaching into the shower to test the water. He slowly peeled off his own clothes—none of which had actually been shed in the chaos of that encounter—and you watched like it was a goddamn Magic Mike show. After that he removed your bra, and picked you back up, carrying you into the shower with him.
He didn’t let you do a thing.
He washed your hair, lathered and rinsed your body, then took his time patting you dry. Pressing kisses to your skin as he went. You didn’t talk, just let him coo sweet endearments at you as he cared for you so gently.
He changed the bed sheets, and you climbed into it together, spooning naked.
“We have the whole afternoon, I told the team you’d probably be sleeping it off til tomorrow.” He murmured against your bare shoulder, dropping a kiss to it as he finished speaking.
“Mmm…” You hummed, a mischievous grin forming on your lips. “What on earth will we do with all that time?”
“For now, we’re going to rest,” He murmured, his tone soft and stern, but you felt his smile against your skin. “If your pussy was hurting before, I can only imagine how it must feel now.”
“Aaron!” You laughed, turning over to face him. “You’re not gonna let that go are you?”
“Not a chance.” He grinned, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose.
“Oh well,” You shrugged, snuggling in closer, “it was worth it.”
